Nganlagi spared Christine the gory details of the days in a refuge, a local Catholic church building on the outskirts of Huambo before 1991. He focused on the day his letter of offer of a scholarship to Australia arrived in Huambo. As he sat on his mother's city apartment balcony, thrilled at the offer spelt out in the letter, Nganlagi pondered over the year that was coming to a close. He placed the letter on a side table and walked up to the balustrade, overlooking the main thoroughfare in the city of Huambo. Mount Moco, Angola's highest mountain lay in the distance, out of sight. From left...

I'M WAY TOO old to be telling stories. These things aren't for my age. As I whinge over this idea of recounting my past, I ponder over the man behind this whole thing - a white journalist. He's been here a thousand times, pestering me, insisting that I tell it as it has been, since the time of colonisation. Had to be white! The local journalists chase stories that make them worth something to the elite. Churning out crap, in most cases. They hold the elite hostage. In turn, the elite, the ones who stole the elections in decolonization time, pays them to put a spin on everything newsworthy.