the crack of dawn on Monday 
when the city was turning into a 
huge sound of awakening Asafa 
came to rouse me. I was at once 
struck by the freshness 
ie put on, so early in 
he morning. The pris- 
I have never known began to form in my enthusiastic mind. In the 
kitchen, I could hear Tonia activating the house with clatters in 
one of those ephemeral human acts that are curiously stamped 
on the memory. Here was a morning 
Akin without strife or sobs, the most signifi- 
Artpsnknn cant I had known in months, when 
everyone faced life with impulsive reso- 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vol 2/No. 2 GLENDORAr
luteness perhaps because 
it was a fate at once arduous 
and inescapable. He 
took me through a ritual 
of preparation asking 
what sort of books I 
wanted and if I really 
thought I wanted to go to 
school. Even as the three 
of us drove into the city 
that morning, I was convinced 
his unanswered 
questions bordered on 
matters in which I had 
practically no say. In the 
streets, at the time of morning 
I had grown to note 
for its vitality, we sped 
into the smell and speech 
of a new beginning. 
There was the freshness no one could 
take away from Monday morning. Where 
school children clustered around a food-vendor 
seated on a low stool, I grew giddy with 
the stronger smell of misapplied body creams 
glistening on their faces, arms and legs, all 
sticky to the touch, hardly distinguishable 
from the aroma of the vendor's stew or the oil 
the woman down the lane fried buns and 
plantain chips with; the steam that rose, from 
the rice measured into their little containers 
mixed with the fume from passing cars honking 
deliberately to scare the unheeding multitude 
into flight and transformed the morning. A 
well-dressed pupil, obviously conscious of her 
appearance and facing a shallow but wide 
drainage had to choose between waiting for 
her partner who was dealing with a tea-seller 
running from a reckless car and standing, 
however momentarily, in front of the huge 
furnace that rose, all amber and rage, from a 
roadside grate. She had walked a few yards 
away from the tea-stand and was a couple of 
feet to the drainage when the car came 
cruising down the street. She momentarily 
dashed back, barged into a crowd of waiting 
buyers and avoiding their insult or assault 
scampered up a raised pavement at the other 
side of the street and slipping, fell in a gutter 
that had not been cleared in a long time. She 
hissed through the cries of pity and mockery 
that welled up about her. 
Asafa drove through the listless morning 
and dropped me at the home of person 
who, he informed as we entered the siting 
room, would take me to school. He droped the 
information as a general statement to be 
digested by both Tonia and me. After he had 
written down an elaborate note which he 
handed to the housemaid, they both departed 
and promised to come for me in the afternoon. 
The maid went away to carry on with the 
kitchen noise that Tonia had begun that morning. 
The room had old things; torn and worn 
settees, and old cupboard blackened with 
disuse and the tradition of family memories it 
housed, an old-styled television set with one of 
its doors broken and the other eaten in places 
by rats or roaches, shabby rug opening to the 
potholed floor, a conference of portraits of the 
family's offspring taken years ago, a wallclock 
with Roman figures that had stopped at 
fourteen minutes to three, a telephone that 
kept ringing but stopping the momentthe maid 
came into answer it. (After three such attempts, 
she finally put the handset on the table, then 
returned about ten minutes later to replace it 
and thereafter it rang thirty-five times without 
stopping). Fiveofthecardboards in the ceiling 
had come off and from one of the openings a 
cobwebbed cord dangled like a noose waiting 
to be used. A tiny rat, the type that dashed 
off at the slightest threat kept jumping about 
the room, oblivious to the presence of a 
slumbering cat on the pressing board, and 
scampering each time I made a deliberate 
move to startle it. The room stank of mouldy 
bread and chicken shit which the aroma of 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vo/ 2/No. 2 GLEN DORA
ven in the elitist outposts of Ilupeju and 
I Maryland Estate, friends across the 
confluence had broken natural pacts and 
buried the machetes of their accords in 
mutual heads. 
boiling rice that wafted in from the kitchen 
could not overwhelm. The entire house had its 
certain deadness intermittently undermined 
by the noise in the kitchen but the aura 
nevertheless made me feel as if I had been 
dumped there forever. The three new exercise 
books Asafa bought for me the previous 
evening were in my handbag together with 
my favourite picture-book. I took out one of the 
books and with a pencil wrote my name on it. 
