the women on the farm were arguing about a radio story and each person remembered a different ending. i had heard it too. the man on the radio had said they were still waiting for an answer but by afternoon the women were saying the matter was finished. i nearly spoke. then the next basket came and the talk moved to another thing. on the walk home i tried to remember his exact words. i know what i heard but not every word. Baba asked me about the same story at home and i said we should listen to the evening news. he had already told two people the version from the farm. now he wants me to say which woman started it.

the morning water was cold on my arms. i washed before the compound became busy and stood a little while with the drops running from my elbows. my hands were still warm from carrying the bucket. when i opened them wide the skin across the palms pulled tight but there was no pain. yesterday we carried cabbage and i had expected my back to complain. it was fine when i bent to pick the soap. the air was cool enough that i put my wrapper over my shoulders before going inside. my youngest child was still sleeping. i sat to put on my shoes instead of standing on one leg. there was time before the farm.

my son came from the mechanic workshop with a small bag of potatoes. he said he saw good ones and remembered home. potatoes are something i can buy myself but i was happy with the way he put the bag beside my stove and waited for me to look. i asked if he had eaten. he said yes and then ate what i gave him. Baba wanted to know how much he paid and i told him to leave the boy. i did not want that visit to become a talk about prices. after he went i opened the bag again. some were too small. i kept them for frying because that is how he likes them and he may come on sunday.