Zulu: An African Child's Story


January 1994, I was only 7years old. It was a cold, dry typical African morning. The tension in the hospital waiting room was almost palpable. The only sounds I could hear over the shrieking of the harmattan wind as it blew through the trees in the premises was of my mother and aunts sobbing. We had all rushed to the local hospital to visit an uncle who was reported to have collapsed at his home while preparing for work. Uncle Padosa and my father had a close friendship that even predated my parents' marriage and he was my dad's lawyer.


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