At his house, No. 2 Raglan Street, Mzala stands up to make a second speech. He has a white handkerchief in his hand and he keeps on wiping his eyes as if there are tears. Maybe, he knows he is going to cry. Or, he is supposed to cry. The handkerchief is on hand, a white one.

Without warning me, he introduces me as his official poet, saying that on his next official trip he will be travelling with me. I am seated, watching this man who is saying all these things. Suddenly, Mzala invites me to stand in front and “say a few verses for the Mayor and his delegation, the leadership of the Party”, and all those who know him “to hear”. For a minute I remain seated, not knowing what to do. Someone screams, “Give that man a Bells!”

I stand and walk to the front. “Ndiphuphe kamnandi phezolo. I had a dream last night,” I start. “Itafile igcwele kukutya kwabelungu. A table was full with the food of mlungu. Zinyama, zitapile, engasa phangi uJohn. There was meat, potatoes and poor John was deep in the food.”

As I continue with this popular recitation from our primary school days, the ladies in the room join me in reciting the verses, moving their bodies and flicking their fingers. Mzala and his big-stomached friends open up as well and join the mood because they don't want to be left behind.

With my arms crossed in front of my tiny body, I take a deep breath and let the air pass through my mouth in a whistle. All are quiet. “I have been with my partner for over thirty years now,” I say.

“Oh! You mean your sex partner?” a man seated across asks.

Before I can respond, a large woman in a modern green dress interjects sharply. Shooting her words sternly to the man, she says, “A partner. Is that the cold way you look at us?”

“I am sorry, my dear. I didn't mean that.”

“I am not your ‘dear’. I am a comrade of the movement.” The woman in green is affronted. Turning to me, she says, “Go on, we are all ears.”