As practical as I am, I have always believed in time travel.
Not the kind facilitated by a time machine or a thin veil in the atmosphere that allows for a parallel universe to leak through to ours.
My kind of time travel sits on shelves, can turn yellow and smell musty with age.
Books are the love of my life. As a young, scrawny outcast I clung to the pages, which turned me into anything I wanted to be and took me any place I wanted to go.
I became a friend to Tambudzai and shied away from the parts of Nyasha that reflected my own self when I read Nervous Conditions.
I read under the covers and hid behind the back of my house with contraband Mills and Boons copies and I had fantasies about losing my memory like Catherine Douglas in Sidney Sheldon's Memories of Midnight.
I voraciously consumed fantasy titles by Garth Nix, Terry Goodkind and David and Leigh Eddings. I was spellbound by the Harry Potter series and walked around dreaming of discovering some magical element in my blood.