Roscow

Then there was David (RJ). Roscow and Ryley. And many other titles.

Young, intelligent and mature with a dose of Solomonic wisdom at his disposal. He seemed calm and reverent. A short crop of brown hair hung from his head. Hair which was once longer and much, much longer. Six foot he stood confidently above and looked neither like an Austalian nor an Englishman.

And yet he was both.

'How do you pronounce obloquy', he said whilst reading advanced material from a small book. After internet research, we knew.

'Aggressive language,' I told him.

'That's what it is,' I concluded.

'Do you know who Jay-zee is?' he enquired.

'No,' was the answer.

'A musical artist, a rapper actually,' he confirmed.

'My favourite,' he would say for instance.

'Toast, yeah, I feel like toast for supper and then I'll have a nap before superbowl is on tonight,' he informed.

He ate and slept alot, even at that age. He dressed without style at times and stood without poise.

He remembered Africa.

He spoke of God. He loved English. And yet, contained an enigmatic element just like her.

They shared in loss - lives lost within the African existence of childhood.

As he moved continents at a young age, she was pursued - young, a very young long-haired girl with tekkies and bows. The magic carpet ride of life dunked the children of Africa into sometimes never-ending waves that could only end.