The Jazz Box That Haunted Me

I was not a musician, a record collector or hoarder of musical items. I have no interest in things that sound like cars beeping in a Johannesburg traffic jam during rush hour; sounds of goats getting slaughtered or metals beaten together to create a melody. I was not tempted to be polite or appreciative of the gift but I had already stretched out my arm in respect of my mother’s gesture. These records hid under my mother’s bed like an envelope waiting to be handed over to its owner.