The telephone was ringing when a man, 
about Asafa's age but more huge, entered 
and went straight to pick it. As he clutched the 
handset and glanced over his shoulder at me 
he shouted across to the kitchen demanding to 
known why the maid didn't see it fit to answer 
the phone all the while. There was no response 
from the kitchen. Strangely, he found 
corroboration at the other end of the line and 
I wondered if anybody else could achieve 
that. If this was the man Asafa meant, I 
thought, then schooling should be a smooth 
sail for me. He spoke excitedly into the receiver 
and mentioned Asafa more than once 
glancing at me on each occasion. He spoke 
sporadically in Yoruba, English and another 
tongue I couldn't place. After about five minutes 
of thatverbal gymnastics, he dropped the 
phone and wondered loudly, even noisily, if 
the maid wanted him to have his breakfast in 
the kitchen. The maid finally emerged but 
without any food. Instead, she informed him 
of some Mummy's instruction against serving 
breakfast in her absence. He ignored her and 
wentto pick the cat which had been disturbed 
by his energetic presence. I wished the maid 
would deliver Asafa's note immediately. The 
man went into the kitchen, followed by the 
maid and the cat. 
But they had been there hardly five 
minutes during which the man had bellowed 
and boasted with astounding belligerence, 
African Quarterly) 
on the Arts 
Vol. 2/No 2 
when a great uproar finally erupted and the 
maid soon came running into the parlour 
clutching a kitchen knife dripping with blood. 
She stormed out the parlour and drummed 
her feet down the winding staircase. She was 
followed by the man, his face bloodied and 
bleeding, his white shirt patched red with the 
blood that had also blinded him, making him 
barge into chair, stools, slip over the pressing 
board and crash against the entrance door 
which the maid had pulled shut on her way 
out. I was up and lost in the dizzying spectacle. 
The man was actually after the maid 
and as he gathered up and hurtled down the 
stairs my reaction was to follow him, my bag 
in my hand, avoiding the trail of blood he left 
as he went. By the time I landed the housemaid 
had camped in a store on the other side 
of the street, still clutching the long knife and 
encircled by a tiny crowd of curious women 
and youngsters. They all looked alarmed in 
thedirectionofthe house. The street was busy 
but the bleeding man ran into the traffic and 
collided with a pregnant woman crossing 
from the other side. Before he could get to the 
circle of women his situation and presence in 
the street had attracted some fellows sitting at 
a store-front near the one the girl entered. 
They ran up to him. I was unable to quickly 
cross the road; I was too perplexed by the 
incident to regain my composure. Meanwhile, 
an argument had developed amongst 
them and a crowd had gathered. The problem 
had led to a minor hold-up that enabled me 
to scale the street with little effort. About six or 
so men were holding the man who insisted on 
getting at the girl. They demanded instead an 
explanation. He had just started narrating his 
story when one short man ran up the street and 
confronted and rebuked the bleeding man 
(whom he called 'Timi) with a tone of familiarity. 
He asked if the girl had done it again. He 
GLENDORA,.»,.
was more tempestuous than Timi and in a 
couple of minutes had treated the crowd to a 
breathtaking narration of the maid's hatred of 
his friend. The girl, he revealed, was hired by 
'Timi's parents as housemaid and had accused 
him, certainly without base, of sexual 
harassment. This had in the past caused the 
aged parents to send her away, but on such 
occasions she had made deputations to 
plead to the family on her behalf. Before his 
story was over, a few voices had begun to rise 
from the crowd shielding the maid. And even 
among those holding 'Timi down and tending 
his wounds, some sort of bewildered concern 
was manifest. The man who was speaking 
then stormed the store, broke through the 
protective fortress of women and youngsters 
and dragged the girl out. He kicked her into 
the gutter. The women raised a protest and 
one of them trying to restrain him was hurled 
along into the gutter green and rancid with 
algae and neglected dirts of the past months. 
