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English coursework (Hamda Issa-Salwe)

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Dads are our inspiration, having them in our lives, they are indeed special to us

Dads are our inspiration, having them in our lives, they are indeed special to us

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  • 1. English Coursework My Special Person Hamda Issa-Salwe 10D Parliament Hill School, Highgate Road, London NW5 1RLMost people could easily say that my father is a special person, but not like I can. They can’tdescribe his comforting presence that would make anyone feel safe. Or the way he couldmake you feel that if you were to fall, you would fall into a million pillows. They can’t describehis smile, explain his eyes or sum up his hugs like I can.The lead character in the play that was my life, he was Super-Man come to rescue me fromthe scary spiders and creepy crawlies. He knew everything! Why the sky was blue. How manycolours there were in the rainbow and he could count up to 20! To a five year old or a fifty yearold he was the greatest of scholars, sitting alone in his room with his treasured books. At homewe had more than 500 of them; each was just a tiny slice of his wisdom. Big ones, small ones,fiction, non-fiction, dictionaries, encyclopaedias, novels and plays all lined up on book shelveslike rainbows of knowledge.Majority of them weren’t in English; my father knew many languages. Arabic, French, Somali,Italian, Swahili and more. He’d travelled the world with my mother. Each country was anotherphoto in a rough leather album. Pictures in India dressed up in his karate kit, sweat glistening onhis forehead as he destroyed a punch bag. Pictures under the Eiffel tower suited and bootedwith his afro picked to perfection and eyes twinkling with mischief. Pictures here in Londonsmiling and playing in the snow with my mother. Him, in his navy trench coat, and her in atracksuit caught in mid run, waist length hair swinging behind her. The snow was untouchedand pure, they had the glow of a young, happy couple around them. My mothers faceradiant, her caramel skin glowing and bright eyes locked affectionately onto my father. Hetenderly gazed back with a Cheshire cat grin plastered across his face.Warm smiles, soft hugs, wet kisses, white weddings, happy birthdays and summer holidays all inone album. My dad was always a keen photographer, “For the moment!” He’d laugh ready tosnap us. He carried photos of me, my sister, my brothers and my mum in his wallet at all times.Always in his back pocket with the loose change jingling like bells as he walked.All the sounds that made my father; his soft Doctor Hibots laugh that tickled your ears, thegrinding noise that he made when he munched on lettuce (“Heavy on the vinegar!”) and hisgentle breathing when I lay my head on his belly watching television. There were always nutsnear by, me and my daddy loved unsalted peanuts (“Delicious and nutritious.”).So we’d lay on the sofa eyes glued to the Discovery Channel or the History Channel, not onlydid he love books but he adored documentaries. “There’s an interesting fact…” He’d say inawe. “…Europe is the only continent without a desert. Now who would have thought that?” Tohim education was the key to your rightful kingdom. Extra tuition, home study and books werea part of my life from a young age. He encouraged me to read everything, from classics suchas To Kill a Mocking Bird to traditional African poetry. My dad made me fall in love withliterature and creative writing. He’d invent bedtime stories about Somalia, witty Princessescalled Hamda and evil witches. In the stories good always won and individuality wascherished. And as he read them I could smell the peanuts and Old Spice. The pink nightlighthe’d brought me would glisten of his face, his soft brown eyes wide with excitement as thegoodies struggled to their (inevitable) victory. Laugh lines dancing around his chocolate skinand I would lay in my bed looking up to him like the king of story land on his throne, spell bookin hand ready to magic me off to sleep. His soothing voice and presence would close my eyesthen he’d say… “The End.”

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