Bones crackling like dry wood on fire

Image from Google

The old clock shrills next to me on the floor. I awake with a startle. Goodness knows how old this clock of mine is. I received it from my husband during the Chimurenga War. It has woken me up from that day to this. Even on the day of his death.

 Enough of daydreaming. I have to get up. Vimbai, my twelve year old grandchild is sleeping and has to go to school. I have to put her water on the fire to get warm. But to do just that requires a World War Three of its own. I push myself from my reed mat on the floor of my hut. I can not get up. I try again on my left side and I fail. Strike three on my right hand and this time I finally get up, but with my seventy year old bones crackling like dry wood on fire. I struggle to fit my swollen feet into my tennis shoes. Puffy ankles portude, looking like elephant's feet. I grab the tin can from the floor, black from its daily use on the fire. I pull on my old knitted jersey that I knit myself, pull on my beret to cover my bald head, wrap my multicoloured zambia round my waist and open the door. I am greeted by our chilly Zimbabwean winter weather. I heard from the family next door that Europe is much colder than this. They said 'snow' falls from the sky. I fill the little tin can with water and concede to World War Four: fixing the fire. I bought a two-plate stove the other day, but it has never been used because there is no electricity. But wait till you see the bill telling you to pay trillions of dollars for electricity we have never used.

I wake up a sleepy Vimbai on the floor of the hut and pour the heated water into a battered bucket with no handles. She whispers a sleepy 'Good morning' and takes her water into the bathroom. For today, the World Wars are almost over.