Amid the chaos, someone alleged that both 
men had set up the girl because she was not 
of their tribe. Something happened ijust as he 
made that statement. It was an emphatic 
chorus of Yes!! from the kitchen from where 
the girl had been dragged out. But she "ran 
back in and returned with a stick with which 
she hit the man. Before long a fight had 
begun; the men holding 'Timi soon turned his 
assailants, kicking him and his more tempestuous 
friend into the dust. Two against a 
multitude. I ran up and down the street and 
cried for help. More people surged from 
various corners and turned the street populated 
by spare parts sellers into a big square 
of fights and reprisals. The dealers in vehicle 
parts were quickly shutting up their stores. I 
thought of running back into the house but on 
the alley that led in, a fence of cars had 
sprouted, their owners eager to join or stop 
the street-fight. Men, women, children threw 
sticks and exchanged stones. Cans, bottles 
and other civil weapons flew in the air like a 
swarm of fireflies. Two young boys, each 
bearing a rod, ran to the car parked by 'Timi's 
friend and dealt clubs at its windscreens and 
body works. In the blind fury of the chaos, 
vehicles trapped on the emergent jam made 
sudden detours and collided with other equally 
eager to escape the indiscriminate arson that 
could accompany such an incident. A different 
fight broke out between a commercial 
motorist and a private driver who had dented 
the rear bumper and broken a trafficator of 
the commercial bus. In retaliation the conductor 
torched the offending car. The shut stores 
were being broken into. I saw 'Timi in the 
thick of the imbroglio, his soiled shirt gone, 
cracking a decrepit bench on the back of a 
fairly old man. His friend was chasing a 
youngster furiously down the street anefas the 
latter tried to scale a garbage heap,, he 
stepped on a rotten substance and slipped, 
and his pursuer fell on him. He beat him down 
into the refuse, even as fresh adversaries 
emerged from the cloud of smoke billowing 
from the burning car. They fell on him too, 
necklacing him with a disused tyre. He fought 
off the assault. Two men joined his struggle 
but were too late to prevent the tyre on his 
neck being torched. He ran off with that 
necklace of flames and collapsed in a huge 
furnace at the edge of the road. The fight went 
on for much longer than I could witness. I saw 
many people running off, I ran away too, in 
a blind direction, because though I had no 
idea why else they were running, I thought it 
unwise to stay. 
Later in the evening when some semblance 
of sanity had returned to the street and 
anti-riot policemen had taken to patrolling the 
entire neighbourhood, unable to find my way 
elsewhere, I returned. I thought I should make 
it easy for Asafa and Tonia to find me. No 
word with properties of the chaotic could be 
too weighty to describe the street that I 
encountered that evening. Four vehicles had 
been burnt to immobility at different spots. 
The store where the maid had hidden had 
been pulled down and some others with it, 
and I was amazed that no fire happened there 
desite a gas-cooker stationed at one corner. 
The street was littered with broken bottles, 
burnttyres, assorted shoes, chairs broken into 
woods and burnt without thoroughness, in 
places kiosks with provisions in them had 
been pulled down, demolished and torched; 
lofty glass-windows of storey buildings stood 
vacant and distant like the sockets of gorged 
eyes; electric cables hung down from low- 
Africar) Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vol. 2/No. 2 GLEN DOR A
he summoned up riverine gods and invoked family 
| totems, crying and slapping her hips, grabbing her 
symbols of maternity and ungrabbing them. Her face 
glistened with tears in the faint glow of the inferno. 
She prayed in her melodious language for the safe 
return of the couple. 
voltage poles; gutters were filled with unclaimed 
cupboards and stew-pots flung 
through distant windows. The air of the 
neighbourhood was rank with the smell of 
burnt tyres, and a faint, sickly odour that 
remained implacable hung above. The few 
houses around had their front doors shut and 
people peeped from their windows while at 
balconies of towering buildings crowds gathered 
to witness policemen clearing burnt 
cadavers scattered about garbage dumps, 
and loaded them into the motor-hearse. 
But there was still in the bearing of 
people I encountered the smouldering embers 
of the epic battle. Since that was my first day 
in that area, I didn't know enough of it to 
navigate home. In front of 'Timi's house stood 
a group of policemen robed helmets, basket 
shields and canisters of tear-gas. People were 
prevented from gathering about the streets. 
An unmtstakable mood of mourning hung 
over the house but I was more interested in 
how I got home before dusk fell completely. 
