I was, for some reason, taking ink writing lessons from a wizened Chinese man. He lent me a nifty type of ink pen I had never seen before. It was made of wood and shaped kind of like a funnel. In the top, there was a tiny tube of steel. Ink was poured at regular intervals into the funnel. It flowed into the tube like mercury, leaving no trace on the porous wood. The flow of ink from the pen’s tip was controlled entirely by the angle at which one held the pen. It took quite a bit of practice.
We were practicing at a small, low table in an open market area. Suddenly my parents arrived and said it was time we were going. I didn’t want to leave the pen behind, but it belonged to my teacher. He said I might be able to find one to buy on the other side of the square. I ran into the store, which was just like the small groceries I knew of in Kenya. I explained to the man working there what I needed. He helped me find a pen, but it was not as good as the original. I was very disappointed.
Dream of Toby Lunn, 17 July 2007
