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[The story takes place in Kenya in the early 1950s.] A postcard came airmail from London : Dear Vic and Deepa, We’re having a wonderful time here ! Hope you have a smashing holiday too. Say “jambo” to Njoroge. Kwa heri ! See you soon ! - Bill and Annie
[The story takes place in Kenya in the early 1950s.] A postcard came airmail from London : Dear Vic and Deepa, We’re having a wonderful time here ! Hope you have a smashing holiday too. Say “jambo” to Njoroge. Kwa heri ! See you soon ! - Bill and Annie On the reverse side, Picadilly Circus in full colour, a city scene grander and infinitely more bustling than our own modest and quite somnolent King Street roundabout. Look, said Papa, who was holding up the postcard, the biggest city in the world. Where’s the circus, Papa? I asked him, our self-styled expert on matters English. Maybe there was a circus there a long time ago, he said, trying to sound confident and unable to hide his uncertainty. Mother, Deepa, and I were gathered round Papa in the shop, poring with him over every detail of the glorious scene. The black taxis, a red double-bus carrying advertisements on its side, men and women in hats, a red mailbox, a newsagent, all the store and street signs. Papa turned a wistful eye to Mother, who acknowledged with a smile; It was his dearest wish to visit that centre of the universe once in his lifetime. It was his Mecca, his Varanasi, his Jerusalem. A visit there conferred status, moreover : you became one of the select group, the London-returned. He tacked the postcard on the upright behind the table, where it stayed for more than a year, proud reminder not only of his yearning but also of his European “friends”. Bill and Annie had gone without their parents. To my parents, it was a sign of European irresponsibility that they could send their children on an expensive voyage and yet run up sizeable debts in town. Though Mother remembered graciously that Mrs. Bruce did have a wealthy family in England. But how could she allow herseld to send the children by themselves, unescorted, on a voyage that took twenty-fou hours, with stopovers in strange places ? Suppose someone kidnapped them ? Who’d hurt a British child, Papa snapped in reply, they’d have every policeman in the world looking for them. That privilege comes from ruling the world. It was mid July, a month and a half since they had gone. Six weeks was an eternity to a child in those days. Saturday playtime at our shopping center became subdued1 and lacking in