I DID NOT WANT OUR FIRST NIGHT to be rough and it was Dambudzo who suggested the Seven Miles Hotel. We set off in the late afternoon, driving south out of Harare.

My husband knew that I would be back before the children woke up; he would need the car to drive to work.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Marechera,’ the manager said, with a slight bow.

‘How can I help you?’

So even here he was known.

‘Well …’ my companion mumbled, not looking at the man with the beaming face who seemed unsure about the writer's escort. ‘Um … um … could we go through to your garden and have a drink?’

‘Yes, certainly. I’ll show you the way.’

After the first two bottles of Castle Lager, Dambudzo began to relax. His face became more open and his limbs unclenched as he inhaled cigarette smoke deep into his lungs. Yet he remained rather subdued and made no move to leave the garden area.

When he ordered his third beer I got a little impatient. ‘Should we not ask for a room?’ I said.

By now the sun had set and the air had become clammy. The birds were silent. Not a single leaf stirred. Around me, under thatched umbrellas, groups of black men and women sat talking and laughing, their voices and the noise level rising with every fresh round they ordered.

‘What is this hilarity all about?’ I asked Dambudzo. ‘What did that bloke say – they seem really demented, that group over there.’

‘Well, the usual stuff,’ Dambudzo shrugged. ‘Making jokes about me, with my dreadlocks, and my white chick. I suppose they are just jealous.’

When we finally made our way back to the reception, the manager came darting around a corner. ‘I hope you have enjoyed our garden,’ he said, his smile now acknowledging me too. ‘It is so pleasant out there at this time of year.’

‘Yes, sure,’ we muttered.

‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘Um … um, yes, could we … could we get a room?’

‘Of course, Mr Marechera, a room in one of our rondavels, they are quiet and airy. Should it be for half or the whole night?’

Dambudzo stared fixedly at the ground.