1 
Free wheel 
THE speed of the car was a little 
over a hundred kilometres an 
hour when suddenly the driver 
felt that one of the tyres was flat. 
He put the car in neutral gear, 
iciion inn 
Nation 
took his foot off the accelerator 
and allowed the car to come a 
natural halt. By the time the car 
came to a full stop the guilty 
tyre was damaged beyond use. 
Thank God he had a spare tyre, 
for it is suicidal to travel on the 
Lagos-lbadan expressway without 
a spare tyre and a very 
good wheel spanner. But many 
people do travel on the road 
without spare tyres anyway 
They rely absolutely on God's 
protection. You see, God must 
understand that things are very 
expensive in Nigeria. We are 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vol 2/No 3
not sure as t o the depth of this 
driver s belief i n G o d H e h a d a 
spare tyre; a g o o d o n e a t that 
o | c 
k h t h e a f t e r n o o n b u t realisin9 
9 ° f S °m e ^ °" ^ "^ '° 
°f ° broken-down car' 
It was about four o ' i 
the danger of being t o 
he quickly got out of the " 9 
tell on-coming vehicles of T' Pr6SenCe 
He also brought out his e * ° P r 6 S e n C e ° f ° b r o k e n - d o w n c a r ' 
* t ra tyre, puttinq it on the road in 
such a way as to protect k- 
. . . , nlrn from on-cominq vehicles. He 
swung into action and D r o 
a 
M , , i ceeded to change the erring tyre. 
No sooner had he started »k , , L- I 
L J I 'nan one of the vehicles zooming 
by stopped a few metre* ~ r ,. TL . . . , 5 away from him. The car reversed 
towards him to be a bit <-l 
., ,. u , j . C|oser. First, he threw a glance in 
the direction of the vehicU« .. . .. . , , 
... es thinkinq that it was somebody 
coming to help. His attt»^«.- 
3 ^ ent' o n went back to the nuts he was 
loosening in order to a e t »L n ~ • i i 
a«r the flat tyre out. Before he knew it 
another car had stopped ,-1 , , -n J • £ 
L n i c|°setothe first one. The driver of 
the car, like the first one n , .. i j L- 
" • 9ot out and walked towards him. 
He kept workinq. Suddenk L I 
I in nlV he noticed that the two men were 
on other side of his car «»„ L •. • i 
< each with his wheel spanner trying 
to remove the two good t y r e s Q n , h e p a s s e n g e r s i d e 
What do you think you are doing?'Asked the driver 
with the flat tyre. 
Toucan jolly well s e e w h a H a m doing', answered the' 
man loosening the rear tyre 
'Don't mind him', chipped in the one at the front tyre. 
'Some people are damn selfish'. Then looking over the car 
at the driver with the flat tyre he said with a tone of utter 
disgust, 'You think you are the only one needing a free tyre! 
Instead of hurrying up to g e t the one you want before the 
owner ofthe car gets here, y o u s t a n d there challenging others 
who are doing exactly the same thing that you are doing.' 
'Which owner of the car? But this is my car!1 Roared the 
driver with the flat tyre, angry and frustrated at the sometime. 
'Well, there is nothing to be angry about. I didn't 
realise that the car belonged to you.'He stretched his back, 
held his wheel spanner in his left hand and walked away to 
his car as if he hadn't done anything untoward. 
'You mean I just wasted my time for nothing!' Exclaimed 
the one at the front wheel. 'Bastard'. Before the driver with 
the flat tyre could look, he was off still cursing. 
Clay pots grow not on the farm 
Melon vines don't crawl in the market place 
Divination was cast for him 
Who found what was not lost... 
He got the flat tyre changed, went round to the other 
side of the car, retied all the nuts that had been untied by the 
GLENDORA, 
would-be looters. As he was about to start his car and move 
off, he noticed a tow truck on the other side of the road, the 
driver perched at the steering wheel waiting, looking at him 
as a vulture does a dying animal. 
The Offending Afterthought 
The kite shrieked 
It did not stop 
The rumbler groaned 
It did not stop its terrifying groan... 
They numbered fifteen. Fierce-looking and hefty they all 
were. The neighbourhood knew that they were coming, and 
they came on the dot of two o'clock in the morning as they 
promised in their letter. They started their operation from the 
first house to the short street. The whole neighbourhood was 
awake and each person living there knew what was coming 
to him or her. As soon as they arrived, they announced on 
their loudspeaker and told everybody to leave their door open. 
Anybody who disobeyed risked being killed after such a 
person had been robbed. It didn't matter a hoot whether you 
lived in one of these houses with all wall fences or with razor 
wire on the fence. When landlords resorted to the architecture 
of fear, the'lords of the night,' the very objects of fear devised 
other means of reaching their goal. So, in the end the height 
of your fence did not really matter since the 'august visitors' 
compelled you to let them in anyway. It was mental fear that 
devised the tall fences and razor wires, but it was physical fear 
which opened the doors to let in the 'visitors' whenever they 
eventually came. 
