prologue

late in 2035 , my train was gasping and panting up the steep incline that leads on to the bauchi plateau Northern Binegi. It was a chilly morning; I had been traveling third class for over two days and two worrisome but sleepless nights with scarcely any room in which to stretch my warry legs; I felt bored to death,and anxious to get the journey over.

My companions were mostly French men, Biroms from the plateau, a few English traders who cluttered up the train with their, wares,and one or two schoolboys who sat at the far corners of the carriage, talking excitedly about their forthcoming holiday. In such mixed company, conversation was apt to be rather forced, and little remarks intended jocularly generally went wrong and got misinterpreted as insults.Soi dicided to hold my peace for the rest of the journey.

But there was nothing, I could do to relieve the boredom I experienced, I had read novel and porn magazines I brought with me; the scenery was too farmiliar to excite me, and my temper was in no state to be improved by any undue mental exertion.

As I sat staring before me,the man seated opposite me did a most unexpected thing. He took out a bag from under his seat,and fumbing in it, brought out a small flat blue book. He looked at it smiling for a time, and then put it back into the bag and continued to stare out of the carriage window as if waiting for someone dear to him.

there was nothing unusual with this.The book was has, and, presumably,he had paid his fare. But my attention had been drawn to his face,and for the first time since the journey had begun, I really noticed it. It was the face of an old man, bearded with weak eyes from which the tears ran down freely. Even in a sitting posture,it was easy to see that he was bent,and that his limbs were strunk. What strikes me particularly was the man's uncleanliness. He was very dirty, his hands were cracked by the harmattan, that cold dry wind that corrodes everything lying between the Sahara and the Gulf of Guinea; his clothes were grey with dirt; His face looked unwashed.And yet that book he gloated over was a very farmiliar one.