I have just discovered that in the 1950s, aged 16/17 whilst living in Mombasa my dad worked:
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At an aluminium factory
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As a clerk at the Mombasa Daily Mail
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At the local garage doing clerical work and learning to fix cars
He also took a correspondence course at the “School of London” and achieved a Diploma in Accountancy.
And he learnt to type.
All of this was in addition to helping bring up his younger siblings and helping his dad run the shoe shop.
I have just spent the weekend away with mum and dad, taking them to visit two of dad’s oldest friends. I watched as they chatted away like silly school boys reminiscing about the things they got up to in Mombasa. Seeing the twinkle in their eyes as they giggled about sneaking behind the house and sharing a bottle of beer was so cute.
It’s taken me a long time to realise all these experiences mum and dad have had (though I don’t think mum snuck behind the house for a beer!) which span three continents are so rich and colourful. That the parents who worked so incredibly hard to provide for me and my brothers have led such vibrant lives.
Over the last few years I’ve felt a little hard done to being the “local” child and therefore having to do most of the running around for my parents, though I know my brothers would do the same if they lived locally. But now I feel the complete opposite. I feel extremely lucky and privileged to be able to share such special moments with them and listen to their magical stories.
Watching dad’s face light up as he laughed with his friends about the fun they had riding their bikes down Bamburi Beach for miles after school everyday was so beautiful.
I have such a vivid picture in my head of them on that beach.
Happy 84th birthday dad!