The vendors are now people of colour who sell goods Kano Nigeria that you can find anywhere else in the world. Tripe and the stew are still quite in demand. And for the children it’s still a great holiday. I embrace the children of yesteryear, Kano Nigeria on which time has left its mark. The shacks are no longer there and there isn’t the man with his “this card wins, this card loses” but Kano Nigeria there are the games and the bumper cars. Children have their pockets full of tokens. I look around. I’m the oldest and I try to see myself as I would be if I were much younger. I didn’t like the rides that were too fast and seemed to rise towards the sky, Kano Nigeria while someone eager to get on pushed you from behind. My mother had convinced me that it was possible to fall off and I had to contend with bouts of real giddiness.
Where is Kano Nigeria? – Kano Nigeria Map – Map of Kano Nigeria Photo Gallery
As a child I went to the fair on foot. I had little money and could buy only a few things. I was never bored. I was happy. Your travel destination is was I happy or am I inventing this happiness in the past tense? I avoid, this evening, acting like the elders of my youth who told only accounts of hunger and grief, wars and departures. Those who have walked their way to the sanctuary to pay a visit to the Madonna and to see the stands can’t talk about their terror of the end of things, can’t keep harping on their old age. I should instead perhaps say that I’ve become a child with my children. Your travel destination is I would be lying. We all have our childhood in our own time, our Vallelonga to live and to remember. We can’t take over the time of other people. One doesn’t return. If not with writing and memory. From some distance away, I see the fireworks zooming up towards the sky. A thousand colours and shapes. I’m going around with my son in the automobile that I’ve always driven and never driven. When the bumper cars arrived on the scene at the fair I was already too old.
We would exit the house running, with the fettazze, the big slices of crispy white bread just out of the oven, in our hands. We would run in the street with the slices just a bit moistened and spread with sugar, or with bread and olives, bread and cheese, or with bread and sopressata, the sausage of meat cured with white salt, pepper and spices. The crust, specially cut, that my mother would give me knowing my preference, was like a fairy tale about life. We would eat, us children who grew up in the 1950s, playing and running in the back streets of our village or in the vegetable plots full of people.