Category Archives: From Us



…If you no get money hide your face

I hide my face…

Kamsy sat up on the bed, paused the music blasting out of the loud speakers and looked around his messy room, his fortress of solitude where he had literally been hiding his face all December because…no money. I mean, he thinks to himself, if you’re gonna listen to the noise that is Nigerian music, at least adhere to the little bits of ‘advice’ that come with it. This Christmas period had been the most financially uncertain period of our young hero’s life.

His mother’s younger brother, Femi Martins, who also doubled as his favorite uncle had sent him a substantial amount of dollars at the beginning of the month. This money had come with the usual ‘Jesus is the reason for the season’ bants that Kamsy had been subjected to on numerous occasions. He still could not understand how his uncle who had been the Playboy-In-Chief of the Federal Republic had gone to the abroad and become a different person entirely, neither could he trace the whereabouts of all the dollars the man regularly sent. 

He walked to the sitting room and turned up the volume of the TV as the news anchor was going through the local headlines. Top of the bunch was the rape and murder of popular Lagos socialite Kehinde Cole’s identical twin sister Taye. Odd, he thought. Just two days ago on the next street, the butchered corpse of Yimika Johnson’s sister Nina had been delivered to her doorstep and the poor woman had been in a shock induced coma ever since. Apparently, there were crazy humans going about raping and killing even in this festive period.

Kamsy shook his head and went back to his room to dress up and leave the house, inwardly cursing the traffic that was bound to be waiting for him outside. Even with all the Igbo people, including his parents, that had gone for Harmattan Olympics in the village, the congestion on the roads of Lagos was still very bloody and the fuel scarcity was not helping matters.

The cold, dusty Christmas weather struggled to defeat him as he made his way outside. For the thousandth time, he asked himself why exactly he was going to this party on the last weekend of the year. And again he acknowledged that it was simply to meet one (or maybe two) of those very fine babes he saw everywhere on Twitter who were just in the city for the holidays and would be going back to the abroad in the new year. Uncle Femi might have retired but he, Kamsyochukwu Kenneth Ukeje, was still very much in the business of heartbreaking, despite the current downturn of events.

Still, he thought to himself, this single life had followed him all year and now into 2018, and it was all his fault. His ashewo tendencies made sure that he could never commit to one woman and it had caused him serious problems all year long. He slowed his pace and thought about his life so far and where his future was headed…His academics were not going as planned, there was an ache in his soul that a hundred girls could not fill, he was procrastinating a lot and not putting his numerous talents to good use. Christmas is, after all, also a time for sober reflection. And as he is about to sink into one of his many depressive episodes, he remembers the numerous things he had to be thankful for this Christmas season.

Food on the table, no matter how hard the times.

A family that loved him and would always be there.

Good friends who would never let him stray too far away and always hit him with the truth, not caring how much it hurt.

All in all, he decided that he was a pretty blessed guy living a life that he knew many would die for. Kamsy smiled as he realized that, for the very first time, he was looking forward to 2018. It was gonna be a beautiful year.

And with his confidence restored, our young hero proceeds to battle for what may well be his final (con)quest.

Great Opara

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Posted by on December 31, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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​I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas Just like the ones I used to know,

Where the treetops glisten and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow…

He slouched in the sleigh, his face grim. His eyes were dark, a contrast to his pallid white face. Tufts of white hair stuck out from under his cap and his nostrils. His red robe hung awkwardly over his thin, gaunt frame while the buttons threatened to pop at midsection, his ever growing paunch stretching the worn out material uncomfortably. St. Nicholas was not a happy man. His wife had left him, the elves had resigned and he had to visit Lagos this year. It was definitely the worst Christmas ever. 

Santa had always been a sweet, nice old man. He gave gifts to the kids (and adults) who believed and were nice throughout the year. To the folks who had been naughty, there was nothing too drastic. No gifts and chunks of coal stuffed down their stockings. They were usually good after that. But this year was different. Santa was going all out. He was going to make sure that the naughty ones got what they deserved. The sleigh came to a stop on a rickety roof. He checked the address and a ghastly smile spread across his old face. It was the house of Kehinde Cole, his first victim. With some effort, he jumped down from the sleigh and gave Rudolph an affectionate pat. As he went in through the windows, his bag of coal on his back, he marveled at the irony. 

  The house was deathly quiet. The metallic harmattan air brushed against his skin. He turned his nose up in disgust. He missed snow. He heard a rattle in the kitchen and moved towards it. He saw her standing beside the sink, washing a glass cup. He dropped his bag and lunged for her. As they clattered to the floor, she turned around, her face a collage of different emotions; surprise, shock, fear and finally, recognition. Her eyes bulged like they would pop out of the socket and in a barely audible voice she gasped. Father Christmas.


