It was in the evening, and everybody was home at grandpa. Grandpa had birthday and we got a fine cake, and lovely food. I am one of his the grandchildren, who were at the party and every time we was at Grandpa, he’d want to tell a story. Sometimes his stories could be very funny, and sometimes not. This story was very frightened. He was telling about his past, when he was still living in the down South Africa, while he was a little child. Well, I can’t explain the entire story all over again. You’ll need to hear it by yourself. I think grandpa will tell it one more time, just for you. Grandpa! Don’t you want to tell you story for the nice gentleman? Of cause, the old man answered. And then he began to tell the story just from the beginning.
When I was a little kid, as you surely have been, I lived in a time when the apartheid was upon us in South Africa. I was just a normal kid, just like you was once. I was “black”. I was going in school, going to be something, but I was “black”. I had a family, brothers, sisters, but we were “black”. For some reason there was something wrong with being black and there were very many people, who still the day today, want us destroyed.
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