April 9

It is my turn to go shopping.  I have not been out for nearly two weeks, but it is as though I have been away for five years.  The prices of food have shot up astronomically and I walk around open-mouthed or muttering, 'I can't believe it.  I just can't believe it.'

Besides the prices, the other thing I notice is the lack of imported goods.  Most of the things for sale in the supermarket are Zimbabwean.  There is not one bar of imported chocolate to be seen. The shelves near the tills are covered in the Zimbabwean made Pascall chocolates: nut log, milk chocolate, mint crisp and snack bars.  Somebody once told me that these are made with pigs' blood and I can well believe it.  You have to be Zimbabwean to even go near these bars of chocolate.  Many a diasporan will wax lyrical about nut logs, but anyone else not brought up on cheap chocolate won't even glance in their direction. One of the benefits of growing up in Zimbabwe in the early 80s when South African goods were banned is that you can eat most things and find them quite delicious.

I know I go on about the past, but it makes me cry to think of all the Zimbabwean industries that have come to nothing over the past few years. Every Easter, the shops would be full of chocolate eggs of all sizes and Easter bunnies, but now there is not one Easter egg on the shelves, not even the Charons marshmallow eggs and this is not to do with the coronavirus. Easter hasn't happened in Zimbabwe for a long time.

Outside the vegetable shop, I see the COVID-19 response vehicle which is just a white truck with a handwritten sign stuck on it with Sellotape. We all have to queue to go in as only five people are allowed in at one time. However, the queue is long and there is less than half a metre between everyone. The lady letting people in is also the lady who checks people's receipts on the way out. She is also the hand squirter (bottle of meths diluted with water with hole in the top) so she is quite busy, especially as she has to keep her friend selling newspapers entertained and buy milk from a man selling it from a cooler box. A multi-tasker indeed.

At the roadblocks, I am asked where I am going and where I am coming from. The policemen then give me a long, hard stare (perhaps to see if I will crack under pressure) and let me go. I wonder what the wrong answer is. On what grounds would they pull you over and ask you to get out of your car?

I manage to buy one packet of mini hot cross buns at PicknPay - they are choc chip buns so I assume they ran out of raisins - and at Spar I join a queue for a packet. The two women in front of me are very excited when the buns come out and pile up their trolleys. The baker looks very concerned when I only take two packets and says he can get me some more if I like. I joke that he might spark a hot cross bun riot if he is seen to favour me, but afterwards I wonder if that could ever be a reality - imagine the government brought down because the bakers ran out of hot cross buns.

I am glad to get home and lock the gate. The situation is not a nice one anywhere in the world but here in Zimbabwe, it is compounded by the terrific rise in prices. I consider myself a very, very lucky person and I always tell Sian and Ellie to be extremely grateful for waking up in a warm bed with a roof over their heads, for having three meals a day and snacks in between and for having space and a blue sky and good health. I do not know how the majority of the population survives.