Where the story telling all began.
Me on the left, in 1965 on my parents 28000 acre spread between the Munyati and the Sebakwe Rivers in Zimbabwe.
I will be on the road most of September, and thus I do not think that I will do much writing.
This is beecaause I doubt that I will have much time to escape into my imagination for long enough to enter that special rveeried state which allows the fragments of the past and present to intersect like the woof and the warp when the mind weaves the fabric of a fabled reality.
But then I create the snippets of this story, much like I used to fashion my sculptures when I still had the full facilities of my falaciously taken for granted sight. There is no particular order to the creation. In someways it is like a jigsaw puzzle. I will pick the outline of a character, or a hand or a house and flesh it out.
A piece of clay here or a word there. A negative space deeper, or a sentence modified.
Broadly I would like my tale to be endowed with three things,
A sense of place
A platform for my missives on life.
In the next few weeks I think that I will be taking the story back to the Kafue, maybe starting with the untidy little town of Mumbwa and its Indians, and maybe introducing a side theme of a love story.
Thus the next spate of updates should occcur in October.