Blogging · Denmark · Me myself and I · Thoughts




Life is funny sometimes.

It drops a tiny little something (a smell, a picture, a name…) in the middle of your day, and it sends you for a sudden and unexpected ride down Memory Lane.

You’re probably guessing that this just happened to me, today. Otherwise, why would I mention it, right?

You Lovelies are so bright!

So, yes, this afernoon I was at work, minding my own business when a woman called regarding one of her employees that apparently had forgotten the password to her training personal file, on the terminal.

These passwords are the answer to a ”secret” question, chosen from a list of five or six. ”The name of your favorite pet”, ”The first name of your childhood best friend”, ”The name of the street where you grew up”…

Most people choose ”Your year of birth”. Because, let’s face it, if you can’t remember what year you were born, you really shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a terminal that prints lotery tickets.

I accessed the girl’s file, and she had picked the city she was born in. I have no clue how you can forget that kind of information. I myself have moved more times than I could ever have cared to… And I still remember that I put Mom through more than twenty four hours of intensive pain in Sept-Iles.

And I am WAY older than her.

Anyway. The answer to her ”secret” question was Kindia.

I can imagine the empty look in your eyes. Kindia… So what? But Kindia is a little town in Guinea, where I lived for 5 years, back in the nineties. Guinea isn’t a very popular smalltalk subject here in Montreal these days, but I really wished I was talking to the girl, and not to her supervisor.

Hey I know Kindia! – I would have said. – I lived in Kamsar for 5 years!

It might have started an interesting conversation, but we’ll never know.

I changed the girl’s ”secret” question to ”Your year of birth” (BORING) and hung up. But the day went by, and Kindia lingered on the back of my mind all afternoon.

It reminded me of how women would come to our home and bang on the gate. Our homes were fenced to help provide us from random stealing (which, honestly were useless. There was an unwritten rule, back in the days, saying that stealing wasn’t forbidden… Getting caught was). When we did respond to the banging, the usual main argument for selling the fruit and vegetables, was that their products came from Kindia.

Kindia’s fruit and veggies were supposed to be the best.

Let me correct myself… Kindia’s fruit and veggies were the best.

And tonight, because of a stupid ”secret” question, I’m thinking about Kindia. Remembering the sweetness of its pineapples, and the juiciness of its oranges (among other things).

Hey! Why am I sticking to Kindia… It’s not even close to Denmark. In any shape or form. But it’s just not getting out of my mind.

Life really is funny sometimes.

3 thoughts on “Kindia…

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