#3 - Leaving Kaduna

Sometime in January
Somewhere in Africa
Letter #3

Greetings from Nigeria! Again!

I know, I said I wouldn't be writing as frequently. Maybe I'll try not to mail this one for a while. I am writing this on Sunday the 24th of January, still in Kaduna, although the departure date is set for Tuesday, the 26th. (My parents' wedding anniversary, for anyone who likes to try to make weird associations.) I sent out the last packet a little over a week ago, and the agony (I use the word strictly in a melodramatic sense) of getting things resolved is enough to age one prematurely. Call me an impulsive Westerner Lord knows, some of you have called me worse in your day but three weeks ago Packy knew he wouldn't be staying, the bishops knew they wouldn't support Packy over Martin Dama, and everybody else knew that too. But there were several meetings with Archbishop Jatau, several conversations with Bishop Ganaka, and another meeting of the Centre Board. (At which, just for the record, no decisions were taken.) But finally, Fr. Schineller, the Regional Superior, who is in the States, wrote an official letter to the bishops pulling us out, and with that done, I pushed for an early move, and so Tuesday it is.

The last letter warned you about the move and then really didn't fill in any of the details, gory and otherwise, so sprinkled through this latest offering will be odd comments and bits of chronology. The last week I have spent a lot of time working on the Mission History. Several different people had worked on compiling the record of the first 30 years here in Nigeria, and Fr. Schineller (see above) asked me to read it and tell him what I thought. Those of you who know me know that you never ask for my opinion unless you really want it. I read the piece, and had to tell Schineller that for excitement, it came in a poor third, somewhere after watching paint dry, and doing anything else. I also made some constructive criticisms, and as expected, I was presented with several large folders. So I re read it again, did a fair amount of re structuring, and since I last wrote you, I have written half again as much as I would have needed for that thesis that so occupied my time. It ain't done, but it's a whole lot better. (If I'd had anything remotely resembling my notes or materials, I would have been working on the thesis. That material, unfortunately, is sitting in a box at the Mission Bureau in New York, awaiting shipment at some unknown date. And speaking of shipments again for the record as of January 24th, the container shipment sent forth in August had yet to turn up. This is how they teach you about Jesuit poverty; they have you put all your earthly belongings in boxes, and then they lose the boxes.)

Food It occurred to me one night at dinner that in my previous discussion of food in Nigeria, I had neglected to mention toothpicks. A staple in both the south and the north. At every meal. I have never been at a table that did not have a box of toothpicks, and I have never been at a meal at which toothpicks were not generally and liberally used by virtually all present.

Having said that, and I am sure that dentists and oral hygienists are pleased at the news, it is also fascinating to look at the toothpicks themselves. In the States, we are used to a certain uniformity of toothpick. (We are also used to a variety of flavors, and even toothpicks individually wrapped in little cellophane envelopes. But Americans are crazy, and we all know that.) Here, either because of something in the processing, or, which is what I suspect, because of varieties in the standards and quality of wood used, the toothpicks come in a wide range of sizes and shapes and finishes. All in the same box. You can find little pointy ends, and big pointy ends, and square ends, and little broken ends so that part of the toothpick using ritual is the selection of the toothpick. Fussy people might object to the notion of a box of toothpicks that have been thoroughly pawed through by previous users, in the hope of finding the "perfect" pick. Ah but we're all one family, and we assume that ... well, pray and live dangerously.

Religion
You cannot be in Nigeria for any length of time, especially as a priest, without coming up against notions of religion. For the moment, let me restrict myself to the Catholics. The liturgical celebrations are extravagant, with music and singing and dancing and praying and a participation and an enthusiasm that any western church pastor would envy. The respect shown to the clergy and to religious is equally extravagant, and I am sure that many of my more liberal classmates in theology studies would find the norms here offensive. It is the norm, when people are introduced to a "Reverend Father", for them to bow or curtsy. Some do it all the time. People who see me every day bow when they come into the office to ask me a question. Dennis still gets upset because I carry my own papers over to the Centre, and when I took my own sheets off the bed to give them to the man who was doing laundry, you knew from his expression that I had transgressed a social norm.

