I am to be my mother’s sister. Not a writer. Such a life isn’t thought of in our colonial town. Ships from Cape Town take fourteen days to reach anywhere that matters. Only the likes of Alan Paton can venture to be a writer; Cry the Beloved Country has the resonance to catch an ‘overseas’ ear—that magical ‘overseas’, arbiter of values we can’t judge for ourselves. Builders on the roads improvise in Xhosa or Zulu, chanting in unison to the beat of the pickaxe; they lift, bend back, let fall—audible, but hardly in print.