The owner of house number six thought he was different. 
He was not as rich as the other landlords in the neighbourhood. 
There was no opulence about his house. The tall walls on both 
sides ofthe house were built by his neighbours, as protections 
for their own houses. The fence in the front of the house was 
made of a few anaemic flowers. In fact, they uglified the house 
than beautifying it. 
As soon as the announcement was made by the'nightlords' 
the front door of house number six was flung open, and 
theoccupants sat up waiting. Stories had been heard of people 
who lost both property and lives because their front doors were 
not opened fast enough to let in the night marauders. It was 
always better not to offend them, led by their 'captain' they 
walked in and they were greeted as warmly as possible under 
the circumstance. They searched every room in the house. They 
were rather surprised at the frugality ofthe furnishing and the 
general austere nature of everything they saw.. 
'Come here', commanded the barrel-chested gangleader. 
'We have been in five houses and we had a good 
harvest from each of those houses. Let us see what you have. 
African Quarterfy 
on the Arts
Bring them out, money, jewelry, anything.' 
'Sir', the man of the house began trying as possible to 
control his trembling voice, 'we', pointing to his wife, 'we are 
poor sir. We have no car, we don't have the kind of jewelry 
you might be interested in sir, only the cheap kind. If you will 
follow me into the bedroom sir, to see everything in the 
wardrobe, I mean sir, those cheap things are not worth your 
while. We have no money at all sir. We are both retired'. 
'You own this house and you want me to believe that 
you have no moneyl You must be lying.' 
'Would I lie to somebody like you sir? I wouldn't do that 
sir. I am old enough to know that that could be bad for me and 
my wife.' 
The gang leader looked at the man and his wife shifting 
his gazing from one to the other and shook his head. The 
wife broke out in cold sweat. She wanted to talk but her mouth 
was dry. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. When she 
finally found her voice, all she could whisper was'In the name 
of Jesus'. The look and the threatening cough from one of the 
men were enough to tell her that she uttered an inappropriate 
expression. She quickly covered her mouth with the palm of 
her right hand and swallowed hard. wr
hen landlords resorted to the architecture of fear 
the'lords of the night,' the very objects of fear 
devised other means of reaching their goal So in 
the end the height of your fence did not really 
matter since the august visitors' compelled you to 
let them in anyway. 
'Look, you people have wasted our time. We've got lots 
of goodies from every house we've been to on this street but 
your...' said the leader. 
'We are sorry sir. That is the way things are with us, sir 
I beg you sir.'The gang leader was rather sympathetic and 
was about to get up and leave when the house owner added 
as an afterthought; 'As you know yourself sir, the fingers of the 
human hand are not equal.' 
'Is that so?' Retorted the leader. 
'That is the way things are sir', replied the landlord 
thinking that he had at last found a soft spot in the leader's mind' 
'But your neighbours seem to have their fingers equal' 
'Sir, sir, the fingers of the hand can never be equal' 
The kite shrieked 
It did not stop 
GLENDORA . 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
v . „ Vnl 2/No. 3 
The rumbler groaned 
It did not stop its terrifying groan 
Ifa divination was performed 'for the frightened 
When he farted with his mouth. 
'We shall see about that', said the gang leader as he 
beckoned to one of his men who walked in with a very sharp 
cutlass. The act was swift after the man was held down by some 
of the robbers. 
'Now', said the gang leader, 'the fingers of one of your 
hands are equal. Nature has been corrected for you. When 
we come back again be very sure that your house is full of 
valuables. You useless man, making the likes of us go out at 
this time of the night for nothing, telling us that fingers are not 
equal. If everybody were like you, how do you expect people 
like us to make a living? Damn fool!' 
He fainted. His wife managed to revive him all by 
herself. Then she dashed out to knock on some of the 
neighbours' door for help to get him to a hospital. No one 
answered her knocks. 
News-flash! 
Joy knew no bounds today in the home of Mrs. Anna 
Funmilayo. The sixty-five year old woman became a mother for 
the first time in her life when she gave birth to a baby boy. 
Neighbours, friends and relations were reported to have 
looped to the woman's house to rejoice with her. When our 
reporter called atthe house to congratulate the family, he spoke 
to the woman's husband who, seemed dazed about 
everything going on around him. He was reported to have 
said that he could not remember when he last slept with his 
wife. Mrs. Funmilayo was asked if she did not feel odd giving 
birth so many years after menopause. Her answer was that p 
7 ma He i n i h n h e l r l i ffe who paused. However the pastor 
°fMrs.Funmilayo's church, who also spoke to our reporter 
$ a ' d " W a s a m i r ade; and that it happened in his 'church'.
Unfitted © Jide Adeniyi-Jones 
His church also runs the private maternity where the new baby 
was born. We congratulate the family a n d the church. 
In an unrelated incident a woman has complained to 
the police that her baby was stolen at the same maternity 
where Mrs. Funmilayo was reported to have had her baby 
She was reported to have said that she lost consciousness 
immediately after giving birth to her baby and when she 
regained consciousness, she was told that the baby had 
died. However, she could remember being told that it was 
a boy before she passed out. Asked whether she was shown 
the body of the baby supposed to have died, she said,'No.' 
