What a beautiful evening it was near Lawrenceville in Georgia that night.It was a day for storytelling and merry-making.
Everybody told his childhood story. I was not left out. Some joke had led to it, and everybody started recalling parental care in our childhood.
My father had been killed in the northern part of Nigeria during the pogrom that escalated into the civil war. He was killed while trying to escape to the east. He had worked in the Railway Corporation, and we lived in Kano at the time the crisis broke out. We would have probably been all consumed if he hadn’t brought us to Enugu to spend his accumulated leave. He had returned to Kano to sort out some official matters when the crisis started. He never made it back as the killing of the Igbo started in the north.
Bringing us up fell on my mother and what a pretty good job she did as a disciplinarian. A friend of…
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