What I had wanted most in the world was for mother to get well. But mother had died. Now what I wanted most in the world was to learn to read the story book she had made me promise to read.
It was my prize possession. It went with me everywhere. When it began to look tatty, I covered it with a strip of nylon that had been used to wrap somebody’s loaf of bread. I imagined that some of the older boys in the almajirici next door might.
After all they were supposed to be students of the Koran. Would students not know how to read? I had heard though that some almajiricis were homes for almajiris who were not students but child beggars and labourers.
Surely mine would not be so? I had never looked forward to being an almajiri. Now I did, just so that someone could teach me to read my storybook. Three years went by with my desire growing and growing, and then I was ten. I was ten at last!