The incident is being investigated by t he police. 
The Settlement 
It started, as always, like a joke. T h e traffic warden stood 
in front of the mini-bus, popularly known as 'danfo', demanding 
his daily'toll'from the driver. Usually it is a cat-and-mouse 
gameinwhich the driver's five orten n a i r a is always the victim. 
Ten naira is nothing, nothing, at all t o a commercial driver 
if one considers his daily taking as f a r e s are arbitrarily hiked 
Vnl 9JNn 3 GLENDORA, 
up under any pretext 
At first, the driver refuses and the traffic warden insists, 
they argue shoulder-to-bumper, do some verbal jab-and-parry, 
sometimes abusing, sometimes joking and at other times 
cursing, with the driver eventually crumpling up a ten naira 
note and throwing it in the face of the traffic warden. The 
warden always wins. 
But on this occasion, the driver was not going to give. 
And the traffic warden who was not used to being refused, 
was not going to budge. He knew that the longer he delayed 
the driver the sooner his'toll'would be paid. The'danfo'driver 
was anxious to leave but he was not willing to pay. So the 
warden planted himself in front of the bus daring the driver 
to knock him down, knowing that no driver would dare hit a 
traffic warden in uniform with his fist, not to talk of knocking 
him down with his vehicle. It has never been heard of. After all 
the traffic warden is a law enforcement officer. And on this 
occasion he was in uniform. 
'Settle me now, make you de go,' the warden repeated 
for the umpteenth time. 
'I say I no get money,' came the reply from the driver. 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts
'Alright park,' ordered the warden. 
'Pork for what? I say I no get money,'he snarled at the 
warden 
'Make you stay there now since you no get money,' 
said the warden insisting on being settled. 
'I beg commof for front of my bus make I go,' said the 
driver half-pleading and half-threatening. 
'You go see me when you come back?' The warden was 
emphatic 
driver hollered the last statement, and then continued: 'plenty 
driver dey this Osodi motor park. As I no get money to give 
you today, goosk somebody wey get money Dem go give 
you Abi name only dey here?' 
The warden would not budge. 
your papa g,ve me bus to drive? I be your papa im driver? Make 
uno see me see trouble o.' The last statement was not directed 
to anybody ,n particular. Nobody paid them much attention 
e.ther That kind of argument was usual between drivers on one 
hand and traffic wardens on the other I. was more than a daily 
occurrence It happened every minute. 
you bus to drive, just settle me na im be my own.' The warden 
sa.d turnmg round leaning hi, back on the bus. A. this gesture 
the dnver stormed out of his bus in a bid to manhandle the 
warden He though, better of it. wen, back into the bus, fumed 
for wh,l.and then jumped down again appealing to his 
brother dnvers with both palms open. 
'See you for wetin? You deof? I say I no get money.' The 
'You just dey start work? How come you no get money?' 
'Wetin be your concern whether I just dey start work? Na 
'Whether my papa give you bus to drive or 'e no give 
Make everybody come see this yellow fever o I tell am 
- y I no get money but 'e no wan' leave me alone o. I go wound 
You wan d,e because of five na.ra ' 
one O f " , h e P O i d m u c h a ^ o n to the two men except 
everybl y d r ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ * so so settle me, settle me. If no be because I get pickin for house 
l y '" P ° r t i c u l a r 'o give some water of 
motor park And 
. Occasion- ally handsh k 
b u 
t h e 
^ h ° ^ l i k e Osodi 
ta g o 
e 
be with mice |, 
for be,na 
went b:ck inormal witu 
\ <™9 as fr,endly as cats could 
t U m ° f ^ traffic warden 
ie colour of their uniform; an 
m case of women) over a black pair of 
shirt or hi 
trousers or shirt 
I 
African Quarterly 
n the / 
'Name you dey call Yellow Fever?1 The warden asked 
cs he rushed towards the driver, flinging open his door in an 
attempt to get the key out of the ignition. The driver prevented 
him as he quickly turned off the engine, removing the key and 
putting it in his pocket. The driver shoved him off with the door 
and the warden almost fell. That was when some of the other 
drivers began to notice thatthegame was assuming an unusual 
dimension. Some urged the driver to 'settle' the man and let 
him go, saying 'e go just delay you for nothing.' Others 
disagreed saying, ' e no settle am yesterday and the day 
before? Wetin! Warden no dey get im salary? If e no settle am 
today make e too forget am, e go settle am another time. 