But it would be a mistake, I think, to let the externals distract one from the appreciation of the deep and very real faith that is part of the lives of Catholics here. By the standards of contemporary theological schools it may be a "simple, primitive belief system" (to quote an article in a scholarly journal I read recently). But it is, one would dare to suggest, the kind of faith that could cause local mountains to be nervous about sudden dislocations. Their deep belief in the divine presence in the Eucharist, for example, is not an intellectual appraisal of a socio spiritual expression, it is an intrinsic part of their life, and from that come the extravagant liturgies and the equally extravagant respect accorded to people who have given their lives to God.

I think the Church could probably do a lot worse than to imbibe some of this spirit and enthusiasm from the African members of the Body of Christ. Certainly the Church in Africa is not "politically correct" by North American standards; but I have to believe that God enjoys what is going on here. Social Interaction. Ah the things we have to learn in a new country. In Nigeria, people do not come straight to the point, and if you do, you are considered at best ignorant, at worst rude. The extreme case would be that you are home in the evening, and a man comes to see you. You invite him in, and offer him a drink, and you chat. Suppertime comes, and you invite him for supper. The evening wears on, and you ask if he would like to spend the night. Maybe by breakfast, he gets around to telling you what is on his mind. I spent 40 minutes chatting with someone before I learned they had come to see Fr. McFarland.

An adjunct of that, and one that tends to confuse, is that people will frequently come into the office just to greet me. To say hello. And I never know if someone is just being polite, or if they have something in mind and I will have to wait a half an hour to discover what it is.

It's a very different pace of doing business.

Calendrical Catch ups

I ended the last chronology for public consumption with Friday, the 8th of January. Interesting timing, for on Saturday, Martin Dama came come. (For of you who lose track of details like this, he's the General Director of the Centre with whom Packy has had great problems. Heck, we're among friends the man has been stealing the place blind for years, and when Packy got ahold of the books, he started blowing whistles.) I had just finished hearing the confessions of a couple of women who had stopped in and a large black man with a mustache came in. Large, in that he weighs more than I do but is slightly shorter than I am. Well fed, well cared for, this is not someone for whom hardship of any kind is a fact of life.

So the evening routine was more than a little disrupted as he settled in, and Dennis was taken away from preparing dinner to sweep his floor, iron his clothes, and get him settled. There was dinner, more than a little late, and I retired to my room. He was off early the next morning to Abuja for the installation of the new bishop.

Sunday morning brought more additions to the "Why We Don't Love Martin Dama" list. He wanted to leave early, so he got Dennis up at 5 to cook him breakfast, with the accompanying noises and aromas. One of the women from the Centre was going to go to Abuja to take some video, so she came. Of course, she had not come last week to prepare any of the equipment, so at 6 of the am, they were banging of Fr. McFarland's door to get him to help them get the equipment ready. I am not 73 and I have not been sick and it is a good thing for their ears, their psyches and whatever else they had with them that they were not banging on my door. I am working on cultivating the puppy dog side of my personality, and I have to say, I think I have made great strides. (Haven't bitten anyone in weeks.) But I gots to tell ya, had their lack of preparing brought them to pound on my door before dawn, my fine tenor tones would have drowned out the drums, the singing and the amplifiers from down the road, and anyone in earshot would have had a vision of a truly ugly American that would last them for years. Grrrrr.

So a little raw meat for my own breakfast, and I was ready for the rest of the day. For the next two weeks, Martin's every move was characterized by great preoccupation with his own needs and absolute lack of concern for anyone else. When he turns up the stereo in his room, it is difficult to hear the tv set in the living room. One night when he was watching a video with us, he called Dennis in from the other room to bring him a toothpick. I kid you not. Now Martin was plumped down about eight feet away from the toothpick, and Dennis was well in the other room. Made my think of Archie Bunker. Several nights he had guests for dinner, and rather than eat with the Jesuits, he had a second seating (with a separate menu, please) so that Dennis and Rebecca ended up working until past ten. And they arrive prior to 7 to get things ready for breakfast. Nor did he even have the courtesy to let us know that there would be company in the living room. Well, enough of my grumbling.

