A few minutes into the house Malu heard the silent rumble of thunder begin to announce itself in the distance. And as she nestled deeper into bed pulling the cover over her head, it rolled across the skies above closely followed by the sharp crack of lightning. “That settles it, I guess.” There would be no going out that afternoon.
But unbeknownst to her, there would be no going out at all. For the small island nation of Madagascar was on the brink of civil war.
I heard her long before they both came into view.
“I like kinder. I like kinder…” went the sing-song voice of a little girl from the other side of the aisle.
“You can’t afford it. You can’t afford it…” came the teasing refrain – the voice of a older woman, her mother.
“I like kinder. I like kinder…” she re-bounded with her single-line song. And from all indicators, she was more happy with the chorus that they were having than harboring any serious hopes of the chocolate she professed to like.
It was then that they came into view. The little girl – a six year old – by the looks of it. “May I?” she asked, looking up at her mother.
“Please do.” Came the reply.
And as she politely stepped over my basket, the world around me came crashing down.
Your favorite book of all time.
“Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that’s the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing. Nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him if he gives too much.”
– Cry, The Beloved Country by Alan Paton.
A book that everyone hated, but that you liked.
– Again, not a book but a genre. Christian books; not inspirational, not motivational. Christian. I rarely come across people who read and genuinely enjoy non-fiction Christian literature.
Honestly it would never have occurred to me to read them either if a friend had not only recommended but also handed me a copy. So I suppose it’s not so much a case of hate as it is unaware.
Cue time for me to pay it forward?
Favorite title of a book.
– Of the ones that i’ve read? Nobbut A Lad by Alan Tichmarsh. Of the ones that i’m slated to read? In A Pit With A Lion On A Snowy Day by Mark Batterson.
The most surprising plot twist or ending.
– Friends In San Rosario by O.Henry. That ending, no matter what line of thought I took as I read, i’d came up empty. I didn’t see it coming. There was no way to predict this, Henry O. gives the reader no room for error. A tale well told.
A book that changed your opinion about something.
– Ari: The Life And Times Of Aristotle Onassis by Peter Evans.
Lying atop a pile of old newspapers carelessly strewn on the floor, then again watermarked and stained at the bottom of a drawer; I continually passed over this book for reading with a foolish disdain for biographies. Until one day, with nothing else to read I was finally forced to pick it up.
I remember very little about this book. And i’m quite sure that anything I could tell you would be found in a synopsis on the back cover. However, what I carry with me long afterwards is this… “That wasn’t so bad.” And I found that I didn’t hate biographies anymore.