Rehema came to work with me when my children were tiny. She managed me, them, the house. I couldn’t entice her to Outpost, too far she said (she’s not wrong); instead she opted to stay behind and work for a friend.
I miss alot of things about Rehema: her roast potatoes, the way she could tidy out a cupboard, her humour. I also miss our discussions and her outspoken political opinions.
When I asked her, two years ago, whether she’d heard about Mr Brown’s policy to Make Poverty History, she replied, tiredly, that yes, she had – on the radio, she said.
And what do you think? I asked.
”This is what I think, mama”, she said, “I think the poor people in Mr Brown’s country are going to give even more money to rich ones in Africa because they think it’s going to make a difference to my life, to my daughters’ lives. And it’s not. Because not a cent will reach us”.