In and out, in and out. As Santa rammed into her, she screamed. She knew it was fruitless but she did it anyway. As she looked up past his heaving beard into his eyes, she saw something that made her skin crawl. A realisation came upon her and she screamed louder than before, thrashing her arms wildly on the kitchen tiles. 


As he looked into her teary eyes he felt control. At this moment, he was in charge. In charge of her. In charge of himself. He had not felt like that in that in a while and he had missed it. Oh, the things we take for granted. He heaved and let out a roar as he he climaxed, an orgasmic spasm rocking his body. He felt his strength slipping away slowly and got up to finish the task quickly. 


As he got up, she looked into his eyes and she knew it was all over. 


Kehinde Cole unlocked the door with her daughter jumping beside her. It had been a long trip and she just wanted to sleep. As she stepped into the house, her hand reached for the light switch. The yellow glow bathed the room and she turned to the stairs. “Mummy! What is that?!” Bimpe, her daughter shouted. She turned quickly to see the cause of Bimpe’s  fear and let out a scream of her own. 

Hanging from the ceiling was a transparent stocking filled with charcoal and some white and red stuff(WAIT. WERE THOSE BONES? WAS THAT BLOOD?). But, what made her scream and made her curl her toes in fear was the head on the floor just under the curtains. The eyes had been plucked out and the nose had been broken badly. The tongue hung out limply and the entire face had been mutilated with what must have been a very sharp object. What made her scream was the fact that she knew that face. It was basically her face. It was the face of Taye, her twin sister. 

He sees you when you’re sleeping, 

He knows when you’re awake. 

He knows if you’ve been good or bad

So be good for goodness sake. 

Written by Joshua Nwabuikwu

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Posted by on December 30, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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Nina’s car breaks down at exactly 10pm on Christmas Eve.

The road is deserted and the silence is eerie and unsettling.

This small road leading to the rural village in Ondo State where her company is holding a health outreach tomorrow doesn’t look like it is frequently used. For miles, she hasn’t passed any other cars or even pedestrians.

Sighing tiredly, she gets out and heads to the bonnet.

She opens it and stares at the confusing maze of wires underneath.

Nope. Still as incomprehensible to her as they were the day she bought the car.

She closes it and screams out in frustration.

Her scream echoes back in the silence.

Reaching into the car, she grabs her hand bag and searches for her phone.

She checks the battery percentage.

Ten percent.

Just great, she mutters.

She rummages inside her bag, searching for the power bank she knows she probably forgot in her haste to leave home this evening. It was a wonder she even remembered her phone.

Still, she says a silent prayer as she searches for it.

After a futile search, she gives up and dumps the bag back on the front passenger seat.

She hears a rustle in the bushes and jumps.

Cursing, she opens her car and gets in, pressing the automatic locks.

This makes her feel marginally better.

She berates herself internally for not joining the staff bus that left at 2 this afternoon. All because she wanted to meet her mum and sister for their monthly girl’s lunch.

This one was kind of compulsory since Yimika was getting married in February and planning was still in progress.

Never mind that her mum spent half of lunch asking when she would bring her own husband. She wished she had not gone now.

Snapping out of her thoughts, she contemplates her next course of action.

A quick glance at the map she brings out of her glove compartment shows that the next village is fifteen kilometres away. She shudders at the thought of even walking a hundred metres on this road 

She looks at her phone and tries to decide who to call. Her battery can only support one call.

She decides to call Ayo, her friend and colleague. He had driven down this morning to make final arrangements for tomorrow’s outreach.

Who even organizes this kind of events on Christmas day, she grumbles. 

Chime, the lead PR officer had assured the board that this would buy them good PR.

Just like the company to put good PR over the staff Christmas’ plans, she mutters.

She dials Ayo three times.

He picks the third time.

The network is bad and she can barely hear him.

Her phone goes off as she yells that she is stranded on this deserted stretch of road.

She puts her hands on her head as she mulls over what to do next.

She can either attempt the 15 kilometre trek or sleep in her car and hope a good Samaritan passes by in the morning.

Option B seems more promising though she is very scared of sleeping here.

The eerie quiet is broken by the sounds of birds calling to each other. She remembers a line of the popular Christmas song

…my true love gave to me, 4 calling birds…

She shudders again.

She hears the sounds of the approaching vehicle before she sees it.

