When I was a  very young girl in what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo, we had a large garden filled with vegetables and fruit trees. In the middle of this garden was a large strawberry patch, which was enclosed by a fence to keep out unwanted visitors keen to sample the delicious fruit. The strawberries were large and sweet, from specially imported stock—my mother’s pride and joy.

I loved strawberries, and I helped myself to them daily. Unfortunately, I was allergic to strawberries and always suffered from an itchy rash after eating them. My parents knew of the allergy and warned me about tasting the fruit.

One day when I had again sampled the luscious berries, I saw our little dog, a wire-haired Terrier named Tembo (Swahili for elephant), also helping himself, for he loved them too. I saw the birds, not hampered by fencing, feasting on the fruit as well and thought to myself, “Why do they not come out in an itchy rash when they eat strawberries, and I do?” It seemed to me that I should be able to eat the berries as freely as they did. I remember being flooded by relief and elation at that idea.