A few traffic wardens had at that point got to the scene 
and they were in staunch support of their colleague. They 
insisted that the driver should 'settle the man, even if he had to 
borrow money from his friends.' The woman petty-trader 
offered to lend the driver ten naira to settle the warden w,th 
but the driver refused to borrow money to settle anybody. She 
offered the money as a gift, still the driver refused it. He was 
just not going to settle anybody. Soon he proceeded to take 
off his shirt and the warden thought it was a signal for a 
physical fight. One of them advised his colleagues to help 
the confronted warden by forcing the recalcitrant driver down 
to the police station. As if stung by a bee, the driver suddenly 
jumped back into the bus, started the engine and put it in the 
reverse gear creating some space between the bus and the 
traffic warden who had immediately gone back to plant 
himself in front of the bus when his attempt to remove the keys 
failed. Before everybody realised what was happening, the 
bus lunged forward with a big roar and knocked the traffic 
warden flat on his back. He fainted. The driver then got out 
of his bus, pulled out a big iron rod from his seat, stood over 
the warden, preventing anybody from coming to his aid. 
Everybody stood as far back as it was safe, expecting the 
iron rod to come down hard on the warden. 
'I tell you say you wan die of five naira. For ordinary 
common five naira naim you wan kill yourself? Every day na 
I for settle you proper. Bastard! I be driver for your papa bus? 
Thief!' He lowered the iron rod, went back into his bus, put 
it in reverse gear again and maneuvered himself out of the 
place as his conductor jumped in shouting: 'Yaba, Yaba, 
Yaba'. The woman petty trader did all she could to help revive 
the warden. She fetched some cold water to be sprinkled on 
the warden's face, fanned furiously while some of his 
colleagues propped him up. Ittook about five minutes tobring 
the warden back to life. 
The woman returned to her sedentary position where 
she sold sweets, kola-nuts, cigarettes, biscuits, and other 
whatnots to wardens, drivers and passengers. She sat back in 
her chair, wiped her face, sighed heavily and mused over
what had just happened: 'When the kite swooped and made 
away with the hawk, we thought things were bad. Now it 
is the turn of vultures.' 
St. Valentine's Day Affair 
The husband is a thief 
His wife is a bed-wetter: 
Like is married to like 
Chucks and Oji his wife had been married for eight 
years They had three children; a boy and two girls. They were 
a happy couple, devoted to each other. They went everywhere... 
well, almost everywhere together. To their neighbours 
they were a model couple. If Mister A quarrelled with his wife, 
he told her he wished she were like Oji. And if a husband 
fell short of his wife's expectations, she told him she was sure 
that Chucks would not do such a thing, 
The three children knew their parents as the best 
parents In their small world. The other children at school told 
them so, Those other children heard It from their own parents 
in their different homes. All the other children envied them. 
The few friends who got Invited to birthday parties In Chucks 
and Oji's hole felt specially privileged, 
Last Valentine's day Chucks got a card from Oji. It was 
the first thing he saw that morning, strategically positioned on 
the side table by his side of the bed, The family had a good 
breakfast after which Chucks told his wife that he was going 
to a meeting of the 'Old Boys', O|l also reminded Chucks of 
the birthday party of a child of one of her friends, She was 
going with the children, of course, Chucks left home midmorning, 
An hour or so later, O|l prepared lunch for the 
children and told them that she was going to see another 
friend before they all went to the birthday party. If she did 
not return early enough the children were told to have their 
lunch.
Chucks and Oji's meeting later in the day was caused 
by the clatter of falling plates as a service boy accidentally 
banged the shoulder of his tray-bearing arm against the door 
frame. Simultaneously the doors opened in rooms fourteen and 
fifteen to see what was happening. Chucks and his valentine 
peeped out of room fifteen while Oji and her valentine 
peeped out of room fourteen. The four faces looked at one 
another and each pair went into their room. Each door was 
shut with the most quiet click forty-five kilometres from Chucks 
and Ojis' home. 
NEWS 
Two rams, one black and the other brown, were 
engaged in a butting duel at the market in front of the king's 
palace. The duel started after the brown ram tried to rob the 
black ram of its share of a piece of yam given to the two rams 
by a group of yam sellers. The brown ram, which suffered a 
broken neck as a result of the duel was said to belong to the 
king. There is a forest-wide search for the block ram which 
was reported to have fled the scene on realising that the brown 
ram belongs to the king Meanwhile, Mound ing Jackal the king's 
chief law enforcement officer has ordered the arrest of the 
family of the black ram When told that the black ram's father 
died long ago, he ordered the body to be exhumed After all 
when a finger of any hand offends, the whole hand is expected 
to pay the penalty. That is the new and official legal 
interpretation of the king's law by Hounding Jackal. Vou shall 
be informed of any further developments about the case of 
the two rams. 
