It was the era of wooden clothes pegs and as she hang out her laundry some of these broke. I worked out a way of mending them. Our conversation then, was along the lines of me starting a workshop for mending broken clothes pegs. I must have been eight or nine. Not long before that, I had been showing her drawings I had made. In her motherly tone she had marvelled at their beauty, “What would you need to be an artist? ” she asked. “Lots of paper”, was my answer. “Mama, did you know that paper is made from wood? They crush it into pulp at the factory and dry it out into sheets of paper” I had quipped. She promised to plant many trees so that I would have an endless supply of paper – and wood for my workshop.

I was never an artist and no more pegs got fixed but Mama’s compound has many trees. It may seem she led me on with my silly whims but not so. She sensed dreams and passion then became a draught to fan that flame.

Eight years gone today since Mama went to rest with her Lord. She blew some wind beneath my wings to set me aloft, to a place where rising currents caught on and are carrying me higher.

Blessed memory.


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