At the fall of 365: kansmus@gmail.com Some of you think us started to understand after reading confessions of an economic hitman. My start was different. Instead I listened to the confessions of a traditional old man. In our rural home since 1998 when I was just 24 #months old preciously put as two years, there lived an octogenarian man, a one named Eliphaz by an Anglican missionary stophel in the year of the rain that fell the village’s remaining spiritual groove: the oak tree. He lived with us till he was a nonagenarian in 2009. We didn’t know his exact age but his tales of having been born in the season of the scotching sun and a drought that killed the only surviving camel in the Ankole Shaza of Sheema, we stretched down the historical and time series lane and established in approximation that he was 90 years old in 2009. Having been someone who knew he had lived for long and to have seen a one John Speke, Eliphaz thought good mathematical sequence would count 200 years fo...