It is a Nissan pickup truck with only one person seated in it.

She jumps into the middle of the road and waves frantically at it.

The truck pulls up behind her car and the driver steps out.

He is tall even though he appears to be slouching, making him look shorter. His face would be ordinary looking if not for the ugly scar on the right side of his face. The scar starts just under his right eye and spans his entire cheek, ending under his chin.

The man smiles but doesn’t say anything as Nina explains her predicament and opens her bonnet.

As she bends over the open bonnet, he grabs her from behind.

Nina screams but her scream is muffled by his gloved right hand covering her mouth.

She didn’t notice he was wearing gloves.

She struggles but his grip is strong.

With his other hand, he holds her lower body down.

She bites his gloved hand but he doesn’t let go. She can hear his muffled curse as he drags her, feet kicking, to his truck.

He opens the glove compartment and pulls out a white handkerchief.

He presses the sickly smelling handkerchief over her nose.

She struggles but his grip is too tight. The cloying scent of the handkerchief is making her head spin and she feels as if she is being sucked into a vortex.

She feels dizzy and weightless as he presses harder over her nose.

He is chuckling softly, making little sounds that sound like ho ho ho.

Nina hears him softly whisper, Merry Christmas, my dearest.

Then everything turns black.


Nina had woken up in some weird places before. University had been a rollercoaster for her. It was usually the alcohol’s fault but there was no substance to blame for waking up in a rusty old cage usually meant for larger animals, except chloroform, maybe. The room is sparsely lit with poorly arranged, dim light bulbs scattered across the ceiling and it smells terrible. Like rotten meat. “How long have I been asleep? Hours? Days?” As she struggles to piece her thoughts together,he notices her moving and walks up to her cage. His figure striding towards her brings her memories flooding back as if her brain has been jump-started. Seeing him now makes her question why she would ever trust this man to help. He looks like a monster. His face is barely visible in the lighting but his scar still stands out, disappearing into a thick white beard he didn’t have earlier. He isn’t slouching anymore. He stands at least 6’2 which is terrifying enough without his being built like a fat man who had recently discovered a gym. The blood stained cleaver in his hand completes the look, like a butcher Santa Claus and as you would expect, those two things come together in a terrifying way. He stares at her. His eyes roaming about her figure, ignoring her screams and demands to be let loose. She spits in his face hoping to get some reaction out of him, anger, disgust, lust. All she gets, however is a smile as he wipes the spit of his face with his shirtsleeve and turns around. He is enjoying this. Savoring the moment. Nina watches in horror as he walks slowly back to his table, bumping over one of the other empty cages. She sinks to her knees, eyes full of tears as the reality dawns on her. This is her last Christmas.

 It was truly an awful neighborhood. Such a rich neighborhood and yet no one was skeptical about a 6’4 man dressed like Santa Claus who had left a box on the door step of Yimika Johnson’s house where she lived with her fiancé. But who could blame them? It was the season of giving and he was dressed like the giver-in-chief himself. Every regular person would assume that was what he was doing and the rich snobs liked to mind their business. They weren’t wrong anyway. He was giving. The same way he had every year to different families, as the season demands. He hoped she would like her present though. He didn’t want her to be put off by the stress of having to put her sister back together again. As he rode away, listening to his medley of Christmas songs, dashing through the imaginary snow, he watched several children on the road side launch fireworks into the air. It was Christmas. 

He let out a  deep “Ho, Ho, Ho.” 

For tis’ the season to be jolly.

Written by Miracle Eme and Martin Achimugu

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Posted by on December 29, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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I hate Christmas. 

And everything that comes with it. (But not the weather, I live for the cold) 

The little children running around with excitement with their fake Christmas toys that they’ll most likely forget about when the season is over. The Christmas movies that are dug out of oblivion. 

The annoying whatsapp BCs are on another level entirely! 

What about all the relatives whose existence I’d totally forgotten about coming to pretend to visit when all they want is to finish all the food in the house. Asking for things like it’s their money we used to buy them.

Please who told all of them that they have to visit? A simple phone call would do. In fact, don’t call. Text. That’s good enough. 

So another Christmas is coming. Another seemingly endless round of everything I was ranting about up there. I can’t deal. 
I sit up on my bed, thinking about my options.

1). I could call my boyfriend so we can have some chill time togeth… wait, I’m single. How can I not know? I don’t have a boyfriend. Maybe that’s why I’m so angry. I’m used to avoiding everything annoying about this season by spending long hours on the phone talking to my boyfriend. Now I don’t have that boyfriend anymore. sigh. Life is a pot of beans.

