I remember. 74 years ago I arrived on this earth via a small village in a remote part of Zambia, Africa. I grew up in that village of a warm, welcoming, caring and protective community. During the day, we the choldren, enjoyed the freedon of playing, sing songs, dance, build play houses with damp river sand, laugh and sometimes fight. In the evenings, adults told us stories: of Zimwe the invisible being, the smart and mischievious Kalulu, the tortoise with wisdom tucked awy in its ancient shell, the foolish haina feeding on the village trash and laughing, of lions and leopards, Ngoza the beautiful Headman’s daughter and Kasiwa the orphan. But most important, we were happy, knew who we were, and the entire village community was our home.
Then I grew up, went to school, moved to the capital city to work and more schooling, finally ending up in Los Angeles, tte intertainment capitalof the world. I was sucked in by the bright lights of Hollywood, messsimerized by the millions of cars competing for space on freeways, TV, Internet and lived in neighborhoods without neigghbors.
I forgot my cchildhood, my beginnings.
The memory of my childhoodd was only awakened when one of my grandchildren asked me: “Grandpa, who am I?” My memory was jilted. To answer my granddaughter’s question I had to write a children’s story (which was later published) titled, “Who Am I?” Thus was awakened my desire to write and share my rich upbringing by writing for children. I have since published two picture books and my other stories have appeared in children’s magazines in the United States of America.