The Compass

Goodness me! Who is that child? asked Pliny the Elder, looking at a photograph that had been left out on a table. It showed an African child standing in front of a cracked mud wall.

That's our Kenyan foster child, Sefu Ali, I replied. He's 11 years old. And he's looking none too happy.

An understatement, said Pliny. I have never seen such a thunderous expression in my life, not even on the face of an emperor.

Yes, it gave us quite a turn. We get a photo of him every year, and he always looks quite taciturn, but this one takes the prize. I keep looking at it. The glowering scowl, the piercing stare under the beetling brow, the arms tightly folded over his chest. What if he's trying to tell us something?

If he is, what might it be?

It might be that he would rather be doing something else, like playing soccer. But it looks like something deeper than that. He doesn't want to be exhibited to his benefactors. He's asserting his right not to collude in it.

Good for him! said Pliny. He would make a superb Roman.

I think I'll send him a present, I said. To cheer him up.

What do you send to the child who has nothing? asked Pliny.

Anything. I said. As long as it doesn't weigh more than 500 grams. I'm thinking of a geometry set.

Excellent, said Pliny. Make sure it has a compass.