“I was 17. A scrawny boy who loved doing nothing else other than playing football, trying to play guitar properly and perhaps to sing a few songs. I had one direction in life. I had wanted to play football. If that failed, I had a back-up plan. I would be a musician.
Back home, I was under tremendous pressure from my grandma to pass my MCE. The fact that I had long curly hair and would be seen carrying my guitar around the village at night did not endear me much with her. To top it up, I had begun experimenting with cigarettes and other smoky material at such an "early" age. I was doomed.”
But was he?
Read Art’s captivating piece about his
that brought back a deluge of memories of
“Bunker” sessions with my to-be-prefects
for the next scholastic year.