In the last week of February, I finished the first draft of my memoir. It is nearly 90,000 words and has 15 chapters, but is far from complete. I must read it through a few more times and, ideally, get it to a professional editor.

I am not precious about having someone pull it apart constructively. I know how very helpful it can be! In 2008 I wrote the Very Short Introduction on HIV and AIDS for The Oxford University Press. When the manuscript came back from the editor there was not just a correction on every page but every paragraph. I felt offended thinking: ‘But I know how to write’.

As I went through the marked-up document, I found I agreed with nearly all edits. Indeed, there was just one section I insisted we keep. It was:

‘At the beginning of the agricultural year, the farmers scan the heavens anxiously awaiting the rains that will allow them to go to their fields. But the rains bring mosquitoes and malaria and the waterborne diseases that further affect the health, especially of those with weaker immune systems.’

The message was important but I also liked the imagery!

My plan is to send out the next draft of the manuscript and see who is interested in publishing it. It has been read in its entirety by one dear friend and colleague. He was kind and constructively critical. That was a huge boost since I have enormous respect for his views. The process of writing this has been joyful but slow. It has taken two years to get to this stage.

The structure I have chosen is to begin with some family history and background. My dad was born in 1899 and lived to the impressive age of 90. His father was born in 1868 and lived until 1963, 95 years old, so there is a lot of history! Dad’s mother died in childbirth in 1907. He served in the trenches in the First World War and after two marriages and two children, he ended up in Kenya with my mother. I was born there in 1956.

The family moved to Swaziland, where I, my brother and my sister grew up. It was an idyllic childhood. We were able to roam the veld, and, at the same time, had an excellent education. Swaziland, a British protectorate, gained independence in 1968. We were insulated from the dreadfulness of apartheid and enjoyed growing up in a multiracial, if not democratic, society. I cover that period in some detail and pay fulsome tribute to Waterford Kamhlaba United World College, where I received my secondary education.

I had a year to fill between finishing school and starting university in England and worked as a teacher in Mbabane. I also freelanced as a journalist for Business in Swaziland. I had never been outside Southern Africa, so arriving in Norwich in September 1975 to begin university was a huge cultural adjustment.

The memoir covers my university years, including living in digs and shared houses in Norwich. It ends when I graduated with an MA and took my first job in Botswana aged 24. I have been told it is not reflective enough. That will be addressed as I work through the next iteration. The research and writing process has been fulfilling and has given me a chance to look back on my childhood. I will put in a few extracts with some added context.

Dad’s discharge:

‘At the end of the First World War my father was ‘sent home from France to the Southern General Hospital in Victoria Park, Leicester and then to convalesce in Ilkeston in Derbyshire. … he was on the golf course on 11th November 1918, when the secretary of the club came racing across the fairways, shouting out the news. The armistice had been signed, and the war was over.’

Collecting cow dung:

‘A Sunday afternoon ‘treat’ for us (in Swaziland) was: ‘to get in the car, and drive round outside Mbabane, looking for cattle manure on the road. When a suitable cow pat was spotted, we would screech to a halt and Derek and I would leap out and add it to a sack. In this way she (my mother) gradually improved the quality of the soil, and the garden blossomed. This family ‘outing’ was … great fun. The best cow pats were hardened on the outside. When we lifted them there would be numerous insects in the soft base, including ubiquitous dung beetles.’

Head wound:

‘A vivid memory is that when I was about eight, my head was sliced open. We were playing in the Hartwig’s garden when someone, standing in the wheelbarrow, caught my head with the edge of a spade. I bled like a stuck pig, as head wounds do. I staggered up to the house. Mrs Hartwig laid me down and emptied the pepper pot over the gash. Pepper helps coagulation and I believe it worked. None of my family appreciated my reaching for the pepper pot when they had cuts.’

South African Broadcasting:

‘My parents put the radio on as they got up and got ready for the day. The only radio station they listened to was the South African Broadcasting Services’ (SABC) English station. … The morning programme included, at 7.20 every day, a short story for children. One morning the announcer, not realising his mic was still live, signed off and then said, “Well that has done the little buggers for today”. We were delighted. Across the region aghast parents lunged for writing pads and stamps and wrote in to complain.’

