Our township is built on a hill. Its small homes stand in rows to receive the first rays of the sun and a fair share of the breeze from the Indian Ocean. I rise early to catch the breeze, open the door of the Room-of-my-Birth, walk to the edge of the yard and inspect my home and the uniform homes lined on either sides of the street.

I was delivered in this first room of the two rooms. I was born in the presence of the owner of the house, my grandmother, who blessed me with a name, a name that stands on papers, and faces the readers who do not struggle to figure out who I am. My delivery happened in the care of Mrs Kopo, one of the three nurses of the township. She knew my home because she had once lived there and so I could land in her hands.

I was pushed through the birth passage of a young woman whose face was pained and who was sweating. My hands were clenched in fists, refusing to reveal the prize.

Before me, fate had had a different texture for my grandmother. Her first child, my mother, was born in a missionary hospital on white linen, under the care of respected nurses. The child landed in the hands of a white doctor. It was a special birth, the first in my grandmother's life and the only one in such conditions. All children thereafter, including me, her first grandchild, were born on the hard concrete of municipal homes.

I have vague memories of my mother. But I know she knew me very well. She would have looked at me after birth. She would have known if I was in a small body or not. The question is, when she noticed that I had no hair, could she make out who my father was? If she had had a chance to give me a name, what would that have been?

Although I did not know much about her, there is a picture of her in my mind. I know her from the back: her shoulders and the back of her neck, from my being carried on her back wherever she went. I used to stroke her back with my eyes, etching the image on the walls of my memory.