The Wasted Generation 
After they had fed well 
After they drank their fill 
They invited all evils down 
They wanted all rats to perish 
All animals to perish 
All birds to perish 
All fish to perish 
After they all perished 
They asked; 'Is there any priest leftr 
I asked; 'Is there any priest lefti' 
And the elders told me to 
Call the luxuriant Morere-of-the-river 
Priest of the house of Orvnmlla 
Pa Alabi dragged himself home, slumped into a chair and 
sighed heavily He could just manage to give a reply to his 
wife's welcome greetings. Not only was he tired, he was 
dejected After being away from home for twelve hours to 
collect his pension, he came home empty-handed It had been 
like that for the past five working days. He and other 
pensioners had been going to the government treasury for the 
past week but the clerks had been too busy arranging papers 
to attend to any of them They were required to be at the 
secretariat at seven o'clock each morning. He left home on 
the dot of six. It didn't matter to the clerks where you came 
from, neither did it matter how you got to the secretariat What 
mattered was that you got there at seven so that your name 
might be checked at eight o'clock The clerks were never on 
time and getting there was not a guarantee that you would 
be attended to. So for the past week nobody got any attention. 
For the past year the pensioners had been petitioning the 
government to make arrangements to pay pensioners at their 
local treasuries but they had been ignored All the pensioners 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts W£ULUA» GLENDORA ,..,.„
have hod to travel to their capital to collect their entitlements. 
Pa Alabi was lucky to live in the capital. Some came from as 
far away as hundreds of miles, knowing that if you didn't 
come, your name would be struck out of the register. You were 
taken for dead. It wasn't that the dead didn't get paid. They 
did. The clerks knew how to thumbprint the papers to show 
that everybody got paid. 
Pa Alabi's wife knew all the stories. She and her husband 
had always taken them in their strides. Sometimes they even 
laughed at some of them. But on this particular day Pa Alabi's 
wife knew that the matter was more than the fact of her 
husband not bringing any money home from the treasury. 
Could it be because itwas a Friday and there was not enough 
food in the house to see them through the weekend? Could 
it be because there was no money to buy presents for one of 
their grandchildren who was two years old? Could it be that 
he was just simply fed up with having to go through that 
process every month-end with the gratuitous insult heaped on 
them by the treasury clerks? Many times Pa Alabi had come 
from the pension's exercise to catch fever from having to line 
up in the scorching sun from dawn to dusk for days to end. Each 
a Alabi's wife knew all the stories. She and her husband 
had always taken them in their strides. Sometimes they 
even laughed at some of them. But on this particular 
day Pa Alabi's wife knew that the matter was more than 
, , 
the fact of her husband not bringing any money home 
from the treasury. 
time that happened a large part of the money was spent on 
curing |he fever. On fhi, occasion. Pa Alabi's face wore an 
inscrutab e aqony The nnir* i i i 
9 y- me pain was palpable. His wife sat 
opposite him watching e v e r y wrinkle on his face, expecting 
imto say something, knowing that he knew that she expected 
him to unburden his mind W^rJ i • i , 
mina. Words were stuck in his throat His 
intermittent and deep sighs began to worry his wife. At las, in 
order to get her husband to say something she asked: 'Shall I 
bring you some cold water? The table is already set for dinner 
butiustsomewatertoquenchyourthirst.'Eventhatdidnotwork 
PaAlab, merely shook his head. Thatworried the woman the 
more. He close hi, eyes, threw his head back on the backrest 
of the chair, but his wife knew that he did not doze off There 
was a long si ence At ln*» U*> i i 
• *« last he opened his eyes and his voice 
seemed to come from nowhere ' U ( ,. 
T, "wnere. Iwo of us died on the queue 
today. There was a shnrr* t , M 
' n i , . , 5 a s n a r P gasp from the wife 
What did you say?' 
Let us thank those shoulders 
Which prevent our dresses from falling off 
Thanks to our good fathers 
Who bore us as offsprings 
Pa Alabi went to the dinner table but found that the food 
did not have a good taste in his mouth. It wasn't that food was 
badly prepared. His hunger was just beyond food. His thoughts 
went to his colleagues who resigned their jobs whentheywere 
ordered on short notice, to move to the new capital without any 
accommodations made ready for them. There were those 
seasoned administrators who were arbitrarily retired to make 
room for rookies from a particular section of the country. Their 
retirements were announced on the radio... they were not even 
accorded the dignity of letters. The shock killed a lot of them. 
They had educated themselves at their own cost and served 
the nation to the best of their ability to be thrown on the dung- 
African Quarterly 
on 'he Arts 
'Two of us dropped dead; the third, a woman fainted but 
she was revived.' 
'Oh God!' She said clasping her rightpalm on her mouth. 
'It didn't matter to the clerks. They still took their time over 
minute and unnecessary details, demanded to be bribed and 
told you thatyourfile was'missing' ifyouasmuch as hesitated 
to do their bidding. It is the new retirees that I pity. They come 
from their villages thinking that the process would take a few 
hours. They have no money to go back home so they have been 
staying with those of us who have extra rooms in our houses 
andean afford to feed them. Centralisation, they call it...asking 
all the pensioners in the country to travel to the capital at the 
end of each month to collect the pittance they call pension! And 
the clerk keeps us lined up all day like wet rags to dry out in 
the sun.' 
'Well, I suppose they want all pensioners to know a 
bit of the country;' said his wife, attempting to introduce some 
comic relief. 
'I suppose so since they moved the capital northwards. 
