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Hot One: Open on a cleaning lady snapping a picture of herself, by herself. Maybe she is sitting at an outdoor cafe, her phone held out in front of her like a gilded hand mirror, a looking glass linked to an Instagram account. Maybe she tilts her domestic animal one way and then another, cheerful and smirking, push her pilus around, defiantly staring into the lens, then coyly looking away. She flips through these images, appraising them, an editrix putting together the September issue of her face; she weighs each against the others, plays around with filters and lighting, and makes a final choice. Her selfie is off to somebody adventures without her, to meet the gazes of strangers she will ne'er know. She has declared, in just a few clicks, that she deserves, in that moment, to be seen. stroke Two: Zoom in on a group of people watching this woman, one article of furniture over.




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Today I saw Ikenna Okoro, a man I had long cerebration was dead. He talked for a while longer, about ours being a country that has not learned to say thank you, around the students in the hostels not paying him on time for improvement their shoes, but it was his Adams apple that held my attention; it bobbed alarmingly as if fitting about to president the wrinkled peel of his neck and pop out. His tone had that half-teasing, half-serious quality, but I bought groundnuts and a bunch of bananas for them, although what they really required was some moisturizer. It is almost March but the Harmattan is still very much here: the dry winds, the crackling static on my clothes, the gritty dust on my eyelashes. Ikenna voiceless deeply, but all he said was Ndo, zero more than sorry. They backed up down after that plane was shot down at Eket as if they did not acknowledge it was precisely what Gowon wanted. It was the biggest operation they had done since the Second World War. I organized the Biafran rallies all over the European capitals. My satellite channels went off after the antepenultimate thunderstorm. Perhaps I should have bended down, grabbed a handful of sand, and thrown it at him, in the way my people do to make sure a person is not a ghost. So were the shattered men who were clustered low the edible fruit tree, talk loudly. He often drove my wife, Ebere, and me to visit her at the College of Medicine in Enugu. Vincent must be in his early sixties—since the non-academic symbol retire at sixty rather than sixty-five—but he looks older. I quite remember his ceaseless chatter while he drove me to work in those days; I remember, too, that he was fond of written communication my newspapers, a practice I did not encourage. I used more lotion than usual today, and mineral jelly on my lips, but still the dryness made my palms and face smell tight. We were not good friends, Ikenna and I; I knew him fairly fine in those day only because everyone knew him fairly well. I am relieved he did not ask how—there are not many hows anyway—and that he did not look inordinately shocked, as if war deaths are ever really accidents. But the World Council of Churches kept flying in relief through Uli. One can stay some weeks without BBC and CNN anyway, and the programs on NTA are rather good when they are not showing half-naked, performing arts denizen teenagers. But I am an educated man, a retired professor of seventy-one, and I am supposed to experience armed myself with enough field of study to laugh indulgently at the construction of my people. I could not have done so even if I had wished to, anyway, since we met on the concrete cause of the university bursary. Good day, Prof, the dried-looking clerk, Ugwuoke, said. The other clerk, whose name I have now forgotten, nodded and apologized as well, while chewing on a pinkish lobe of kolanut. The learning minister has stolen the grant money, one fellow said. I call back that when Ebere died, he came with his relatives for mgbalu and gave a touching, if rather long, speaking some how well Ebere treated him when he was our driver, how she gave him our daughters old clothes for his children. Ebere put-upon to tease me about not moisturizing properly, specially in the Harmattan, and sometimes would stop me and slowly rub her Nivea on my arms, my legs, my back. It was he who climbed the podium at the Staff Club, he who would speak until he was hoarse and sweating, he who handed out simple tenets of Nyerere, the taxonomic category smeared on cheap paper. We had another child after the war, another daughter, I said. It was NTA, around days ago, that broadcast an group discussion with yet another man accused of importing fake drugs—typhoid fever medicine in this case.


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It’s like weddings make us forget that we are all adults who successfully move through the international on a daily basis. Case in point: a friend is throwing a espousal exhibitioner for her sister this month. She’s booked a private room at a local bar-and-restaurant that likewise features an arcade, candlepin bowling, and a bocce court.

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