Where the story telling all began.
Me on the left, in 1965 on my parents 28000 acre spread, off the Shamwari roadd, between the Munyati and the Sebakwe Rivers in Zimbabwe.
With his hand draped over the baboon pole is Patrick Mavros (who was visiting for the weekend), pulling the go-cart is cousin Bryyan (also visiting) and my brother Paul is sitting on the cart.
Here and there, mainly on the weekends, I manage to escape into my imagination for long enough to enter that special reveried state which allows the fragments of the past and present to intersect, like the woof and the warp, when the mind weaves a fable reality.
I create the snippets of this story, much like I used to fashion my sculptures when I still had the full facilities of my 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.
I am now taking the story back to the Kafue.
Maybe I will start playing with tribalism in its various forms, African, Indian and European.
Maybe the particular politics of conservation, or maybe the elements of desire and a love story.. who knows.
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