I spent quite a sum to restore an old house, our ancestral home. It was built by my late great grandfather.  It is a  house with a history of more than  a hundred years,  a setting for a long soap opera.

I did it out of this sense of responsibility, that a heritage of this kind cannot be allowed to rot in this humid tropic. I did it to please my house proud mother. I did it to perpetuate the legacy of my late great grandparents. I did it to give “roots” to my children.

Eid, and it is customary for us to visit the graves of relatives.  The visit connects you to your history, to the spiritual world. It reminds you that  there is such a thing as the transitory world. It would be serene and sombre and I would normally be as cool as  a cat. Not this time though.

My emotions got the better of me at the graves of my late great grandparents,  the guys who did the migration, the buffalo soldiers, the axemen, the guys who built The House during the last quarter of the 19th century.

I got connected. I felt small. I  was dwarfed.


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