Wednesday July 14th

Day 85

While the rain slashes the flower borders in our English garden I write a letter to Obert Kayaya and his wife Rhoda. They live in the village of Chippapa in Zambia. Many years ago my father, who also lived there for a while, told me Obert’s story. Since a child he was lame in one leg and thought he would never marry. Then he met a woman who loved him. I was touched and sent her my satiny white wedding dress as they had no money for one. They sent back smiling photos, standing outside their house in the village. The dress was too long and trailed in the red dust. She looked radiant.

They named their first son after my husband and their daughter after me. We spent some days with them one cool August, eleven years ago when Patty was only a baby.

Next week my eldest sister will return to Zambia and to Chippapa - an ambassador for my father, with her daughter and my nephew, carrying gifts for the children. And so this African link, unbroken since my grandfather’s time, continues. Like a chain of clapping hands, echoing across the sea. Twalumba. Thank you. Thank you.