Photo's Tell Stories!

Great to be able to say ‘hi’ to everyone – I like it when people read my stuff so to all of you out there in digital-land, my sincere thanks for your interest.

Been story-blogging for more than a year, now; my English Boy’s Wanderings in Africa is coming along nicely and my current love affair with the sequel to Sons of Africa is clamouring for release. So beware, this summer will tear the wrappings off Empress Gold, of which I am immensely proud, thrilled and super-chuffed with. However, not all stories are portrayed through text alone; some, like the picture embodied here, will ensnare our literary psyche without the need for a single, written word.

The stories are all there, told via facial expression, true colours and an intensity of purpose that the photographer, Phill Steffny has brought to life with a masterly dose of ‘show not tell’. A million words in a single moment; to me, that’s what photography is all about.

Taken during a guided safari along the Serengeti’s south-eastern border with Loliondo,  Phill has captured this classic moment; the Maasai people’s honest and open wonderment for new technology.

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Back again to that Little Boy...

... The office people gave my dad the keys for our house; it was easy to find – first left, first right to number 34 Glenview. A stony silence befell our little Morris and not until its engine was finally switched off did anyone manage to speak.

34 Glenview, with its whitewashed walls and red tin roof, stood to its non-existent garden, the way an unloved, rusty tractor would stand to a drought-stricken field – straight from Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath.

If my father had the spare cash he would have turned our car about, loaded us up and headed on back to Wankie Colliery. But he didn’t, so we stayed and all piled out, but not without those fateful insects of dread first crawling up our shirtsleeves.

‘Please tell me I’m dreaming,’ my mother whimpered and flapped around in her bag for a box of cigarettes.

My father said nothing. The door key squeaked its way around the lock and I watched some insects abandon their home in the keyhole.

Mother was first inside; she wasn’t pleased, I could tell. Something about flared nostrils and flashing eyes that frightened me. She lit her cigarette and breathed fire.

‘They’ve put us in a concrete shed; have you seen the kitchen – a bloody coal stove for God’s sake!

‘We’ll get you a proper one,’ said dad and squeezed out a grin. ‘We’ll make it nice for you.’

Mother fiddled with her iron cooker; ‘Dover Stove’ had been cast in big black iron letters over the front of it.

‘That’s where you put the coal in,’ said dad and pointed out the iron firebox. Mother scowled at him, unlatched the heavy oven door and like some evil, Bodmin jailer, swung it back against the wall.

‘After a couple of years they’ll upgrade us to a better house,’ dad told her.

‘Or a room in a lunatic asylum,’ mother countered, then peered inside the cavernous firebox. ‘There’s something living in there.’ She backed off and pointed with her cigarette. ‘I heard it move...’

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