On a recent trip to Lusaka, the capital of Zambia, I was munching through a plate of buttery rice and tilapia at a roadside motel when a man in his twenties sat down opposite me, hugging a pouch of drawing books and crayons to his chest.
My meal was oversized, typical of dining customs in Zambia. I assumed my companion would order something, some chili soup maybe. He nodded to me in greeting but never ordered. When I eventually abandoned my meal halfway through, he whispered: ‘You won’t be upset if I finish your plate?’
