"...a bit of a dab hand when it comes to resurrecting the lives of rejected women" Carole Woddis
F/X: BEETHOVEN FADES, AND A KIKUYU BOY SINGING FADES UP SOFTLY, DURING:
On my farm in Africa, it happened often in the early morning that a very small herdboy would come into the dining room all by himself, stand for a long time in front of the cuckoo clock, its bird still shut away and silent, and address it in Kikuyu in a slow, sing-song declaration of love, then gravely walk out again.
And I wonder now: If I, too, know a song of Africa - of the giraffe, and the African new moon lying on her back, of the oxen ploughing her fields and the dark, laughing faces of my Totos as the bird leaps – will Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a colour I had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that is like me? Will the lions of Ngong, then, watch over me?