What He Didn't Ask Nigerian Writer

He went to a book reading
By a Nigerian writer
With his daughter
Who studies Africa.

Though he didn't know her books
He liked the fragments she read
But questions from the floor
Embarassed him--people
Grabbing the mike to prattle
About their feelings when they
Read the books. Who cares,
He wanted to say but instead,
To speed up the time.
He amused himself imaging reaching
For the mike for himself. And saying:

"You know, the stuff you write about,
The heat, dust, poverty, violance,
I don't recognize any of it.
Why should I, I admit,
I have never been near to Nigeria in my life.
But I do have a personal connection
To your country. Very personal, in fact.
When I was in the fourth grade,
P.S. No. 3, Warsaw, Poland,
Neighbors who lived the same floor as us
Had just returned from a two year stint in Nigeria
Where they were building a road
Or a steel mill perhaps, something socialist
In any case. And they returned rich.
And not just rich--having more stuff'
Than others--but real rich--
Having stuff nobody else had.

The neighbor's son, a boy my age,
Had been my best friend before they left;
Was my friend no longer;
Now he walked around the courtyard
Of our apartment building
In flip-flops, unknown until then,
Whose clap-clap sound
Was a proof to all of us
Of Nigeria's immense riches."

He smiled to himself
Imagining how mortified
His daughter would be
If he did reach for the mike.