Soon the policemen became agitated and 
restive, and word spread quickly that riots 
had erupted in places like Itire, Ijesha-Road, 
Babaloosa, Central Mushin and such far 
locations as Lawnson, Orile, Amukoko, Ijora, 
the industrial quarters of Iganmu and Iponri, 
the caravan campsites of Marina Beach where 
vehicles of merchants from the north stopped 
to fuel and rest; that 'ethnic butchering' (as the 
newspapers were to report the following morning] 
had taken over the army barracks on 
Malu Road and Western Avenue, the resilient 
slums of Olateju whence embers stoked by 
tribal lor'ds sprawled through Kayode Street 
to Fadeyi on Ikorodu in the north-east, latching 
onto inflammable rubbish along the way; 
and that even in the elitist outposts of llupeju 
and Maryland Estate, friends across the 
confluence had broken riatural pacts and 
buried the machetes of their accords in mutual 
heads. The latest information available on the 
lips of people running up and down added 
that there were now three sides to the conflict, 
one fighting another for reasons that were not 
included in the elongated stories. 
In the confusion of this fresh alarm families, 
I heard, piled old belongings in trucks and 
carts and late as it seemed to many, took to 
deserting the city. Long buses droned down 
the streets carrying the instant passengers and 
were being stopped by policemen torn between 
preventing the exodus and constituting 
patrol teams in the fresh trouble-spots. Asafa 
chose that moment to arrive. He was alone 
and without his car. I saw him hurrying toward 
the house, and I ran up to him. We were 
prevented from entering the house and as he 
tried to talk to one of the policemen, he handed 
two diaries to me. The policemen refused all 
his entreaty, and even threatened him with 
arrest if he persisted in his pleas. He merely 
wanted to see 'Timi's father, he said, to know 
the situation in the family. Still the policeman 
declined. He took me by the arm and we 
hurried down the street. We walked for about 
thirty minutes before we got to where he 
parked the car. I had expected to see Tonia 
waiting for us but there was no one inside the 
car. Asafa assured me, when I inquired after 
her, that she was at home. We didn't drive 
right home, we headed for Mile Two in the Far 
West and he announced that we would be 
going to Ojo Military Contonment. For what 
purpose, he never told me. Butwehadtomake 
a detour at a bus stop along the way, because 
the highway had been elevated to a frenzy. 
We drove round Okota, Ikotun and Idimu, 
settlements in central north west Lagos, for the 
next couple of hours. Everywhere, disquietude 
had taken over the land and looting followed 
arson preceeded by physical attacks on the 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vol 2/No 2 GLENDORA r
owners of shops and wares. At house fronts in 
almost every street we turned, women and 
children rolled their belongings into huge 
heaps, underscoring the air of discontent in 
town. Asafa drove through all the pandemonium 
with the same resoluteness he had put on 
when he had came to rouse me that morning. 
When we got home we encountered a 
strange peace. It was as though Papa Ajao, 
our part of Mushin was another world. We 
found Tonia's grandmother, who had arrived 
the previous week breathless at one corner of 
the sitting-room. She told us Tonia had gone 
out to trace us through the commotion. Asafa 
could wait to hear no more. He seemed 
instantly to have lost the calm resoluteness that 
had possessed him all day and in seconds 
was honking down the darkened peaceful 
street. The grandmother tried to warn him but 
he was out of earshot. While I watched the 
state governor making impassioned appeals 
in intermittent broadcast, she continued to 
bother me with questions about the situation in 
town, and I managed to narrate the story to 
her. In the course of our conversation, I 
discovered that she was hard of hearing and 
had developed the habit of bending forward 
to pick the words. Asafa did not return before 
midnight and by now, I was so tired that I 
dozed off without dinner. I didn't know what 
time an eerie noise suddenly shattered the 
quiet of our world. The grandmother pulled 
me off the settee and cried in her barely 
intelligible Yoruba, that war had come. We 
both ran to the balcony to behold the riotous 
street lit with the amber of burning cars and 
houses. She summoned up riverine gods and 
invoked family totems, crying and slapping 
her hips, grabbing her symbols of maternity 
and ungrabbing them. Her face glistened 
with tears in the faint glow of the inferno. She 
prayed in her melodious language for the safe 
return of the couple. When she could no 
longer bear the pain of hope in the unhallowed 
hour of hostility, she held me by the 
hand and we went into the street. We were 
not too far from the housefront when Asafa 
dashed out his car and had his jaw caught in 
the waiting bootofa man standing bythe side 
of the road. A female voice, certainly Tonia's, 
was shouting from the car warning the protesters 
who had barricaded the road with bonfires, 
that they were not strangers. Asafa 
rushed up from the spot he'd been kicked and 
fell in a drainage without water. I ran to him 
to help him up, but was shoved back by the 
man who had kicked him. The grandmother, 
having the recognised them walked into the 
road and at that moment Tonia put the car in 
reverse gear and bumped her several yards 
down the street. She lay lifeless about two 
feet from one of the bonfires. I raised a 
sudden cry that startled the night. Those who 
had witnessed the accident promptly gave 
the car a chase, while others descended on 
Asafa who had managed to get up. I clung 
to him and as he looked at me, he tried to 
smile through his bleeding mouth. But he had 
little time for me, as each of his pursuers 
seemed gifted with the power of ten buffctloes. 
