Last Saturday I found myself in a local bar in Mbita, not far from a fishing village called Tabla Beach. I was accompanied by a fisherman I had spent a whole day with on a canoe in the lake. Young fellow, gung-ho, too eager to impress.
To get to the bar, we drove up a dark dusty road from my home, past a patch of tarmac, before suddenly Jamo (he insisted I call him that) said, “donj kanyo!” indicating some dark entrance. I swung the car hire left and tumbled down a rough patch before the lights illuminated a grey gate. We sat there for three minutes until I told him, “Maybe you should just open it yourself?”
