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What if I had told you that the mechanism of your brain is like plasticine and could be moulded to your own unique set of beliefs and hence abilities? Could you afford not to even try to step into a new reality? Would you dare?
One day I suddenly thought, “My goodness, where’s Gareth?” So, I started looking. Last I heard, he was working with the British Army in Iraq, doing long stints: I tracked him down to prison cell in Kuwait. He had been used as a drug mule, nabbed and sentenced to death by hanging. His death was commuted to life and then further reduced to 15 years. When I located him, he had already been inside for four years. Thereafter I sent him a letter, every month, for 67 consecutive months. My Letters to Kuwait, were received by Gareth on his hidden device: news and comment on life in South Africa, my reflections on humanity and our world.
When a twenty-nine year-old Indian immigrant arrives from Zanzibar to a cold and bleak post-war London in 1946, he hadn’t expected on finding a mummified corpse in the East End building in which he’d intended to set up shop. Unable to unravel the mystery of the corpse and fearful for his future, he hatches fantastical plans to get rid of it, with unexpected consequences.
He hadn’t planned on romancing the dead man’s nice niece either…
