Luanda. The fifth century of war. The South African army is trying to kill us all, but it is a fly that nearly does for me. A fish fly, “mosca do peixe”, so small you do not see it as it buries its even tinier eggs under your skin. Usually, like a tattoo artist, it chooses fleshy parts of the body to work on, bits that are generally covered up and left in peace, so I assume the irritating white spot on my left thumb is the bequest of a mosquito. Days pass before someone kindly puts me right. Everyone knows what to do. You sterilise a pin in a flame and use it to roll back the skin from around the white spot. Then you get a very good friend to squeeze all the eggs out. The pain is bad, but the consequences of not getting all the eggs out are worse.