Except to add that I am, as they say, well out of any environment in which he is the man in charge.

The harmattan the last two weeks has been fierce. You know when a car pulls away on a dusty road, how you literally eat dust for a couple of seconds as it leaves? Well, that is what today has been like, all day. Dust in your throat, in your nose, on everything. And since the sun is blocked out, it stays quite chilly. The wind carries the dust everywhere, and I am real tired of this very fast.

With my doing so much writing work, I thought I would take the monitor over one day and see if I could make it work. Plugged it into the surge protector, which went into the converter, which went into the wall. All worked beautifully for around 30 minutes, and then there was this tremendous Bang, and smoke and an acrid smell came pouring out of the converter. Death. I think the monitor is ok, but I have not yet had the courage to go back and try it with another converter.

Miscellaneous Thoughts. Electricity. Some of the time, the problem is that there isn't any. I was advised to always carry a small flashlight with me, since one never knows when the NEPA will go out. (NEPA=Nigerian Electric Power Authority. Or, Never Expect Power Always. The local population has several other variations on the same theme) And that has happened. The Centre has a large generator, which we run when the power disappears. The other problem with the electricity, when it is there, is that the current can go as far up at 268 volts. When you have equipment rated at 240, that's a bunch. It can also drop to below 220. Electrical equipment doesn't like that either. That's why I blew and I mean blew in a very literal sense that converter.

Fortunately with the surge protector, the monitor survived. But the converter is toast. The Centre regularly runs the generator when the current is high, in fact, more frequently than because of no power.

Once I get settled, wherever and whenever that is, I think the answer is to hook the computer into a car battery, step the voltage down and run a continuous charge from the wall into the battery, through a voltage regulator. Wall current to voltage regulator to battery charger, battery charger to battery, battery to transformer to computer. Maybe battery to transformer to surge protector to computer. Sounds elaborate, but I am more protective of the computer than my health. In fact, now that I have seen the setup here for myself, I think I may send off for another Atari computer as a backup. (Paul Collard, pay attention. Any good deals on a Mega 4, we'll have to work something out. Maybe send you some money so you can jump if you see something, and then we'll worry about shipping.)

For two Sundays, I have gone over early to say for the students at the Polytechnic. That was one of Packy's regular chaplaincy assignments and one I would have taken over were we staying. Services are held in the shell of an unfinished church. Like so many buildings in Nigeria, it was started, and then abandoned when cash ran short, the Naira devaluation went through the roof and the economy turned very sour. There is no roof, although there is the overhang of what will be the choir loft, and that serves as a roof. Walls, however, are mostly still in the planning stage, and what does exist acts more as a funnel to increase wind velocity, so there is a brisk and constant breeze. Breeze? Nay friend, say rather hurricane. When you have to be concerned about the host blowing away and the chalice being blown over, we are talking more than a breeze.

There were only about forty students present. It was the first Sunday back for them, and education here is rather more casual than in the States. Schools open or not, depending on teacher strikes, student strikes, and strikes of other people involved in the running of the facility and announcements are made and the students rather wander in over the course of several weeks. (Strikes are frequent, and there is one major university here that has not had more than 3 months of consecutive classes in the last two years. Makes it hard to get all your credits together for a degree. And then they have learned pieces wondering why students can't write well or real intelligibly.

But the students were most welcoming and very enthusiastic. I was the main celebrant and preached. Packy did not want any mention of the fact that we would be leaving, so we all played nice and talked about how glad we would be to be with them in the future. It was worse the second week, when the crowds had picked up, there was lots of talk about the future, and we both knew we would be leaving in less than 48 hours and couldn't say anything.

