#Read 1992-1996
I still remember the day clearly—1993, the summer I was promoted to Class VIII. There was a quiet excitement in the air, a mix of pride and anticipation as I walked home with my new textbooks clutched in my hands. I was ready, at least in theory, for more algebra, longer history lessons, and essays that seemed to grow in length with each passing year.
Yet, tucked among those textbooks, I had another prize, one that promised a different kind of adventure:Tintin #4: Cigars of the Pharaoh by Hergé.
Buying that comic on the same day as my Class VIII books felt almost illicit, like sneaking in a slice of indulgence before the world demanded seriousness from me.
There was a thrill in knowing that the pages inside were not going to teach me grammar or fractions but would instead carry me far from the classroom, far from the monotony of school routines. Hergé’s line drawings, crisp and precise, seemed almost to vibrate with possibility.
Tintin, with his shock of blond hair and unwavering courage, promised a universe where curiosity was more powerful than fear and where danger was only part of the fun.
I opened the book that afternoon, sitting cross-legged in the corner of my room, sunlight pooling lazily across the floor. The first pages carried me to a world of mysterious tombs, shadowy conspiracies, and exotic lands—Egypt, with its deserts and palaces, and the hidden secrets of Pharaohs long gone. What struck me then, even as an eleven-year-old, was the sense of pace Hergé maintained.
The narrative moved swiftly but deliberately; every frame, every panel, demanded attention. There was humour too—Captain Haddock’s exclamations and Snowy’s sly antics provided moments of lightness amid danger.
I remember laughing out loud at Haddock’s bewilderment when confronted with the bizarre schemes and yet feeling my heart race when Tintin found himself cornered by hidden enemies.
Reading Cigars of the Pharaoh was not just about the story. It was about the thrill of immersion, the joy of following Tintin as he pieced together mysteries with logic, intuition, and sometimes sheer luck. For a brief few hours, I lived in that world. The patterns of my daily life—the bells, the homework, the lessons—faded into the background. It was an escape, certainly, but also an introduction to something subtler: the pleasure of curiosity and the reward of careful observation. Tintin’s attention to detail, his persistence, and his courage were subtly inspiring.
I realised that adventure could exist in imagination as well as reality, and that cleverness and courage could triumph over confusion and danger.
Looking back now, thirty years later, I can see why this comic left such a lasting impression. It was my first real encounter with serialised storytelling that combined suspense, humour, and moral clarity. There was a rhythm to Hergé’s work, a balance of tension and relief, that made me want to read not just this book but the entire series.
Even as a child, I understood that Tintin’s adventures were more than escapades; they were lessons in observation, empathy, and resilience, packaged in the most entertaining way possible.
That single afternoon with Cigars of the Pharaoh remains vivid in my memory. It marks a moment when school responsibilities and childhood curiosity coexisted, when a young boy could sit with the weight of textbooks at his side and still let his imagination soar across deserts, tombs, and the secret corridors of history.
Tintin was my companion in those days, a guide through danger and laughter alike, and reading that comic was the beginning of a lifelong love for stories that combine intelligence, adventure, and heart.
Even now, when I return to Tintin, I feel that same excitement—the echo of a boy on the cusp of adolescence, discovering that the world is both mysterious and thrilling, waiting to be explored panel by panel.
Cigars of the Pharaoh was more than a comic; it was an invitation to adventure, and one I gladly accepted.