I wonder what some of us would do if we all had to depend 
on our pensions!'
heap of ethnicity at the retiring age of their lives. Pa Alabi was 
one of the unusually lucky ones. His father had worked with 
the railways before it was killed by the trailer owners who, 
because of their ethnic connections cornered the haulage of 
everything from food to petroleum. That was when the country 
was really one. His late father had a house in one of the 
northern towns. When Pa Alabi was transferred to the new 
capital, he sold the house and spent the proceeds on building 
a new one in one of the villages around the capital. In the 
village, he enjoyed the slow pace of life, the remove from the 
incessant problems of distant relatives in the old capital where 
he was born and the anonymity of living in a community of 
'strangers'. Suddenly he began to miss home. He looked in the 
direction of his wife who was worried that he hadn't eaten 
all day, gave a cold smile which worried her the more and said 
in an emotionless tone; 'Enough is enough. I think we should 
be thinking of going back home.' 
For the next two days after that, which was a weekend, 
Pa Alabi had a good rest. Early on Monday morning he and 
the wife left home and went to the office of an Estate Agent. They 
put the house up for sale. 
Let money's house be beautified with white chalk 
Let the house of beads be adorned with camwood 
The prime among heads will never lie at the bottom of the 
heap 
Divination was cast for Eji Obara 
When there was doubt about the value of patience 
In the home of Olofin 
Sharpest Knives 
When goats are brought to the market 
They are tethered 
When sheep are brought to the market 
They are tethered... 
When three young men invited Kola out of his crowd of 
feasting friends at the funeral ceremony, he did not know what 
to expect. Still laughing from the last joke, he followed them a 
few yards away from his group. The conversation had gone 
from one topic to another covering such things as politics, 
food and drinks, education, traditional medicine, and death. 
It was a death that was being celebrated. In our part of the 
world nobody mourns a ninety-three year old person when he 
or she dies. Such a death is always an excuse for merriment. 
The drinks were flowing and the food came in varieties. 
Fingers were being licked and lips smacked. Music came in 
deafening decibels from a live band. Enjoyment was flowing 
like a river in flood. 
Kola was almost sure that the invitation had to do with 
ni ?/No ?1 GLENDORA 
university admission. As a university lecturer he was used to 
admission seekers fishing him out when and where he least 
expected. He decided to be polite and listen to them first but he 
was going to tell the trio off royally if their invitation had 
anything to do with admission to the university After all he 
was at the funeral party to enjoy himself. 
The one who appeared the oldest of the three was the 
spokesman. He cleared his throat with a lot of flourish before 
speaking. 'Sir', He said, 'You see sir, we are hired killers.' Kola 
silentlycursed his stars for coming to the funeral party. His mind 
raced up and down! Had he travelled all the way from Ibadan 
to the hinterland of Ekiti to be confronted by hired killers? Why 
would anybody want to kill him? Was it somebody who did not 
get admitted into the university? As far as he could remember 
he had not quarrelled with anybody in the last five years. 
He broke out in cold sweat, brought out a handkerchief 
from the folds of his flowing agbada but he could not wipe his 
face with it. He gripped it as if it was a weapon of defence and 
shook visibly. He wanted to turn round and look at his friends 
hoping that one of them might notice the situation he was in, 
but he felt a terrible frigidness in his neck. Kola was too 
frightened to notice the card which the man who spoke was 
trying to get him to look at. 
'Here is our card sir.' The man said. 
'Card? You mean you have a card for...' He did not quite 
finish the question before looking at the card which read: 
Sharpest knives in Town: 
We know all the cuts and joints 
For efficient animal killing 
For your parties and celebrations; 
Cows, Sheep, Goats, etc; 
There was also a name and a business address somewhere 
in Lagos. The spokesman boasted that they had slaughtered 
camels and horses in their business and, as a joke, added 
that they were looking forward to the day they would be 
employed to slaughter an elephant. 
Relieved that the men were not hired assassins, Kola 
fainted. The three men were shocked to see Kola faint, so were 
two of his friends who were watching from their seats. They got 
up to help but before they got to the scene the three men fled 
probably wondering why anybody would faint just by listening 
to them advertise their profession. Damn book people! 
When goats are brought to the market 
They are tethered 
When sheep are brought to the market 
They are tethered 
when a butcher comes to the market 
He never wears a rope round his neck. 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts
Lynn 
Chukwura 
a holder of two 
degrees in 
Comparative 
Literature and 
a Phi Beta 
Kappa from 
the University 
of Wisconsin, 
Lynn 
Chukwura has 
made Nigeria 
her country 
and Lagos her 
home since 
1973. She has 
three children: 
Mezuo, Nkem 
and Nancy 
Nwuneli. 
For 24 years, 
until the 
beginning of 
1998, she 
taught 
literature in 
the 
department of 
English, 
University of 
Lagos. She 
worked parttime 
as West 
GLENDORAr. 
