The annual gathering of African investigative journalists last November was a reminder of the need for slow, methodical reporting to expose social ills that span decades and vast geographies. A journalist's craft, though, starts with the A-B-Cs.

The first book I remember reading on my own, cover to cover, without my mum lip-synching through the difficult bits, was a collection of Indigenous fables about African animals. The Long Grass Whispers, compiled by Geraldine Elliot. It's a slim volume, hard-covered and not much bigger than a passport. The front has a whimsical illustration of a cavorting elephant calf. The brown tea mug stain on the lower corner looks like a passport stamp marking the passage from one life chapter to another in the many that have unfolded since then.

My mother's ballooning cursive sings cheerily from the title page: "Christmas 1982. All our love. Dad and Mum."

The book was as un-put-downable to the nine-year-old me as Tolkien's Lord of the Rings was when, at 17, I found myself home from boarding school, bored and lonely as only a teenager can be stuck out in the countryside. With nothing better to do, I pulled the trilogy from my parents' bookshelf and began reading.

I didn't lift my eyes from the pages until I'd devoured every word. There's no better way to pass a holiday or escape the festering anxiety of approaching matric than in Tolkien's fantasy world. Which,...