I could not keep up with the speed. They 
were running in one direction while Tonia 
had been trapped in the car in the other. I 
then ran up to the host of assailants and 
through the open front door. I scrambled in, 
pleading with those who had invaded the car 
that Tonia was not a murderer. She handed 
me a bag (it was my bag I'd left in the car 
earlier) as the men tried to drag her down. 
They were beating her and I was still in the 
car when one youngster came running down 
with a can. I ran out, clutching my bag. The 
street and its adjuncts had turned totally 
chaotic, and no movement or action was 
anymore discepnible when the clangour of 
police siren threw the rioters into last-ditch 
safety scramble. Blindness took over the 
night and I ended up, after running and 
falling through the nooks and crevices I found 
totally strange, on the steel-cold floor of a 
black maria. 
I was herded in with men and women 
who stank of burning and stale sweat. The 
van was crowded that when we were ordered 
out at the police station, two people 
had suffocated. It was still night or early 
morning, dark and omen-ridden, the prevalent 
atmosphere in the city barely concealed 
in the artificial discipline of the station. Policemen 
patrolled everywhere; the adjoining 
streets, the hidden thoroughfares, some stood 
at attention within the courtyard, clutching 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vol 2/No 2 GLEN DORA
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
I eople had started looking for relatives and friends of 
their enemies to attack, looting shops during the night 
and hiding in the dark to deal club-blows at unsuspecting 
victims. In more than two instances, governors 
actually supervised the attacks. One declared a 
state of emergency and accused the government at 
the centre of complicity 
guns, clutching clubs and truncheons, looking 
livid and closely at crowded trouble-makers, 
searching with flashlights for others whom we 
all knew were out in the street. Mosquitoes 
teeming with enthusiasm brought a disquieting 
life into our midst. After a long period of 
waiting in the dark, in the cold, during which 
I dozed and drove mosquitoes away, refusing 
to cry as most, even the elderly amongst us 
did, policemen come to lead us into a large 
room floortiled with soot. Here we stayed till 
morning. 
Suspects driven to police station must 
supply certain information of which next of 
kind was one. The amiable policeman who 
took my details was surprised the following 
morning when to the question who my next of 
kin was, I replied 'Nobody'. He smiled, but 
the others loitering about the office laughed 
and I remembered one of them saying, 'Nato 
rot here be dat'. But in actuality I had no idea 
what became of Asafa or Tonia. The grandmother 
I saw clearly was hit by the car and 
was at least conscious as she lay sprawling by 
the bonfire. I couldn't bear to look at the car 
as a can overflowing with petrol passed 
hands. All I could remember as the policeman's 
comment resulted in deep-throated laugh was 
Asafa's sense of purpose the previous day/his 
once-in-a-lifetime resoluteness as if he had 
finally espied an object for which he had 
spent years searching for. The police officers 
insisted, pointing out it was just impossible 
that nobody 'owned' me. A crowd of other 
kinds had gathered outside to buy reprieve for 
their wards and relatives. The cool-headed 
officer explained their presence and added 
that in truth, in the event of not registering a 
kin, there would be no one for police authorities 
to contact. Therefore I might be left forever 
in the station, from where I might be transferred 
to a jail-house. It was then I told hirathat 
GlENPORA r..i.« Vo/. 2/No 2 
I had only a brother whose fate I was not sure 
of . I referred to the documents in my bag, 
now with the police. I never expected any 
sympathy, but neither did I expect the derision; 
so I was stung when the same policeman 
who had predicted I would rot in the station 
said; 'So you wan revenge im death and kill 
other people'. I protested, saying I was not 
sure Asafa was dead. That day, the divisional 
police officer instructed that I be treated as a 
special case and it was for this reason that I 
was not lumped with the others in police cells. 