That first Sunday I had also agreed to say Mass on one of the military compounds. The driver was waiting for me, so as soon as Mass was finished, off I went to be with the military. All the men were military, and several of the women. (I later learned the woman who picked me up was a Major in the Army. I was driven home by a Lt. Colonel. Believe me, I made a note of his name, in case things get tense.)

This Church, too, only partially exists. There is a roof, but no walls, and I discovered that I had better start working on my windswept look. A temporary stand had been erected at the front, on which the altar had been placed, and the boards bent I mean really gave when I walked. The altar came up to my chest, so all they saw was this bearded head peering over the altar. When I went to the lectern to read the Gospel, I disappeared completely. Thing was taller than I was. So I unhooked the microphone and stepped away to preach.

As in many churches, the men sat on one side, children were grouped in the front, the choir sits in the middle of the center section of the Church, married women have their own section and young women are in yet another area. They brought in benches throughout the Mass, and had set up long kneelers for communion. Kneeling down, on the tongue. They sang everything Kyrie, Gloria, all the Mass Parts, Lord's Prayer. In English, and very well. No instruments but some percussion, but everybody seemed to know what was happening, and they had a very good choir director.

Here, they usually have common prayers both before and after communion, and there are public expressions of faith during both elevations of the consecration. And afterwards, Fr. John spent many minutes both blessing religious objects and having his pictures taken with groups of parishioners. I was asked to cover this Mass because the regular priest, a military chaplain, has been sent off to Somalia, as part of Nigerian contribution to the UN effort there. It was a lovely group, and when I went back the second week, they had brought all the altar boys (some 25 of them) to have their picture taken with Fr. John. They said they would send me one, but I'll believe it when I see it.

Miscellaneous Thoughts: Tribal markings. Still very prevalent, and seen among small children, so it still goes on. Sometimes they are very discrete, a light scar here or there that you might casually think the result of an accident or event smallpox or acne scarring. In other cases, though, they are elaborate patterns, clearly designed, that go along the cheeks and sometimes the forehead as well. Most of the ones I have seen are fairly straight lines, some looking like the claw marks of an animal. A few have been slightly wavy an artistic tiger? some on both sides of the face, some on one.

I haven't known anyone well enough to ask details about the marks, whether there are intrinsic details between men's and women's markings, for instance. I have seen elaborate patterns on both men and women. Variations could be tribal, could be a sign of status within a group but they are certainly arresting.

At some point above I mentioned illiteracy. What would a letter from a Jesuit be without some form of analysis, eh? (See I learned something in 4 years in Canada.) In a recent magazine article I came across some interesting statistics, of which illiteracy is but one. I only included a couple of other countries as comparisons, but they are interesting, and as far as I can see, at least on the Nigerian side, absolutely accurate.)

Miscellaneous Bits of Information

Priests Brothers Sisters Catechists

Africa 20,399 5,963 42,429 256,903

Americas 118,882 18,941 265,653 31,397

Asia 33,855 6,637 112,127 86,638

Europe 244,606 28,525 448,348 334

Oceania 5,431 2,460 13,554 6,232

TOTAL 403,173 62,526 882,111 378,504
(figures from INTERNATIONAL FIDES SERVICE, 12 Sept 92)

In Africa there are 494 bishops, of whom 383 are indigenous. In the Americas, 1591, of whom 1295 are indigenous. In Asia, 481 of 584, in Europe 1310 of 1435. Oceania has 106 bishops, of whom 68 are indigenous.

Some approximate world statistics: In the Americas, 63.74% of the total populations are Catholic. In Europe, 39.96%, in Asia 2.73%. In Africa, 13.93%, and in Oceania, 26.57%. (1991 statistics)In Asia, there are 247 seminarians (priests in training) for each 1 million Catholics. In Africa, 160. In Oceania, 110. In Europe, 100. And in the Americas, for each one million Catholics, there are presently 67 seminarians.

How about Catholics per priest? Ok, in Africa, there are 4358 Catholics for each priest. In the Americas, 3880. Asia is next at 2541. Europe, with 1270, and Oceania with only 1294.

