I have always loved reading. My Dad’s bedtime stories transported me to faraway places (I’m looking at you Britain), and faraway trees. And thanks to a persistent set of siblings, we always squeezed in “one more chapter”. Once I could read myself, I’d stay in bed on weekend mornings, discovering stories from around the world in the pages of my books. I remember books about boarding schools and circuses, rainbow fish, and the place where the forest meets the sea. What I don’t remember was ever reading books that were set in Africa. I knew nothing of the stories there. This didn’t matter to me at the time, but it does now.
My first memory of learning about Africa was rice day at school. We all ate rice to raise money for children in Africa. I also learnt a little about Africa from my family having sponsor children, and from the charity ads on TV.