My grandmother told us (her grandchildren) folktales in her kitchen, while we waited for her to finish cooking.  She told us tales when we finished eating and waited to go to bed.  I remember the sound of her voice, her laugh, the scent of the sweet potatoes she roasted in the hot ash under the firewood coals.  Most of all, I remember the warmth of her kitchen, as she spun wild tales about an ogre in the forest who ate naughty children.  Her stories could be quite frightening at times. 

She’s long gone now.  All we have are the memories of her tales.  Most of which are not as clear as we wish they would be.  We were young, the years have gone by and us, her grandchildren, are often sad because her stories while entertaining are lost to memory.  I wish someone had written them down.  I wish I knew them well enough to write them down and print them.

I tell you this memory because you must also have stories you enjoyed, you experienced and hold close to your personal history.  They are yours, told in your language, your way.  To never forget them is a gift, to share them is your privilege.  Write them down and get them read by others.  Share your experiences in our beautiful East Africa with the generations to come. 

Publish your world.