By Leariwala Jeremy

During my childhood days in the late 70s, almost all the learning institutions around my home were church-owned. We attended these schools, and due to their management roles, priests were among the common people we interacted with. From them, we learnt quite a lot: the meaning of celibacy, service to the church and that Jesus NEVER disappoints. Also, they supplied our schools with books and ensured that we watched, at least, one cinema every Saturday. The books and movies ‘transported’ us to the outside world, gave us a glimpse of what we didn’t know and broadened our minds. I must admit that this sowed the seeds of fiction writing in me.

As a 15-year-old, I met a priest called Dafre, in Baragoi. The writing was just a dream tucked somewhere in my mind. But as fate would have it, one day, a deadly gang of cattle rustlers attacked our town at dawn. They chased us like rats, from the West while shooting tracer fire over the town. We fled to the thickets in the East. This experience was unforgettable