I went to see the witchdoctor, the igqira. And he spoke to the izinyanya, the spirits of the ancestors.

As we do turn our backs From our companion thrown into his grave, So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away, leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses pick’d; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone.

All day he worked, cutting out pennies and shillings and half-crowns and threepenny-bits.

He was also interested in the cost of book production, as can be seen in his article on the cheapness of papyrus as a writing material.