Some more statistics, more focused on Africa, but with a look at some of the "developed" nations for comparison:

Life1 Child2 GDP3 Illiteracy4 Doctors5

expectancy mortality per cap rate per 1000

Ethiopia 47 122 110 34.0 0.01
Kenya 53 94 370 51.7 0.05
Mozambique 49 130 90 67.1 0.03
NIGERIA 53 96 275 49.3 0.13
Sudan 52 99 150 72.9 0.10
Tanzania 55 97 1,140 35.0 0.04
Germany 76 8 24,130 3.00
Japan 79 5 27,120 1.6
UK 76 8 17,470 1.40
USA 76 8 21,890 2.30

1 1990 95 Estimation
2 per 1,000 births
3 Gross Domestic Product for 1991 in US$$
4 The average illiteracy rate for developed countries in 1990
was 4.4%, according to UNESCO figures
5 Estimate for mid 80's.
More Oddments from someone with obviously too much free time

Over here they don't use vacuums, although I discovered we do have one. They have a cleaning lady who uses a broom. A broom in Nigeria is a long whisk broom affair, of bound thin stalks, perhaps two feet in length. To sweep, you bend over. When I came into the office, she was busily sweeping the carpet. Now we have had the harmattan for some time, so what she was doing was raising great clouds of dust, that were promptly going to settle again. Any dust particles, however, that had not already made their way onto and into the recording machines and the editing equipment and MY COMPUTER were now being given a second chance. I told her to stop, opened all the windows and turned all the fans on high, and suggested that I would rather have the dirt on the floor than blowing around in the air and into the equipment. And my lungs. About ten minutes later, Albert came in with a vacuum cleaner. Sigh. Why that was not used in the first place, I have no idea. Probably another manifestation of “We've always done it this way."

Miscellaneous Thoughts
I write this assuming that the reader(s) are people who are family and long time friends, and you will thus forgive me if on occasion I abandon the "travelogue" approach and talk of things more personal. In those indeterminate days when I was waiting for approval from the Regional Superior to pull the plug on my being in Kaduna, not only was I editing and re shaping the mission history that will shortly be published (as soon as a price is established, you will all get letters of touching solicitation), but I also I had the chance to spend more time in prayer and quiet reflection than I have since being ordained.

I am still getting notes, some from very unlikely people, talking about what a moving and forceful ceremony the ordination was for them. Certainly it was an extraordinary day for me, but I have been to a lot of ordinations, and I had my own very particular feelings about that day, so it is hard for me to view that event from the perspective of others. I still find it a little startling to find myself a priest. I, who have been notorious about keeping my options open, end up in a vocation where the key phrase is "You are a priest forever, according to the line of Melchizedek." Forever. Scary word.

And my ability as an actor to step outside myself sometimes watches me, and wonders if there is not a bit of a fraud going on here Sheehan a priest? (Which I know was the reaction of some of my friends when they first heard I had entered the Jesuits. Yet some others immediately said it made sense to them, and they were not at all surprised. Startled, perhaps, but not surprised. One friend had such confidence in the choice that in my first year on novitiate, February of '81, she gave me a chalice. I confess, at that point, she had more confidence than I did.)

Of course, now I am an old experienced priest of seven month's standing, and I can baptize, say Mass, hear confessions, marry and bury with the best of them. I have not yet had the opportunity to administer the sacrament of confirmation (usually done by a bishop, although there are times when it can be done by a priest) and unless the Church is truly unbalanced and makes me a bishop, I won't have the chance to administer the sacrament of Holy Orders, although obviously I have received it.

OK John how does it feel? Ready to quit and go be a sky diver? Nope I foresee no refunds for people who bet against my staying in the Society of Jesus and had to pay up after June 13th. It "feels" right. Perfect? Also Nope. But very good. And fellow and more experienced priests who told me that it is different and better after ordination were absolutely right. Even when I was still in Toronto, and doing the research and the writing and the same work I had been doing before, the addition of saying Mass, hearing confessions that put a different feeling into each day, a different sense of the living. Now some of that, I am sure, was and probably still is the newness of it. After all, I know priests who grumble at having to go out to another parish, who try to avoid "getting stuck" with confessions. And to me, both are great privileges and I am delighted to be able to do either.

