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We would stand outside until the hearses came, sometimes four or five of them at a time. Then we'd make a beeline for those going to the west of the cemetery, where the rich people were buried. Our best time for business were between 11am and 4pm. Most burials took place then.

We were careful not to follow directly behind the funeral party because the cemetery officials would see us. They would call us criminals or "cemetery whores", and chase us away. Our best bet was to keep pace with our chosen hearse from outside the cemetery, and when it came to rest, make our approach, stealthily. Since the cemetery was virtually free of fencing and walling, we could follow the hearse unimpeded and then enter from one of the many access points. Once inside, we would position ourselves a respectful distance from the mourners and then wait patiently for them to approach us.

Our cardboard boxes would be full of all sorts of goodies: from fruit, drinks and popcorn; to cigarettes and mobile phone recharge cards. My friend Busi and I operated as a team but there would be four or five other teams there with us and sometimes we were joined by ice-cream vendors from the dairy farm beyond the cemetery. Normally, there was enough business to go round. There were so many funerals taking place. I'd read somewhere that as many as 3000 people were dying a week from the HIV/Aids pandemic. Zimbabwe's rate of infection was 16%. But there were those odd times when there were few funerals and thus fewer customers and the competition could become quite fierce. The trick was to get to the burial site first and then position ourselves at the nearest vantage point, usually under the shade of a tree.

Once we were ready and waiting, we could expect a steady stream of customers. The mourners usually sought refreshments at some point in the proceedings. Busi and I would be suitably subdued and respectful, of course, and always careful to offer our heartfelt condolences before getting down to the serious business of selling. Although located on the southern outskirts of the Zimbabwean capital, Harare, Granville cemetery is a few kilometres from the inner city area of Glen View. Busi and I lived in Glen View and we'd walk to the cemetery each day from there.

My father hated my going there. "Those are sacred places, Sekai; places of respect, and you have no right to do your business there," he said. "Why don't you stick to selling your stuff at the primary school down the road?"

I'd already tried that,

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