Donna Juanita 
entering the year of her quarantieme 
sat among the egg-smeared crockery 
and considered life 
in perspective of what early marriage 
and toddlers sprung to teens had taught: 
Nature cyclical and endlessly repetitive, 
marked by rhythmic demands 
of appetite, housekeeping, marital embrace 
in their narrow range of variations, 
borders of domestic security defended by 
diligent renewal of diets and the beauty 
parlourreaching 
after an abstract ideal 
imposed by journalistic neoplatonists 
as feminine ladder of aspiration - 
self-acceptance difficult to distinguish 
from stagnation. 
If she were to renounce effort, 
the one-way slope would assert itself, 
the skull beneath the made-up fact. 
To halt, reflect, weigh the elusiveness 
of safety and all the maintenance work 
required 
•she found it daunting, 
But hidden message of the dustcloth 
is defeat foreordained. Dust conquers all. 
Juanita considered what a great good girl 
she had been. Who would reward her 
and with what recognition? 
GOOD WIFE AND MOTHER AWARD 
and eulogies she would have to die to 
hear. 
the old wives' tale 
in sanctioned version comes prince 
charming the euphemism for potent 
hacks through bramble-forests of 
safeguards 
camouflaging sleeping princess's rich castle 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vol. 2/No. 3 
from casual passers-by, 
thorns penetrated, lone footstep 
moves unerringly to kiss, 
castle erupts alive, commencing 
feast of happily ever after. 
sanitised telling hushes aftermaths 
where prince moves on; where princess, 
grateful or not for awakening, 
keeps drawbridge lowered hospitably 
to wayfarers of her own choosing. 
in times to come, speak rather of 
princess stirred awake by restless 
dreams, 
longing to throw optn gate jammed 
by resistance of overgrowth, discovers 
within the implements for her nttd, 
swathes way to the eutside herself, 
laying path of her own journey's 
beginning, 
dismissed 
want to run away home to mother 
dead these twelve years. 
how could she keep gone when I hunger 
who will spread table before my enemies 
again my wine has spilled away? 
I sacrificed mother 
to win back father. 
he approved my lavishing help with her 
dying. 6 r 
nursemaid to death I grew womanly;
African 
Coordinator of 
Ashoka 
Innovators for 
the Public, an 
NGO network 
of creative 
individuals 
dedicated to 
public service 
in many field 
over a peiod of 
eight years. 
In August 1998 
the University 
of Lagos Press 
is publishing a 
volume of her 
poetry, 
entitled 
Archetyping. 
'Donna 
Juanita, 'the 
old wives' 
tale 
'dismissed 
and 'prima 
donna' are 
taken from this 
volume. 
Her poems 
have appeared 
in the 
anthologies 
und aufden 
strassen eine 
Pest: Junge 
nigerianische 
Lyrik, (Bonn, 
Germany), and 
New Rain V 
(New York), 
and in Okike, 
ANA Review, 
and the 
defunct Metro 
magazine, 
among others, 
faith was reborn 
family embraced me. 
no more prodigal, I poured out my 
fullness 
burying bad childhood in mother's grave. 
but after she was disposed of 
on the third day 
zombie-raising father 
exhumed it. 
mother hadn't a word to say. 
prima donna 
you the heroine of your own drama 
ought to recognise there are other 
theatres 
and performances than your own. 
I have a lead part in a different story 
though showing off-Broadway, 
experimental, apparently formless, 
equally 
eschewing glamour and formulas triedand-
true. 
confounding public opinion's 
established taste 
requires sangfroid daring, worth more 
than glitter of your self-shaped acclaim. 
experience playing one role 
does not qualify you as insightful 
on the painstaking rehearsals of another. 
get off my stage. 
not the blues 
nearly four a.m. 
as rain insinuates its patter 
into the mind-focused room where I 
work. 
having brought in the potatoes and 
onions 
lam stayed momentarily by a mirrorsomeone 
with whom I am mildly 
acquainted 
is smiling to herself. 
conversation with my 
daughter 
as if penetrating my recent weeks' delving 
six-year innocence asks 
how do people lose God? 
for once attentive, I lay aside 
my book's retreat, do my best 
to answer, other questions follow, 
then cleaving pick strikes ore: 
what are people to do 
who don't 
have peaceful and loving hearts? 
I marvel at words quarried 
from child-unfrequented depths, 
opening veins of my experience, 
my struggleknows 
she what she asks? 
for whom is clarification sought? 
humbly I proffer sifted particles 
of wisdom, trembling before 
such unwarranted trust, 
caution her about parents' 
own groping lacks... 
I know, soft voice absolves; 
thank you for 
answering my questions. 
wisdom's expression 
before me, empty sheet 
expectancy 
how to shape my day's c h o o s i n 
into significant works. 
she I would incarnate 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
Vol. 2/No. 3
in Nigeria. 
Four other 
thematicallyarranged 
volumes of 
her poetry are 
ready for 
publication. 
