He ignored the sing-song taunts of the dusty and pot-bellied children dancing around him. With the car battery perched gingerly on his head, he did look like an old woman coming back from the market with unsold wares. He smiled, wiping his glistening brow with his free hand. His callused palm smelled of cow's intestine. So did the other, which was clutched around a leaky newspaper wrapping. As he wiped his hand on his trouser bottom, he made a mental note to remind Ada to mend his khaki trousers. He adjusted the clump of itchy sisal fibre that cushioned his head from the hard battery plastic, wordlessly cursing the flies that had somehow found their way from his left hand and were now buzzing as annoyingly above his forehead.

The pair of red and black cables under his left arm were uncomfortable, but he didn't have much farther to go, he told himself. If he quickened his pace, and connected the battery as instructed, he would catch the early evening news on his black and white TV.

The evening light was waning fast. "I must remember to buy some tomatoes to fry the matumbo", he thought, spitting out the bile that accompanied his rumbling stomach. He never even noticed that the raggedy children had stopped following him. He quickened his pace, whistling tunelessly.