![]() ![]() In Jane’s hands were some of the sweets: a box of liquorice allsorts, with a yellow-and-black one placed by the girl on the nose of Pat the dog. I could take my time walking around the shop, climb to the jars at the top, scramble up with my feet balanced on the wooden shelves. In the pages of the book, on the other hand, I could do what I wanted. They’d talk about what they couldn’t afford, point out what isn’t good for you, raise the issue of cavities, and you would ultimately be disgusted with them. And adults love to spoil the sacrosanctity of an experience with talk of money. An adult would escort me to the shop, and would hover and allow me just one or two sweets. In real life I would have had to show restraint. ![]() I spent days on end staring at one tantalising page in particular, every sweet accounted for in the palate of my mind’s eye. My imagination kicked vigorously into gear with the help of the sweet shop in the Peter and Jane reader. When I was a child, the most efficient way to swallow me whole was to present me with beautiful illustrations. Because this is a literal statement, not some riddle or figurative play of words, the question of books for children of colour needs addressing now-now. ![]() ![]() Yemisi Aribisala recalls her first encounter with Little Black Sambo, and asks: Who is responsible if the image of the black child is marginalised? ![]()
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