Creating things has never been my strong point. Making stuff is hard. Even back home I knew I was no good. I only have one memory of making something I was proud of.
It happened at a rare event. The whole family were together: me and Em, my mother and father, uncle Victor and my grandmother. My dad and Victor had driven her over from her village. I think it was a special birthday, maybe hers.
Before they arrived, Mum had set me and Em a challenge. ‘Can you make Grandma a special picture using stones?’ she’d said, then shown us by placing lines of stones to make a square.
Em had probably grinned broadly at this. He was the creative one, not me. He could turn his hand to most things. That’s how it went. Em was the maker, I was the athlete.
He turned his hand to this too. I can still remember the portrait that he painted across the cracked ground in front of our house, a portrait of Nana herself. Mum smiled and kissed his head.
For my efforts I had a scattering of stones and a fuming rage. I did not understand why I was so useless with my hands. It didn’t matter to me, in that moment, that I was so useful with my feet. Em tried to help but I only shouted at him. My mother tried too and I calmed a little.
When they arrived, Nana, Dad and Victor all cooed over Em’s picture. I stood back, wishing I could do something that I never would be able to. Mother whispered in my father’s ear, then led my elderly grandma, Victor and Em away.
My dad hung back. ‘Yours did not go so well, I hear,’ he said, putting his arm around my shoulders.
I didn’t answer but looked down at my feet, dark, even against the brown earth.
‘What about a sum, Prince?’ my father said, ‘You are so good at maths.’
I looked up at him, puzzled, until he explained.
I spent an age placing the rocks in careful lines, each as accurate as the last, writing my chosen sum on to the ground.
When we called the family back out, they cooed just as loudly over my work as for Em’s.
I beamed as I read it aloud.
‘Fun plus love equals family.’