I have had two nights now at Mama Kilala’s house. I am physical exhausted. I sit around in the sun writing up my notes from last week and reading a very amusing book- "A Short History of Tractors". There are people I should contact, places I should be arranging to visit but right now I don’t have the energy. Herta has a young orphan called Maya with her to stay and we play basket ball with an old sweetcorn husk. In the evening we all play Trivial Pursuits together.
The view from Bugando hill takes in Mwanza, the lake, the islands. Walled and gated compounds separate the rich Europeans and Asians who live here from the unplanned slum housing scattered over the hill. There is plenty of water here, plenty of electricity. Our doors and windows are left open at night- even the mosquitoes leave us alone, presumably carried away somewhere else on the cool breeze that hugs the hill.
I sit at the kitchen table, my eyes wide, my hands wrapped round a precious treasure. Fresh black coffee, prepared Italian style.