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We're spending Christmas with my mother and Hanspeter, and once again there's a huge pile of presents for my daughter which gives me a bad conscience in the light of the hunger and drought on the other side of the world.

The chair of our single mothers’ group has invited us all round to her place for New Year's Eve. Once again we all contribute something: salads, pizza, cakes, meat, wine or champagne. In the end there are thirteen of us mothers and twice as many children of all ages. We stuff ourselves at our magnificent buffet and end up dancing around her beautifully-decorated flat. By ten p.m. we've got so much food left over we wonder what to do with it all. Then someone has the bright idea of ringing up a radio station and getting them to tell people. After several fruitless attempts we finally get through and a message goes out on the airwaves saying there are thirteen women sitting there with a pile of food and inviting anyone to turn up as long as they bring a bit of festive spirit to the occasion. We don't mention the children. After that the phone doesn't stop ringing with either calls from single men or even whole groups of men. We give our address to the ones who sound nicest but after ten minutes we stop even taking calls or the flat will be heaving all night long. Before long the first visitors are at the door ringing the bell. The older children go and open it and the visitors apologies, saying they must be at the wrong place. But the children have been well trained and say, ‘No, no, come in, our mothers are all dancing or sitting in the living room.’

That's how we greet all of them. Some of them turn round on the spot and leave but a few are simply amazed and stay despite the children. By midnight there are eight men sitting around patiently allowing the children to put paper hats and false noses on them, things that have come out of crackers we had earlier. By two a.m. however, even the liveliest children are dead beat and so we bring our fun but crazy New Year's party to a close.

Back home I put Napirai, who's already asleep, to bed and sit there thinking back over my past year. So many things have changed but I'm feeling happy. I have a nice two-bedroom flat which even a year on I still consider enormous compared to the places I used to live in. Even today I still stare into the fridge for ages before I take out something to eat, just out of appreciation and awe. We've done it, and I give thanks to God for everything I've overcome in the past year, and wonder what awaits me in the year to come: 1992.

* * *

Right at the beginning of the new year I have an appointment with my family doctor to get my blood and liver functions tested. The doctor who knows my story from my first visit to him is surprised how well I've recovered. I may be still very thin but I no longer look malnourished. The blood tests show up very few malaria antibodies which is unusual given how often I've suffered from the serious tropical disease. Even my liver function tests amaze the doctor who says he can more or less classify me as healthy. I tell him I haven't done anything in particular to deal with my illness since I've been back in Switzerland but began to feel well again really quite quickly. ‘Well it would seem your attitude has served you well because I've never seen anyone recover so quickly,’ he says, and happily gives me a clean bill of health.

January is cold and wet. Business isn't as good as it was before Christmas. People are dismissive and bad-tempered. Even my boss grumbles that turnover could be better. I'm of the opinion, however, that January is a bleak period and expectations are simply too high. I know that from my earlier experience running a shop, and he ought to know it too if he's been in the business for more than forty years as he made a proud point of telling me. At the moment, however, I just have to be thankful for every order. Things will get better in February.

Our only big excitement is the village carnival. It's the first time Napirai has been old enough to join in and she's going dressed as a witch. She heads off with one of her little girlfriends delighted by all the crazy goings-on. In the meantime she's been getting on really well with the childminder's family, so well in fact that sometimes she doesn't want to come home when I turn up, she's so engrossed in playing with the other children. Obviously I found that a bit hurtful the first time it happened but on the other hand I'm more than delighted she's fitting in so well.

* * *

Finally I get the typewritten letter from Barsaloi and am amazed to see that James has managed it. He says the whole family is delighted and his mother was even moved to tears when she learned that their family history was going to be recorded in the Swiss archives. I'd been prepared for anything but that, and end up in tears myself at the thought of my poor mother-in-law whom I really miss. They've answered nearly all the questions and got an official stamp from the mission. They're sorry only that they haven't got a birth certificate for Lketinga and nobody can say for sure what his date of birth was. But they have even provided details of his late father. I'm so grateful to my mother-in-law for understanding and taking all this trouble.

But I'm still not over-optimistic as I go to the German consulate and hand over the letter to the man there. Once again we have to fill out endless forms. Anything that isn't sufficiently clarified in the letter I have to swear to on oath. Once again we send it all off to Berlin and go back to waiting. The one thing they make clear to me is that this is definitely not the last time I'll have to visit the consulate.

* * *

As far as work goes there isn't a bank or insurance company in Zurich I haven't visited. In Basel I even managed to organise an appointment with the chemical company Sandoz in the morning and Hoffmann La Roche in the afternoon. I'd like to see someone else manage that, I tell myself rather proudly. In mid-March I go back to a bank where I've arranged to call regularly every three months. Their buyer who deals with such things has bought a stack of expensive designer silk squares. But when I go into the building and ask for her, she comes out and looks at me in surprise: Didn't you know I went into your shop three weeks ago to place my order? I suddenly needed a few things urgently and couldn't get through to you on the phone. They said I might as well place my order there and then in the shop so I did and won't need anything else for several months now.’

I'm astonished because I knew nothing about this. But I say nothing, take my leave of her with good grace and walk out of the bank. Back home I check my books and find no record of any commission for the order, so the next day I call my boss and ask what's going on. At first he tries to avoid the question but then he tells me the order simply had nothing to do with me because the lady in question came into the shop to place it and didn't do it through me. I don't agree: I tell him she's my customer. I won her trade in the first place and therefore I should be entitled to commission on all her follow-up orders. That commission after all is part of my wages. He refuses to agree and I quickly come to realise that the same thing has almost certainly happened before.