I, I am Zimbabwean. I eat salads and pizza, and do not feel full without sadza. I sing Methodist hymns and avoid all but vernacular choruses. I wear jeans but would not be caught dead wearing anything except a skirt. I drive an old car and a donkey cart. I fetch water in tins on my head, water that comes clean from my faucet. I don’t know a word of English and speak it every day. I tell stories around the fire, and am glued to reruns of Days of our Lives. I am black and have British ancestors. I live in a mud hut with four bedrooms, an oven, TV, phone and microwave. I buy my bride with cows, and feed her cake at our ‘white wedding.’ I believe in the one God of Abraham, and visit the traditional healer weekly. I work in the fields all day long and sit in my office from 8 to 4. I value people above all and think money will solve everything. I dance to drums and am too shy to move my body. I am part of my community and do not know my next-door neighbors. I love my land and would do anything to get away from here. I, I am Zimbabwean. Who did you think I was? And who are you?