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In the cooler winter months, Nan and I would go to our favourite place in the river bed, where the sand was warm and when we were comfortable, she would begin her story.
“As you know, I outlived our lovely daughter Sarah, who would have been your grandmother had she not succumbed to cancer not long after having her second child. But this story began when she was a little girl and the missionaries arrived. It seemed they came like the monsoon, although unlike it, they stayed. Our people were unprepared for the emotional onslaught, and assumed it was just another short stay to conduct a ‘mission’ as the missionaries called them. They had been coming through on and off for years, and if they came with a nurse or a doctor, it was a very good thing.
My people assumed they had a right to be
