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black white-men for drink tea and coffee in the hot afternoon,' said Chief Nanga. 'Whisky and soda for me and for Mr Samalu.' Chief Koko explained that nothing warmed the belly like hot coffee and proceeded to take a loud and long sip followed by a satisfied Ahh! Then he practically dropped the cup and saucer on the drinks-table by his chair and jumped up as though a scorpion had stung him. 'They have killed me,' he wailed, wringing his hands, breathing hard and loud and rolling his eyes. Chief Nanga and I sprang up in alarm and asked together what had happened. But our host kept crying that they had killed him and they could now go and celebrate. 'What is it, S. I.?' asked Chief Nanga, putting an arm around the other's neck. 'They have poisoned my coffee,' he said, and broke down completely. Meanwhile the steward, hearing his master's cry, had rushed in. 'Who poisoned my coffee?' he asked. 'Not me-o!' 'Call the cook!' thundered the Minister. 'Call him here. I will kill him before I die. Go and bring him.' The steward dashed out again and soon returned to say the cook had gone out. The Minister slumped into his chair and began to groan and hold his stomach. Then his bodyguard whom we had seen dressed like a cowboy hurried in from the front gate, and hearing what had happened dashed out at full speed to try and catch the cook. 'Let's go and call a doctor,' I said. 'That's right,' said Chief Nanga with relief and, leaving his friend, rushed towards the telephone. I hadn't thought about the telephone. 'What is the use of a doctor?' moaned our poisoned host. 'Do they know about African poison? They have killed me. What have I done to them? Did I owe them anything? Oh! Oh! Oh! What have I done?' Meanwhile Chief Nanga had been trying to phone a doctor and was not apparently getting anywhere. He was now shouting threats of immediate sacking at some invisible enemy. 'This is Chief the Honourable Nanga speaking,' he was saying. 'I will see that you are dealt with. Idiot. That is the trouble with this country. Don't worry, you will see. Bloody fool....' At this point the cowboy bodyguard came in dragging the cook by his shirt collar. The Minister sprang at him with an agility which completely belied his size and condition. 'Wait, Master,' pleaded the cook. 'Wait your head!' screamed his employer, going for him. 'Why you put poison for my coffee?' His huge body was quivering like jelly. 'Me? Put poison for master? Nevertheless!' said the cook, side-stepping to avoid a heavy blow from the Minister. Then with surprising presence of mind he saved himself. (Obviously the cowboy had already told him of his crime.) He made for the cup of coffee quickly, grabbed it and drank every drop. There was immediate silence. We exchanged surprised glances. 'Why I go kill my master?' he asked of a now considerably sobered audience. 'Abi my head no correct? And even if to say I de craze why I no go go jump for inside lagoon instead to kill my master?' His words carried conviction. He proceeded to explain the mystery of the coffee. The Minister's usual Nescafé had run out at breakfast and he had not had time to get a new tin. So he had brewed some of his own locally processed coffee which he maintained he had bought from OHMS. There was an ironic twist to this incident which neither of the ministers seemed to notice. OHMS---Our Home Made Stuff---was the popular name of the gigantic campaign which the Government had mounted all over the country to promote the consumption of locally made products. Newspapers, radio and television urged every patriot to support this great national effort which, they said, held the key to economic emancipation without which our hardwon political freedom was a mirage. Cars equipped with loudspeakers poured out new jingles up and down the land as they sold their products in town and country. In the language of the ordinary people these cars, and not the wares they advertised, became known as OHMS. It was apparently from one of