His eyes told the story. Empty, frightened, confused. And he wasn't saying a word. As I knelt by his mattress on the floor of the two-roomed mud and tin house in the back streets of Kolfe a stone's throw from Bingham, I felt pretty helpless. I was also being watched. In addition to Theresa and Dawid who had brought me here, there were at least half a dozen more people in the room, and double that in the yard outside. All worried. All concerned. I needed a story and Dawid was translating, but Yalew would say nothing. As best as I could I checked him over.

Imagine sitting in a three-person swing seat, moving gently. The sun is shining and there is a slight breeze. Two little boys (one American, one Ethiopian) are sitting beside you as you read a story. No Supply teachers are available here so when a teacher is absent requests are made for volunteers to use their planning time to cover classes. On this occasion it was 'learning support', hence the small number. We had completed the comprehension exercise that was set, and read a play. The final instruction was a story. Teaching in Africa has its perks.