Fast awakening

I awake in morning and see a dim light peek above the curtains. In the distance a car honks. I remember where I am – M.’s home – 5,0000 miles from my safe life in Cambridgeshire and Chelsea.
My watch says 7.40 am – 6.40 am in England. D. will be having a shower before heading to work. My boys will still be in bed – or just getting there after a night out!
I’d like to get up but don’t hear anyone moving around. I roll over and doze until a knock rattles my door. The clock reads 8am, and I hobble across the floor because my feet are always sore in the morning. M. tells me her aunt is visiting and would like to meet me.
I point to my pink floral pygamas, bought at the last minute when I realized I might need something to wear in bed. “Can I meet her like this?”
She laughs. “Of course!”
My feet loosen up as I hurry down the long hallway. M.’s aunt stands to greet me. I reach out my hand, but she pulls me into a tight hug.
I apologize for my pygamas, but she waves the words away. “You are so welcome here.”
We sit and they talk politics – mocking an opposition leader. But I’ve had no coffee and my brain cells are weak. They shake their heads. “It will be a sad day for the country if that man ever wins,” says M.’s aunt.
She keeps her headscarf neatly tied around her crown, like an African matron. After a few minutes, she rises and we walk her to the back door where relatives wait in car. I wave them all off knowing I can finally make coffee.
But M. drinks tea and tells me how to boil the coffee in a pot and pour it through a strainer. The milk is reconstituted powder that comes in bags – it looks unpalatable even in coffee. She offers me cornflakes. I’d expected nshima porridge. I shake my head. I’ll skip breakfast.
After a quick shower, we drive to M.’s office which is a large suburban house. Outside, a gardener works on the dried earth teasing sculpted plants to life. Inside is a large sitting room with a fireplace and lots of space for books and files. At the far side sits a receptionist. Other rooms that would be bedrooms are offices.
I need to go to a bank, and M.’s driver says he will drive me to Manda Hill. It’s a strip mall with a supermarket and a long line of shops selling furniture, televisions, cell phones and clothes. A huge plot of land has been tarred over and painted with well-marked parking bays, but there is a traffic jam as vehicles butt toward the few vacant places. It is worse than Bluewater at Christmastime. Mr Mutale drops me off while still looking for a parking spot, and I hurry to the bank for my first contact with Kwacha for many years.
My monthly salary 25 years ago was 200 kwacha, and I lived well. We had a house girl, a weekly crate of beer and extra money left over that could be accrued toward a holiday.
I push my bank card into the machine and am offered 100,000 kwacha, 250,000 kwacha, 500,000 kwacha, 750,000 kwacha or 1,000,000 kwacha.
The exchange rate is now around 7,000 kwacha to the pound. I try to calculate how much I need and do the math by deducting zeros. But my brain drowns in zeros and I feel suddenly dyslexic. I hit the button for a million kwacha calculating that it is just over £100 but worrying that I might be taking out closer to £1,000. A wad of notes so thick it almost plugs up the machine is pushed out, and I doubt my math – maybe I have taken £1,000. The armed guard gives me a wary look as I run out of the bank to Mr Mutale’s car.