2). I could run away. Nah. I have no money. I’d die of starvation before I got 10 miles away.

3). I could just stay here, fake a smile and struggle my way through the day. What’s the worst that could happen? Not like I won’t come out alive anyway.

I look forward to the New Year. When everything returns to normal and all the nosy relatives go back to their homes where they can face businesses that actually concern them. School is reopened. Another good thing. I get to meet and interact with real people, (my 2 or 3 friends), and then I get to showoff to my ex that I’m a better person now and I’ve moved on and pretend to be happy and all when in fact, I really miss him. 
But I refuse to be the first one to talk *laughs in pride and petty.* Yeah life is that hard. I can’t wait to see him sha.

Written by Tomiwa Adebanjo and Taiwo Famakinde


Posted by on December 29, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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 On this day of Christmas my true love gave to me……….(a number of) lanes of Lagos traffic. Yes, Lagos traffic. That shii is bloody hectic. But that’s just the kinda Christmas cheer I need. A perfect way to end the very eventful and totally unstressful year. Actually if you look at Lagos traffic against any other in the world, it’s incredible. E.g. in some city in Germany I think, when there’s traffic and an ambulance needs to go through, the vehicles move to the extreme of either of the outer lanes. To me, I think that’s messed up. Ahnahn, wetin happen? Me that I’m driving private car, I came for sightseeing abi? I don’t have destination? Or me that I’m in Danfo, I came to Ikorodu road for excursion?

That’s why I love Lagos. First off, there’s no demarcation of lanes. Those nonsense white lines are just decoration. Lagosians will always create another lane on the highway. Danfo and Ambulance will drive “iwakuwa” to hustle for the same space, BRT will leave it’s designated lane to come and make life more difficult for others. Now, that’s the true spirit of Lagos. Who rules epp?? Let me not even get started on the fact that the little roads we were managing, those enormous “alakoba” disasters-waiting-to happen trucks have slimfitted everything. Is it Murtala Muhammed Way? trailer. Eric Moore/Nigerian Breweries road/ Costain link? trailer. Eko/Idumota road? trailer. Every major road link on the mainland is trailed with trailers leaving a trail of filth, and every other ingredient that make up the recipe of an eyesore as you encounter them.

If you’re going from the Island to the Mainland in the morning, you’re against traffic and are really lucky. If however you’re coming from the mainland to the Island, you should be ready to wake up really early and pray against one-chance buses(that’s another story for another day). 

You think those on the Mainland are the only ones suffering? I bet you those on the Island (Lekki especially) have their fair share of the Lagos cake. If you live in Lekki and you work in Ikoyi, you have to leave your house by 6:30am so that you won’t get to work by 9.

The most irritating thing is that after sitting down innocently for hours and you manage to scale through after at least an hour, you won’t now find a reasonable explanation for the traffic congestion. 

Danfo passangers could be regarded as the luckiest or the unluckiest in this. You might make a new friend whom you may or may not like. And if you’re single and searching your miracle might be waiting for you in Lagos Traffic, so that we can have danfo-themed pre-wedding photos shoots. You can be really unlucky if you have all these fish-selling market women in your bus, especially if you’re sitting next to one. To complicate matters, the person should now come and go and be fat….I have nothing but sorry to say to you. The ones I really pity are those who lap 3-4 children. The leg would have been dead before they get to their destination. 

On a more serious note though, as much as I hate to think about it, Lagos traffic will remain till Thy Kingdom Come. 

But I do hope this Christmas, we can have a magical true love that will give us a traffic-free Lagos. Please, don’t suggest fuel scarcity. 

(PS: this article was written ten days to Christmas and ended up being an ill timed prophecy lol)

Written by Mayowa  Akinyemi and Ayomide Alajogun

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Posted by on December 28, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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Some of my fondest memories of Christmas somehow all lead to church. I know right, of course. From when I was little, I looked forward to the Christmas parties, the Christmas carol service where I would finally hear my ‘Laughter song’ and all the beautiful attires in the packed full sanctuary on Thanksgiving Sunday.

I looked forward to the rice and the chicken, the dessert and all of the meals.

Growing up, it started to become much more. I finally had friends, those I could write long messages to, wishing them a merry Christmas and prosperous new year! In came BBM and BCs, every 25th was cluttered with messages. We had WhatsApp and it started to get more innovative, voice notes of people singing carols and sing-song beautiful voices filled with wishes. Uploading the bang pictures and getting so many comments, likes on Instagram and the anthem, Where’s my own rice and chicken?

