“My cousin Gary was a bigamist. A trigamist to be precise. Auntie Doris was grandmother to his three families, with a photo collection for each. One set of snaps was usually on display because those children lived nearby. The rest she brought out and rearranged when the others visited. Once from her window my aunty spotted a grandchild heading uninvited towards the tower block entrance. By the time he’d ascended the lift and reached her door, Doris was breathless from her rush to take down and conceal one set of photos, locate and exhibit the next.

As a little girl I would browse around her flat while she bragged of her only son’s academic and sporting prowess. Even aged eight, I noticed an inconsistency between the stories and my observations of my loutish teenage cousin.”
(from Evo-Stik and the Bigamist)

“In the wall to wall mirror Eve watches the man writhe. His cheeks and lips stretch, his eyes protrude. Unable to bear the grunts, she proffers her dumbbells. ‘Try mine. They’re much lighter.’ His face implodes into wrinkles. ‘I think I’ve just popped something,” he says. ‘Steady on.’ He puts down his weights and shakes his arms. ‘I’m here five days a week and it’s still agony,’ he confides. ‘The mirrors are the worst thing,” Eve says. ‘We all look ridiculous.’” (from Pump It Up)

“Mercy is sick today. She was sick yesterday and the day before that, but tomorrow will be better. An old woman gave me medicine from the bush. I boiled the herbs to juice and made my sister drink. Last week Mercy returned from the city. Wrapped in her chitenge, she lies on a straw mat outside the hut. Her forehead shines and sweat darkens her blouse. Flicking at flies, shooing curious children, I guard her. At midday I light the fire for nsima. Not everyone in the village will eat today. Fearing a neighbour’s jealous magic, I take care not to clatter the cooking pot. As the water simmers I picture my sister’s altered face in the troubled surface. Taking the bucket I walk half an hour to the tap, wait my turn and fetch water to bathe her.

The woman asks, ‘What’s wrong with Mercy?’”
(from Mercy Is Sick Today)

“Rain fell for weeks from a low metallic sky. As I drove to work and home again, separated from the city by the warmth and music inside the car, I began to notice changes in the half-light. Streets that used to empty at dusk had taken on the expectant, temporary air of a railway station. Every evening people and their belongings cluttered the pavements, yet by morning they’d gone. There were children everywhere, inadequately dressed, sly and darting as squirrels. People began to park in the surgery car park under plastic sheets and tarpaulins. The police moved them on, but most mornings I shifted bags and boxes from my parking space. So when a small figure left the damp huddle of children by the wall and headed for me, I was wary.”
(from The Spaces Between)