It's sad how the faces and voices of the dead fade over the years. Those of my parents that were once were so vivid in my dreams are now just distant echoes.
Shortly after my Father's death I was standing in a sale rsoom with some friends. Most of the things up for auction seemed useless and dull, Cheap, worn and broken, wardrobes, cupboards and carpets. Then I came across a box. The box of an old explorer. In it were some rolled up maps of Africa: an Africa with few roads and few large cities; his heavy binoculars in a leather case; a pair of cracked and worn boots and strange wooden carvings and clay figures. I recognised the style, either Hausa of Northern Nigeria, or another of the semi-arab tribes of the north. But as well as seeming familiar there was also something unfamiliar; something about the figures and their costumes I could not place. I was excited; could this be something unknown, something valuable? I picked up one of the figures to look closely, and on turning it over I was disappointed to see written in gaudy colours, Made in Birmingham. But I still wanted that box. However my sensible frieds dragged me away, telling me I already had enough junk. What on earth would you put a box like that? They were right.
The sale room was closing, and just as I was about to leave I heard a familiar voice behind me. My father's. He was arguing with the man who was preparing to lock up the sale room. He had been told that there were some plant books on sale and he wanted to see them. The man locking up refused: the viewing was over, he said. There was a short violent argument, the my Father turned and stormed out of the room with a final oath, before disappearing into the crowd before I could cross the floor to speak to him.
Shortly after my Father's death I was standing in a sale rsoom with some friends. Most of the things up for auction seemed useless and dull, Cheap, worn and broken, wardrobes, cupboards and carpets. Then I came across a box. The box of an old explorer. In it were some rolled up maps of Africa: an Africa with few roads and few large cities; his heavy binoculars in a leather case; a pair of cracked and worn boots and strange wooden carvings and clay figures. I recognised the style, either Hausa of Northern Nigeria, or another of the semi-arab tribes of the north. But as well as seeming familiar there was also something unfamiliar; something about the figures and their costumes I could not place. I was excited; could this be something unknown, something valuable? I picked up one of the figures to look closely, and on turning it over I was disappointed to see written in gaudy colours, Made in Birmingham. But I still wanted that box. However my sensible frieds dragged me away, telling me I already had enough junk. What on earth would you put a box like that? They were right.
The sale room was closing, and just as I was about to leave I heard a familiar voice behind me. My father's. He was arguing with the man who was preparing to lock up the sale room. He had been told that there were some plant books on sale and he wanted to see them. The man locking up refused: the viewing was over, he said. There was a short violent argument, the my Father turned and stormed out of the room with a final oath, before disappearing into the crowd before I could cross the floor to speak to him.