She writes 
short stories 
and is working 
on a 
biography, The 
Church is Not a 
Building. She 
has nearly 
completed her 
first novel, 
which 
tentatively is 
called journal 
of a Man. 
gives moments of awareness, 
quickened vision of what might always 
be 
but isn't... 
human nature, perversity's name, 
forgets 
or closets them as extraordinary 
adornments 
but impractical. 
crucial times made to see, 
I've shucked off outgrown, shabby 
garments, 
refashioned my word-robe 
in obedience to her beckoning, 
some revisions have given birth 
to what still lives. 
more often 
her interjections burst disruptively 
into the flow of my self-centred 
discourse; 
styles too disparate to reconcile. 
how to sustain a unified development 
between epiphanies? 
even as I attempt being 
her porte-parole 
details of usage trip me up. 
fixing attention on an elevated theme 
I grow careless with linkages, 
fail to discern the grammar of eternity 
in each moment's choices. 
for today's unwritten page 
I invoke her help with 
the articles and conjunctions 
on which my story's effectiveness 
depends 
thesis 
without words, no concepts, 
just river's meander and chirping from 
the trees. 
Quarterly 
be Arts 
2/No 3 
we grow into the language we wear 
like styles of our locale, personalised 
only with minor variations, 
then like a woman in spiked heels and 
silk 
cannot jog through the brush 
(or, in opposite dress 
can do little else). 
the very bone structure of our feet is 
moulded 
to shapes we believe natural law. 
religion expounds innate destructiveness 
of lopes through the wilderness; 
hobbled experience proves it true. 
antithesis 
it was Pilate 
who applied what is truth? 
as disinfectant. 
concepts, a second set of hands, 
thrust beyond feel and self-stroking, 
can be salvation of another's vulnerable 
quite objective flesh. 
words such as apartheid 
have crucified. 
ask the six million Jews 
about relativity. 
affirmation of the irreducible 
revealed and veiled by lowered eyes 
punctuated by firmness, sensitivity 
humour 
and qualities less definable 
all imprinting themselves 
in the same patterned creases: 
exposed hieroglyphics 
of untranslatable you. 
the more one knows
the more one'knows 
othernessprecious 
like all mysteries 
for revealing dimensions beyond knowing. 
one is reassured 
(despite moments of cowardice) 
that even the familiar cannot be fenced in 
by our utilitarian reach 
...reassured 
that our categorical understanding 
sieves out a few lumps of graspables 
while much more eludes us. 
...reassured 
that reality cannot be whittled to human size. 
a matter of joy it is 
that we cannot possess, 
even in our understanding 
the ones we most love. 
unless retreating to soulless things 
what we love needs be greater 
than our hard-clenching selves 
to draw us beyond what we think we are, 
nourished by hunger 
for what we can never devour. 
mutability 
blessed are those who can balance 
Who enjoy the phased and flowing 
who can dance to any music. 
learn to relinquish the / must have. 
when you must grasp after happiness, 
recognise it in only one guise, 
you know little of what you seek, 
surrounded by presents 
hke spoilt child on Christmas morning 
moping for the one not given. 
I 9/N 
know the now. 
endurance is a hardening 
for weakness to become, 
yet the rigid breaks. 
bones must calcify 
but not heart. 
moving and upright 
body needs 
are paradoxical: 
apertures that rhythmically open and close; 
bones that uphold flesh's 
ninety-per-cent water fluidity; 
muscles that flex/unflex 
mediation between contraries. 
death alone stabilises rigor and rest. 
meanwhile is reality. 
the soft shall learn hardness 
the hard shall be ground down 
even the most reluctant 
shall be baptised with change. 
computer housekeeping 
memory overburdened 
start-up was taking too long 
and when I shifted from task to task 
the interval of delay kept justifying another 
cigarette, 
the disk drive, though condensed, being burdened 
with an inordinate number of programs 
and the programs with far too many files. 
my way had been to save everything 
to make backup copies rather than to delete. 
at some unmarked point in the past 
I changed from novice to collector 
cramming onto my hard drive 
not only the essential programs for my life 
but also every software novelty 
legitimately obtained 
copied 
and share-ware which I treated as freeware 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
GLENDORA
a matter of selecting delete from the menu despite all the annoying notices that they were not in 
public domain. 
once you know the procedure 
and then clicking. 
to the eye it disappears, 
the directory showing no sign of the space it once 
took. 
but the original programs do not revert 
automatically 
just a matter of running the program disks, 
enter, and it merges with the system; 
new activities, new functions ready at a click. 
you don't first notice the slowed reaction of the older 
to their old efficiency. functions 
as system resources are drained. 
today marks another transition for me as user. 
you learn how the mere fact of having once given a 
place 
to other programs, even if only to experiment with 
them, 
has altered the set-up. 
hidden files have distributed themselves in other 
directories, 
and persevere despite their program's termination. 
after a cold look at my fileman 
I moved down the cluttered list 
deleting 
program after program 
retaining only what was essential to my work, 
steadily monitoring my systems resources 
and the improvement of functions as I progressed. 
however 
it's not so simple. 
to install a new program is relatively easy 
after the first time. 
removing a program seems to the dilettante 
GLENDO 
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