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By Root 1467 0

little autobiographies to the company, everyone leaned forward, in the absolute silence of concentration. Not all had been here months before, when the Team came to say that the women’s book was to be decided by them. Impossible for them not to think, What an unexpected combination of people: how did they come to work together? just as the observers–myself, and two area officials–wondered how the people who were prepared to give so much time, so much effort, to the book had chosen themselves, or were chosen, for they were very different, well-dressed, poorly dressed, confident, or fighting shyness. Two women can illustrate the range of difference. Mrs Berita Msindo, with eight children, said she had always worked, first as a teacher, then as a senior development officer. She was proud of being the first woman in the Province to ride a motorbike. She has just returned from a study tour in Rome. ‘All my children are successful,’ she remarked, just as if this were not an extraordinary thing. The two oldest are university graduates, one in England studying agriculture and economics. Another two are school teachers. The four younger ones are doing well at school. Mrs Msindo says her husband is proud of her: without him she could not have done so well. She is a large, handsome woman, humorous, pleased when everyone claps as she finishes.

The other woman is thin, tentative, anxious: she comes from an area debilitated by drought. She and the other village women get up at three or four every morning to walk to the borehole some miles away to fetch enough water to drink and to cook with: washing has become a luxury. In her area they are all short of food. Her eyes shine with passionate admiration when she listens to Mrs Msindo talk about her life. She says that when the rains come and things get easier she wants to take an O-level. She knows she could pass examinations well if she had time and opportunity. And now everyone applauds her and it seems as if she gently fills, as she sits there smiling gratefully, with their sympathy, their encouragement.

This business of our becoming a company, a communion, takes about three hours. When a woman claims an achievement, people softly clap, when the men speak they are especially applauded. The local officials who sit slightly apart, watching and listening, never opening their mouths after the first formal welcome, are impressed and say so. ‘You people are doing wonderful things,’ says the district representative. He sounds bemused, probably wondering how this atmosphere of mutual help, trust, community, is achieved, when at other times, with other people, it doesn’t happen at all.

These introductory proceedings over, the women dance, singing their welcome to the Team.

The evening meal was in progress when we got to the food hall. It is a large hall, with four tables down its length. At the end is the serving place, and queues of women and men, mostly young, were being handed plates heaped with sadza, meat, green vegetables. As usual I was astonished at the amount of sadza on every plate, at least two pounds of it. It is a thick porridge, not unlike polenta. The meat was beef, braised, very good, with a rich gravy. The cabbage was well-cooked. The meal would please a hungry Italian. But the surprising thing is, this amount is eaten three times a day, and often with plenty of thick-cut white bread. Unless a stomach is full and heavy there has not been a real meal. Often Africans invited to a ‘white’ meal will go home and fill themselves up with sadza. When Jack took his aspiring young journalists to a restaurant in Harare they complained, only half-joking, there had been no sadza. This surely must be an emotional thing. In Japan, because of the starvation after the Second World War, when even a few grains of rice were precious, rice has become an emotional necessity even though food is plentiful. The rice bucket is there, and people will eat a little spoon or two after a long meal. It is a reassurance, a manna. Sadza is served at every meal cooked in the homes of the new rich, though the