But the real key and this is where I started for, several long paragraphs back, the notion that started me writing this whatever it has turned out to be the real key is the people. The privilege (there's that word again) of being able to bring to people something that is so important to them whether confession or the Eucharist or marrying or simply giving a blessing to a house or to a union that's a continually humbling and enriching and exciting experience.

It is magnified here in Nigeria, because the priest is held in such high esteem. Even among the Moslems of the north, at least wherever I have gone, the priest is accorded a certain respect. The danger, certainly one into which some of the local (I know, we're supposed to say indigenous) clergy have fallen is to start to think that this respect is somehow being accorded to you, and even worse, that you somehow deserve or are entitled to it. Too many of the local priests I have seen have fallen into the role of small kingdom rulers, and they really expect the people to jump to it when they snap. That becomes magnified with some ofthe bishops the accepted form of address to a bishop here is "My Lord". I pretend ignorance and stick to "Your Grace". Makes me think of a bewigged and black robed fellow, with a Gilbert and Sullivan chorus sawing away in the background.

I can hear the analytical among you thinking, "Now where is he going with all this?" or more succinctly, "What is he talking about?" I'm not sure. (I only said I had more time for reflection, not that I was getting any better at it.) I suppose it's to note that I am increasingly comfortable in and perpetually (continuingly?) surprised at my role as a priest. Nigeria so far both affirms that and points out the dangers in it. As I write this I have no idea what my future in Nigeria may or may not be; but whatever the future, even my short time in Nigeria will shape it. (Ok all done. On to other stuff.)

Other Stuff
One day last week, the large papal altar was being used for a rally and prayer meeting. I don't know what the group was, but they did a lot of singing, which was great. Unfortunately, the guy leading the singing had a loudspeaker system, and he was not so great. Someplace in hell there is a special place reserved for the man who invented the portable loudspeaker system. And he deserves whatever he gets. Every now and then I would catch phrases floating through, and one man kept talking about "the white man, our enemy". I spent most of that day inside.

One night before we left the three Jesuits went out and had dinner at a restaurant. It was following the Wednesday evening Mass at the Polytechnic, and since Dennis had had so many late nights working (with Martin's return), we thought we'd give him a night out. It was a very nice little, virtually deserted restaurant. I had lamb (tough, but tasty) with some of the best French Fries I have ever had in my life, and a salad that was 55Naira. (Those who remember how much one Naira is? That's right, about a nickel.) Beer, in a tremendous great bottle, 20 Naira. There is a 15% tax (ah, makes me feel like I'm back in Toronto) but it is still not an expensive evening out.

Miscellaneous Thoughts I have been meaning to mention the guy here at the Centre whose job includes weeping the dirt. Not sweeping up the dirt, but actually sweeping the dirt. We have dirt in front of the Media Centre, and every morning he goes out with his little Nigerian broom, and sweeps the dirt yard to that it is level and free of debris and then he creates this lovely patterns in the dirt with the broom, so that when I walk over in the morning, the dirt is orderly and attractive.

Another Miscellaneous Thought (Probably influenced by the fact that I am about to pack and move again.) When I was a child, I loved The Wizard of Oz. Like everyone else, I was scared of the flying monkeys and loved the Munchkins and worried for the Cowardly Lion. The only part I never could believe, though, never could understand was why Dorothy wanted so badly to leave Oz much less want to go back to Kansas. Oz had music and magic and dancing elves, Kansas had tornados and poor people and long walks through fields to get anyplace, Oz was in color, Kansas was in Black and white. No contest.

Well, here I am in Nigeria, and a little voice keeps telling me at odd moments, "Well, John, I don't think we're in Kansas any more." And you know what I don't think I've changed all that much from when I first saw little Judy Garland. I still think I prefer Oz even when they change its name and call it Nigeria.