The day's newspapers bought by the 
policemen reported nothing else, and brought 
in entirely new dimension by reporting reprisals 
in other part of the country. People had 
started looking for relatives and friends of 
their enemies to attack, looting shops during 
the night and hiding in the dark to deal clubblows 
at unsuspecting victims. In more than 
two instances, governors actually supervised 
the attacks. One declared a state of emergency 
and accused the government at the 
centre of complicity. Another, presiding over 
a state where he was "ethnically an alien" 
tried to affect the air of equanimity, making 
broadcasts that were, like those of the governor 
of Lagos, meant to control the temper of 
his citizens. But it was said of him that 
members of his cabinet held a secret meeting 
later in the evening and issued a statement 
that ran contrary to the impression he was 
trying to create. According to the report read 
aloud by a policeman, the cabinet members 
gave "all outsiders without exception" up to 
seventy-two hours to pack their things and 
leave the state. Since the period had not 
elapsed, no serious incident was reported by 
the papers. But that was only a matter of days. 
Another report spoke of how religious leader 
attacked fellow religious leaders of rival tribes 
and (according to reports in the papers)
churches, mosques and community halls where 
ethnic unions met were touched or burgled. 
But none gave the correct account of the 
trouble as it happened in 'Timi's house the 
day before. 
Policemen and suspects who had found 
some way round their misfortunes crowded 
over the papers in groups. Earlier that morning, 
fighting off the stench of sweat and 
hatred that roe from the bodies sleeping tight 
against one another in that dark room, I had 
listened to two men, ostensibly chance friends, 
swearing their innocence and condemning 
the partiality of police arrests. One said that 
thoughts about his tribal origins hardly crossed 
his mind in a whole year, whereas he daily 
enjoyed dinning-out anywhere the food wakened 
his palates; he slept only with pretty 
women without thinking of colour or tribe. 
With women his only bias was for sexual 
appeal, for a wife, he said he would consider 
the mind in addition. But he married, by his 
coce AN AFRICAN JOURNAL OF NEW WRITING 
Published THREE times a year 
The influential African literary journal is back. 
The most recent numbers are: 
31 (1995); 32 (1996); 33 (1996). 
Silver Jubilee Issue - No. 34 (October 1996) 
will focus on Nigerian Literature in the Last 
Decade (1986 -1996) 
Other forthcoming numbers will focus on 
Post-Apartheid South African Literature, 
African Women Writers, African-American 
Literature, The Greying Generation, 
The Laureates. 
Manuscripts are welcome - 
Poems, short stories, one-act plays, 
essays, interviews, reviews. 
DF: Enugu 
own admission, a woman from his tribe. He 
blamed his family for meddlesomeness. His 
friend recalled witnessing two policemen exchange 
first words, later blows early the previous 
evening, trying to fulfil their own part of the 
ethic bargain. They were dismissed on the 
spot. I realised, remembering that conversation, 
that those who crowded over papers had 
had the way found for them. One by one that 
day and the days that followed, men and 
women came into the office after loitering 
around the police station seeking to bail their 
relatives. Often they succeeded, although the 
fact that the crisis continued would soon force 
the authorities to stop granting bails. But those 
who bought their relatives' freedom went away 
hugging them passionately, comforting us still 
waiting or without illusions, that whenever we 
left confinement, a forgiving city w,ould be 
waiting to welcome us. 
•From the manuscripts of an unpublished novel. Roots in the Sky 
SUBSCRIBE NOW 
• RATES - One Year 
Individual $30.00 
Institution $50.00 
African Institution $40.00 
Post $6.00 extra 
Nigerian resident 
Nigerian institution 
Post 
N900.00 
N1,200.00 
N150.00 extra 
• Back-issue rates available on request 
• Allow about 8 weeks for delivery 
• PREPAYMENT REQUIRED IN US DOLLARS 
(or NAIRA - for Nigerian Residents only) 
• Drafts, cheques or enquiries to: 
OKIKE MAGAZINE, 
P.O. BOX 53, NSUKKA 
Enugu State, Nigeria. 
Tel./Fax: 0234-42-770981 
aapn 0087