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Nigel Holt Rich Man, Poor Man I smuggled Indian gold for several years when profits from the pearls had dropped too low. Then World War II broke out. I sold five sers of tea the British gave as rations, for though poor as we were, we were no fakirs. Mombasa proved a useful place to trade; British held and safe to reach by boat. The prices that the Kenyan merchants paid meant families could buy a sheep or goat, and business with Askaris could be made: ammunition stolen from the base; not one or two stray bullets, but forty lakh! They filled the hold as fear filled up the face of every man aboard. ‘We’ll never make it back!’ We did. I made fifteen rupees a brace.

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Profile for Conversation Poetry

CPQ Summer 2012  

CPQ Summer 2012

CPQ Summer 2012  

CPQ Summer 2012

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