Miscellaneous Thoughts Telephones
Nigeria does have telephones. And anyone who likes puzzles, small challenges, and has lots of free time on their hands, will love the Nigeria phone system. NITEL Nigerian Telephone. You dial a number we are assuming that you are in the rare window of opportunity when the phone is actually working and I do mean dial; there are rumored to be push button phones in Nigeria but blessed if I have ever seen one. and having dialed that number, the odds (based on my exhaustive calculations and a whole lot of dialing time) seem to be about 10 to 1 that you will not get your number.

You dial and halfway through the dialing, it disconnects. You dial and your call disappears into a void. You dial and you get a circuit busy signal. You dial and you get cut off. You dial and maybe it rings. Maybe someone picks it up and you discover that while the number is correct, it is ringing is some other State than you one you wanted. You dial and so it goes.

This is the phone company that forces you to buy a phone book any time you make a change to your service. (Or they simply cut you off, and then charge you to reconnect.) The publication date on the cover of the current edition is August 1990. There were rumors of a new phone book, but someone from the phone company candidly told Packy that it was just a new cover on the same old book. This is the phone company that makes you pay a substantial advance deposit if you want direct distance dialing for long distance calls and then tells you after you have paid that service is not available in your area. (And don't even think about being paid interest in your deposit.) This is the phone company that regularly and routinely makes billing errors two and three times the total of your bill, and requires you to pay the full amount if you want to maintain service while they are "investigating your complaint".

In the short time I have been in Nigeria I have lived without phone service and I have lived with phone service, and I have to confess, the time without phone service was more peaceful, more restful, more free from stress.

Well, family, friends (and total strangers into whose hands this packet has somehow fallen), on reflection (there's that word again!), I have decided that there is a certain chronological nicety about ending a section with the leaving of Kaduna. And so, either just before or just after our move, I will whomp this thing together and send it off. I hope the second system of having one person make good copies from a good copy worked better than the first set for which I again apologize. One learns. Ido (of course) have all this on computer, and although it is an Atari which most of you have never heard of an infinitely superior computer to the standard IBM no, it seriously is but a much smaller platform for developers and programmers. Anyway if I format the disk properly, I can even pass this on to anyone interested via a computer disk. Your IBM can read my disk, yup, it can. Trust me. So can, of course, an Atari, and so can (are you sitting down?) so can even a Mac. (Just because you haven't paid attention to the Atari computer doesn't mean it still isn't about six years ahead of the best IBM technology.)

Anyway it's time to close this letter, close my suitcases, close down the computer, and close out the all too brief sojourn of "Fr. John Visits Kaduna". 26 days from start to finish, including travel time. In just over a month from my arrival landed in Lagos on the 24th of December, back in Lagos on the 26th of January I find myself where I started. Well, not quite at JFK, but having completed one grand Nigerian circle. There's a certain symmetry in that that is not without appeal.

Take care of your charming selves, and know that although I have not been writing individual letters, birthday notes, weather reports, postcards (actually I haven't even seen a postcard, something which those acquainted with my handwriting undoubtedly react to with a certain relief. I have been getting some wonderful postcards from a young woman who is the daughter of an old friend of mine, and who is herself a friend of mine in her own right she is wandering through much of europe and has written several cards, onto which, with clear and minute hand printing, she manages to squeeze several hundred words. I am saving them for her and will return them to her when she turns thirty.) or the usual trivia people send home when abroad. But I have remembered you on your birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and at just odd times when something reminds me of you.

This will definitely and positively be the last of these for a while (a fact my dedicated corps of xeroxing friends will greet with enthusiasm, I am sure) but at least now you are caught up, and know where I am, at least temporarily. Until the peanut butter jar gets its lid unscrewed, so the jam spoon can have someplace to hide (did anyone else ever read Uncle Wiggily Stories?) I take my leave, whistling softly to myself as I head down the road from Kaduna. Next episode adventures in a J 5. (And 5 extra trivia points to anyone who knows what a J 5 is.) Until then, assume a major hug...