Today I will tell you about a book and a character and I will do it my way, telling you a story.

I am walking, with my daughter Lavinia, through one of the main streets of my city. It is a beautiful sunny day and we enjoy it on the waterfront. Yes, because Brindisi is a port city and the main street flows directly onto the natural harbour.

At one point I am stopped by one of the usual vendors, a tall, thin and smiling black man. The first thing I notice in his hand is that he doesn't have the usual trinkets, but about twenty books.

I don't hide that I made bad thought first. 'He would have stolen them from the houses of the free books and will be reselling them.' Nothing could be more wrong.

"I wrote these books together with my wife, who is Italian, and they talk about Africa."

I remember the evenings I spend correcting and writing. How much work. I start to think: 'he is like me'.

My empathy for him begins, while he's showing me his volumes. He focuses on one of another author.

"I want to see yours," I tell him. At least, if I don't know the quality of what is written, I want to buy what belongs to the one who sells it, I don't know for what specific reason.

He patiently shows me all his volumes again. More by chance than by conviction I choose "The boy with clean hands", which, he says, is a collection of fairy tales from Senegal, his country.

I look at the price, 9 euros. According to an ancient Salento custom, and since I don't have 9 euros, I start to bargain.

"9 euros is too much!"

"Give me 7."

I know I have € 5 in my pocket plus some change which, however, will have to suffice me for the coffee of the week at the machine in my working place.

"I have 5."

"Give me 6."

"I have 5." and I show him the 5 euros solitaire.

"All right."

The book has a flexible cover, glossy paper, quite precious and smells of printing. It certainly has a market value of at least 5 euros, maybe more.

Usually, with my daughter, we sit on the benches on the quayside and chat. Today is a windy but sunny day.

"Do I read you a story?"

"All right."

I read sparingly the introduction of the first fairy tale, a sort of story in the story, with a Salento but also international flavour.

It tastes of life, of inclusion, of multi-ethnic. Beautiful, moreover well written. My daughter likes it.

"Let's continue?"

"Yes!"

I get stuck on a few African words and my daughter corrects me.

"I don't read the African and do you?"

"He looks like Sepulveda, he also writes like this."

My 11-year-old daughter loves Sepulveda. In reading, she often tells me that the writing of this gentleman resembles that of Sepulveda.

Let's read another story with its introduction story.

"Well done," someone says. We raise our eyes and he is our writer and seller.

"Are you enjoying it?"

"A lot."

"Writing is my life, it helps me to escape from problems and work."

'Brother, you don't know which door you're breaking through' I think.

"I know. I like to write too," I just comment.

"This is my publishing house," he shows me the words modu modu on one of the numerous volumes in his hand. From the way he speaks, I understand that he's not talking of the publishing house which publishes it. It is really his one. Then, the numerous books he has yet to sell, call him and he walks away.

We meet him once again on the street and he feels the need to thank us for buying it, perhaps more for reading it.

My daughter and I have already learned that the Salento sagna is cooked with the same love with which African women cook, the ginn and our laurel, or uru, are spirits, or elves, which are not so dissimilar and that also our elders are princes of the word, who tell our stories.

"Thank you! Salento and Senegal are not that far," I say.

"Did you see?" he says with a smile.

In the end, I can tell you one thing: Papa Ngady Faye and Antonella Colletta are not like me. They are better writers than me.