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Nine is a Head with Feet Dangling Odoh Diego Okenyodo I remember him not by his face at first, but by the discipline of his slippers, side by side, as though waiting for evening prayers. A chair had fallen. Two feet hovered above it still, suspended above bathroom rubber slippers and the red dust of harmattan morning. We were schoolchildren at NKST* running toward noise the way children do barefoot, curious, unafraid. Busy Iyorkyaa Ako Street hardly ever shouted. Inikpi Street preferred silence. Makurdi** was still known as Wailomayo then. The thatch hut crouched quietly under harmattan light. We thought it was fire. But no smoke rose to the pale sky of Shehu Shagari's 1983. Curiosity pushed open the door and stood on tiptoe. There was a beam at the centre of a conical roof. There was a body borrowing height from a rope. There was a mouth slightly parted not in speech, not in hunger which there was a lot of; just gravity at work. Adults gathered. Their whispers were louder than the...