25 My Little African

The past caught up with me as I browsed the pages of the Daily Mirror one morning. Somewhere between Andy Capp...

 

Calamity Gulch

Useless Eustace

The television listings

And The Perishers

…was a picture of a starving African boy in an Oxfam appeal that triggered instant guilt. 

At my old Catholic school in Bolton my classmates and I had once crayoned a cut-out of an African child for Miss to pin at the bottom of a wall chart where, at the top of thirty or so rising steps, stood an open armed Jesus. At a cost of a penny a step we were expected to send our little Africans all the way to the top. Okay for some, but for kids like me who seldom saw a penny, deeply disturbing.  My little African was still languishing near the bottom when the term ended. He never made it to Jesus.

Payments of pocket money were erratic in our house. Mam always fended off our enquiries with ‘You’ll have to see your dad,’ but asking Dad called for patience, good timing and courage. After mulling it over I thought it best not to bother him.

‘Mam, please can I have a week’s pocket money to send to this?’

A shilling or two wouldn’t change the world, but it meant a lot to me and I waited anxiously while Mam scanned the advert.

‘Can I Mam, please? Will you send it for me?’

Touched by her eldest’s thoughtfulness, Mam agreed. I took her praise with  a casual shrug, delighted to have absolved my guilt.