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gifts of yams, pots of palm- wine or bottles of European drink, goats, sheep, chicken. Or those who brought their children to live with us as house-boys or their brides-to-be for training in modern housekeeping. In spite of the enormous size of our family there was always meat in the house. At one time, I remember, my father used to slaughter a goat every Saturday, which was more than most families did in two years, and this sign of wealth naturally exposed us to their jealousy and malevolence. But it was not until many years later that I caught one fleeting, terrifying glimpse of just how hated an Interpreter could be. I was in secondary school then and it was our half-term holiday. As my home village was too far away and I didn't want to spend the holiday in school I decided to go with one of my friends to his home which was four or five miles away. His parents were very happy to see us and his mother at once went to boil some yams for us. After we had eaten, the father who had gone out to buy himself some snuff came hurrying back. To my surprise he asked his son what he said my name was again. 'Odili Samalu.' 'Of what town?' There was anxiety, an uneasy tension in his voice. I was afraid. 'Urua, sir,' I said. 'I see,' he said coldly. 'Who is your father?' 'Hezekiah Samalu,' I said and then added quickly, 'a retired District Interpreter.' It was better, I thought, to come out with it all at once and end the prolonged interrogation. 'Then you cannot stay in my house,' he said with that evenness of tone which our people expect a man of substance to use in moments of great crisis when lesser men and women would make loud, empty noises. 'Why, Papa, what has he done?' asked my friend in alarm. 'I have said it.... I don't blame you, my son, or you either, because no one has told you. But know it from today that no son of Hezekiah Samalu's shelters under my roof.' He looked outside. 'There is still light and time for you to get back to the school.' I don't think I shall ever know just in what way my father had wronged that man. A few weeks later, during the next holidays I tried to find out, but all my father did was to rave at me for wandering like a homeless tramp when I should be working at the books he sent me to school to learn. I was only fifteen then and many more years were to pass before I knew how to stand my ground before him. What I should have told him then was that he had not sent me anywhere. I was in that school only because I was able to win a scholarship. It was the same when I went to the University. The trouble with my father was his endless desire for wives and children. Or perhaps I should say children and wives. Right now he has five wives---the youngest a mere girl whom he married last year. And he is at least sixty- eight, possibly seventy. He gets a small pension which would be adequate for him if he had a small family instead of his present thirty-five children. Of course he doesn't even make any pretence of providing for his family nowadays. He leaves every wife to her own devices. It is not too bad for the older ones like Mama whose grown-up children help to support them; but the younger ones have to find their children's school fees from farming and petty trading. All the old man does is buy himself a jar of palm-wine every morning and a bottle of schnapps now and again. Recently he had plunged into the politics of our village and was the local chairman of the P. O. P. My father and I had our most serious quarrel about eighteen months ago when I told him to his face that he was crazy to be planning to marry his fifth wife. In my anger I said he was storing up trouble for others. This was, of course, a most reprehensible remark to make. The meaning was that I didn't expect him to have much longer to live, which was indelicate and wicked. Had Mama not intervened he probably would have pronounced a curse on me. As it was, he satisfied himself by merely vowing never to touch a penny of mine since he must