Fiji made me, but which Fiji is mine?

By Brij V Lal

‘Three scores and ten’ is the age allotted to humans, the Good Book tells us. Modern medicine might add 10 odd years, but the end is in sight, the shadow lengthening visibly.

By that measure, my time is up or will soon be. I am a late Second World War Fijian, now marching lock, stock, and barrel into niggling dotage. Ours has been an improbable journey. ‘One step at a time’ could have been the motto of our generation.

Our children find the time and place that formed (and deformed) us challenging. Our grandchildren think I am positively hallucinating when I tell them that I was born in my . . .

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