The Poisonwood Bible

m we carelessly left on our porch quietly found a new home in the night. No wonder the neighbor women frowned in our doorway when we pulled out the linings of our pockets as evidence of our poverty. Not another soul in town even had pockets. They must have felt exactly as I do now glaring at Mobutu on the doorstep of his fairy-tale palaces, shrugging, with his two hands thrust deep into the glittering loot of his mines.
"I thought you said the Congolese don't beh'eve in keeping riches to themselves," I told Anatole once, inclined toward an argument.
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THE POISONWOOD BIBLE 456
But he just laughed. "Who, Mobutu? He is not even African now." "WeH, what is he, then?" ,