Mountain on my plate

Mountain on my plate

There was a mountain on my plate. I almost couldn’t see beyond it. ‘Baba, it will not be possible for me to eat all of this food. It is too much. My stomach can’t do this.’

Wilfred looked at the mountain. Then at me. Back at the mountain of food and then at my stomach. He was trying to find the right words. ‘You don’t know where your next meal is coming from. So, you must take the takeaway inside your stomach.’ After fitting in what I could, and after some negotiation, we decided that the rest could be wrapped up to serve as an actual takeaway.

This story illustrates why I weighed five kilos more at the end of the journey than I did at the start. At times my weight dropped, but that was most likely due to the heat and the distances I walked at times. All in all, I was extremely grateful for the sarong that was attached to the handle of my bag. I had taken it in case I was invited to join a family in a religious ceremony that required me to be covered. But it doubled for other uses . . . like a skirt when my trousers no longer fitted me.