If I stared hard enough I could see an African girl gazing back at me: her dark eyes, full lips, pantherine body, the ripple and spring of her hair. I would never grow up to be one of these English with their cracked meringue complexions. I was the fruit of Henderson's love for a native queen, descended from people who fought lions and tigers, tamed elephants, tossed assegais. Mine was the dark beauty of the spear.
Years later I learnt there were no tigers in Africa, and no blood line between Henderson and us.