The Colour Of Me

“Nan, look! He is black”, the little boy called the attention of his grandmother pointing to my son. My ears played a little trick on me, I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my son or something else.

There were three of them: a young lady, a boy and an older lady. The boy must be between the age of seven and eight. Presumably, the younger lady was closer to being the boy’s mum and the older lady the grandmother.

I wasn’t sure if the ladies heard the boy the first time he pointed to my son describing the colour of his skin and clearly, the boy wasn’t sure if his mum or grandmother heard him.

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The Stories I heard

I don’t recall reading bedtimes stories when growing up, but, I recall interesting stories that were told.

I remember the conversations I heard as a little girl to the folktales shared by families, neighbours and friends. Part of me contains songs, poetries and the vivid images of scary monsters painted to scare.

Imaginary plays, make-believes and visits to relatives occupied most of the summer holidays. With foods and songs, long lost friends who came around to visit each having a story to tell.

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My Aunt in; My Mind’s Eyes

My Aunt in; My Mind’s Eyes

My parents had many distant relatives most of whom I couldn’t trace their lineage on our family tree. There were quite a large number of aunties, uncles, cousins we couldn’t really fit into the picture. To us they were family and it had to stay that way.

I was around 8 when a distant elderly cousin of my dad visited. She lived with her daughter in a different part of the country. She stayed for a few days, however, she asked my parents if I could come with her to spend the rest of the summer holiday with her grandchildren when she was ready to leave.

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