It is difficult to deny the burden on the back, it’s prickly
and heavy and how much we try to shrug it off, it sticks on harder….it’s the
historical burden of the past. The language I am writing in right now, is
essentially not mine, but borrowed from another land, my ways are not those of
my people but an amalgamation of what I have and what I have borrowed. Thus it
was never very difficult to understand this lingering sense of borrowed past,
this impossible burden of past as I flipped through the first few pages of
Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children.