Visiting missionary friends in Zimbabwe:

‘Their house … was surrounded by bush, and this gave rise to one of the most fascinating animal encounters I have ever witnessed. We were sitting in the garden when a large Mozambique spitting cobra (Naja mossambica) appeared on the lawn. We did not have to wonder what to do. Mr Kirby called their dog, an agile pointer! When it saw the snake, its hackles rose, and it began to dance round it. The snake reared off the ground and spread its hood. They engaged in this macabre ballet for some minutes as we watched, not knowing what was going on. Eventually the dog was able to dart around the snake, take it by the neck and, with a whip like motion, break its spine. How did the dog know how to do that?’

Voluntary work:

‘In my later teens I was one of the church members involved in construction work at the leper colony. … One day Tony Lourens and I … were tasked with collecting sand from the river. We went into the machinery shed to get the tractor and trailer. We quickly became aware of insect activity on our legs. Retreating outside we found our shoes and socks were black with the fleas from the sandy floor. We thought about this and decided to douse our legs, socks and shoes with petrol. We were then able to get the tractor and trailer. As we drove to the river, I picked thirty-three fleas out of my socks!

Coincidence:

‘Among the set English books at Waterford was The Choice of Poets. In the early 2000s I was walking round a car boot sale at the local high school, Hellesdon High. One stall had books for sale, including a copy of this book. Of course, I bought it. When I opened it there were two names with class designations in the front cover. One, somewhat scratched out, but still readable was Eugene Marais, the other was Yunus Peer IIIW (standing for Form 3, class W the other possible designation was K, Waterford and Kamhlaba). … Yunus was prevented from returning to Waterford by the South African security police who saw the school as a hotbed of communism and a breeding ground for opposition. Yunus continued his education in India and then went on to teach in Hawaii. In July 2016 he was at a Waterford Alumni gathering in Mbabane. I told him I had ‘his’ book. I posted it to him. He was tickled to be reunited with it.

At university:

‘My last hope … was country dancing. Full of enthusiasm I went to the first dance of the year. There was no problem with being on my own, there were plenty of women to dance with. A great time was had by all, including me, until the last dance! This involved forming a circle, not boy girl boy girl, but just people. This is important as I was next to a tall man. We dance round, then danced in and out, and in the final stage we all flung our hands in the air. My index finger went, unerringly, up his nose. He was shocked, I was appalled. What a disaster! I slunk back to the residence and never returned.’

Living in the city:

‘The Golden Triangle was self-contained, with almost everything one would want and, as I discovered, some surprises. There was an antique/second-hand/junk shop on Jessop Road. One spring afternoon … I was looking around when to my astonishment I spotted a picture of Dad staring down at me from the wall. He was in Second World War uniform, with his major’s crowns on his shoulders. It was identical to the one I had on my wall. I was completely taken aback and told the shop keeper that the picture was my father, I don’t think he believed me. … I am asked if I bought the photograph. The rather boring answer was I did not even consider it. Why would I? I had a copy! I regret it now. Of course, the more interesting question is how did it end up there? It was a fairly large formal portrait, and I think Dad had the portrait photograph taken in India, had multiple copies printed and sent them to his extended Norwich and Norfolk family. One must have ended up in a house clearance sale, the value was in the frame rather than the subject!’

I have not just been writing my memoir, but also reading other peoples’, looking for tips and tricks to improve mine. Two recent ones were Dispatcher: Lost and Found in Johannesburg by Mark Gevisser, Granta Books, 2014 and The Bullet in the Paw Paw: Theatre and AIDS in South Africa by Kim Hope, iff books, 2009.

Mark Gevisser was born in 1964 in South Africa into a Lithuanian Jewish family. He grew up in Johannesburg. He studied at Yale University, graduating in 1977 so missed being conscripted into the army and being sent to defend Apartheid. He returned to South Africa in 1990. He made his name as a journalist and gay activist. When it came out the book was reviewed in The Guardian. The story and scenes were familiar, and it was good to be reminded of Johannesburg in the 1970s and 80s. It was also a good example of how to write.

I first came across Kim Hope when she joined the staff at Waterford in 1998 and stayed until 2001. I was a member of the Governing Council. She went on to establish the Themba HIV & AIDS Organisation, an interactive theatre company providing HIV and AIDS education in South Africa. Her book is a moving and honest account of trying to meet a need in the worst years of the pandemic in South Africa, and at a time when the denial of the problem was at its height. I was a trustee for the UK based Themba Trust for some years. It was an honour to work with Kim and the organisation.