ABSTRACT
in the spring of 1969 I was invited by telephone by a Committee for Biafran Writers and Artists and I accepted at once. The lady at the other end of the wire in New York told me about shots and preparations and then began to giggle. “You mean you’re really going? You’re not going to think about it and call back and say you can’t? Do you know there isn’t any place to sleep and you may not eat for a week?” It was odd to hear her laughter across the continent.
