Sunday Scribblings: Photograph

Wild At Heart
There’s a photograph of my father in his bedroom junk drawer. Black-and-white, faded, the glossy paper is cracked; it shows him near a stick hut, surrounded by natives. His pale skin is a direct opposite of the men who surround him. They are all naked – including my stick-thin father - except for the koteka, a penis sheath made out of gourd. The men around him all smile, but their arms are crossed, stern. My father’s face is different.
He wears the look of a man who has found serenity, true peace.