Juggling Truths

My name in Monei Ntuka and this is the story of my childhood in the village of Mochudi, in the then British Bechuanaland Protectorate, in the mid to late sixties. It is, of course, not the whole story of my youth, for didn’t my grandmother Mma-Tseitsi, mother of my father, tell me many times, A tongue can talk until numb with fatigue, but it can never tell the whole story’? And didn’t she gently admonish me saying, Child of my child, a good story teller knows when to stop, just as a dreamer knows when to wake up.‘ In any event, a look at self can never be a full stare; it has to be a series of glimpses.