Mystery and Intrigue in Bulawayo

 Art was my least favourite subject at school.  I think I despised it more than maths.  At least I could once in a while get a sum right or understand a concept, but in Art I seemed doomed to be forever terrible with no redeeming factors.                 When I was ten, I had a bully of a teacher called Mark Lewis.   He was a perfectionist and everything, including his pupils’ work, he saw as an extension of himself and, therefore, if it wasn’t right, he would throw a fit until it was corrected.                 One day in Art, he was showing us how to draw trees.   I have an absolutely perfect memory of the tree, a black silhouette against a dark blue sky.   As usual, I was struggling to make my tree look recognisable as such.   I had painted over it so much, the paper itself began to wear away. ...