We had an African cook, called George who was, we understood, the son of a Zulu Chief. He certainly was very astute over money and made quite a bit extra for himself by stitching and mending clothing for the other Africans in the neighbourhood but an even more profitable business was through the loans he made to them at an exorbitant interest rate. It was a common practice among Africans to 'share' their salaries so that a group of, say, half a dozen would give all their money to one at the end of one month and then to the next in turn over the following months. But George simply lent his out with high interest expected at the end of the month. My Father worried because George kept his cash hoarded in his room, so he called him in to suggest he place the money in the Post Office for safety, believing otherwise he would be murdered in his bed. This again, needed some clarification and persuasion, but eventually George agreed, to my Father's relief.
George could not read but knew all his recipes by heart. He would not suffer fools at all and was wont to get impatient if one of the other Africans told him what to do. He would shout. "I cannot listen to a Kaffir". The Zulus are very proud people and look on all the other black tribes as "dogs", as he told us many times.
But my most vivid memory of George was when he was told of my Mother's death. He picked up the bottom of his apron, threw it over his head and wept.