MAMBAZO

In the harmattan season of 1965, we had just gotten back from far away england, five of us Korangi, thandi, makasala, Furo and I {Raman}, the dusty hilly village of natando, set in the west coast of africa, our rich lustre vegetation made our land so unique, the almost red soil which made me feel at home the moment my feet felt it, my people are predomitantly farmers and it we find pride, every farmers pride is in his harvest, so when the scorching sun heat our bare back and send trickles of sweat down to our body it gives us this sense of fufilment and every male child of each family has only one dream and that’s to be bigger than Katoure, its an old folktale that has outlived kings and kingdom, it has been transfer from generations like bald hair it always has someone who will carry it, “Katoure was a great farmer and a warrior, he was not the king but had more respect and was admonished like a royal blood, he had over six wives and could feed them all because his harvests could feed the whole of natando village for three seasons if kia-kia our gods, the protector of mankind and the head of the spirits choose to curse us with draught” that’s Raman my dad talking by the fire place as we enjoy our local delicacy of roasted yam dipped inside palm oil and then flavoured with salt and utazi leaf, I was named after him because of the


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