From getting over a hundred individual well-wishes from randoms to mere two, three or more from those who matter. Spending the day with family, crafting memories, reflecting and lending a helping hand to others.

At some point, in all of this evolution, it started to become clear.

Not like I didn’t know that before, it’s way more than the messages, the food, the bang attire (because I slayzz) and all of that. It’s much more.

Christmas is light, it’s hope and joy. It’s the proof of something we believe in. It’s like a celebration of faith in some sort of way. Obviously, the King wasn’t born on 25th but it’s a symbolic day, of faith in the King; in his beginning, his love and everlasting life.

Christmas is that day of the year I literally have to forget all my problems and just be grateful for all I have achieved. Reflect on the person I am becoming and wonder if it’s positive or negative.

Christmas to me is family.

It is the day I realize my family’s true standing financially and be grateful for what we can afford in an ever trying economy.

Christmas is thanksgiving.

It is a time you can be grateful to give out to people who can’t afford to get things .its the day carrying out trays to the neighbors is seen as a norm and not usual.

Christmas is for Reflection .

It is the day you realize some goals you set weren’t achieved but you brush it off cause being alive transcends hope.

Christmas is Love 

It’s togetherness and friendship because as a person you tend to exhibit these traits in the spirit of togetherness and love .

Christmas is being Realistic.

It’s knowing you don’t have a chimney so no santa fallacy to hold on to but you if you could still go out to the Nigerian ever present Grottos you settle for that.

Christmas is spending.

Christmas is new clothes and a constant struggle to lose weight on a teenagers mind .its the December shows you feel more pressured to attend.its the shoes or hair you splurge on and knowing January would be a really long month.

Christmas is Spiritual growth.

It’s a time to reflect and understand that indeed there is a God and no matter what condition you are right now he’s going to navigate you out.

So for a day drop your worries,stress less and smile more because the first two never change a situation.

Christmas is Jollof.

Just focus on the Jollof Rice and be grateful because many that saw the last one aren’t here today.

Written by Titilope Adedoku and Dolapo Omotoso

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Posted by on December 28, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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‘I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know…’

The lyrics to this popular Christmas song arrested and pervaded the mind of Akinfemi Martins, a Nigerian lawyer based in America with his family as his ten-year old son softly hummed to it, and he could not help but think about certain obscure Christmas traditions. 

Why does Christmas have to white?

What’s wrong with a Black Christmas for a change?

For ages, Femi knew, the white man had always taken the lead, even on a festival as universal and diverse as Christmas. People anxiously desired a white Christmas with a white Santa and white snow flakes! Nobody cared about a Black Christmas (or Latino or Asian, to be fair), or even gave it consideration. He found it amusing because he believed the African man had achieved greater exploits than any Tom, Dick or Harry from Europe or the United States, and is therefore deserving more of praise and admiration in whatever manner.

Femi’s thought’s were cut short by the arrival of Boluwatife, his five year old son. His chubby figure was well accentuated by his tiny, innocent eyes. “Dad? When is Santa coming from the North Pole with his gifts? Christmas is about him, the elves and the gifts after all!

Being a devout Christian, Femi strongly believed that Christmas marks the birth of Jesus Christ, the Nazarene Messiah. His Nazarene Messiah. Still in shock, he was soon joined by his beautiful wife, Toke, who held a tray of Christmas crackers. 

Can you believe what our son just said?” He addressed her, barely amused.

Toke adjusted her front hair with her free hand. “What else could have attracted me here?”

This is why I love you, Femi thought. “If Christmas is indeed about Jesus, why then do these white folks want to make it about them? I mean why is a white man- pardon me- a white old man with a funny name and a protruding belly, handing out presents to people, especially children, on Jesus’ birthday? And nobody senses a pervert vibe? No offence Santa.” Or maybe a lot of it.

Looking at the shimmering Christmas tree beside the fireplace, Femi felts his wife’s soothing palm kiss his shoulder. His eyes drifted from the illuminated masterpiece to his wife, who had joined him on the couch. 

Even with all that, we both know Jesus highly recommended sharing. Personally, I don’t have a problem with the gifts; they represent charity. Rather, my issue lies with the person handing them out. A black Santa can make my little babies happy too. I mean, the bearded dude is practically black by nature. According to these white folks, black screams deviance, so how does it become a pleasant ‘surprise’ when an old white man breaks and enters houses at night through a chimney and not the front door?

Nostalgia suddenly rumbled within Femi. “We did this years ago in Criminal Law, didn’t we?Constructive burglary?

Feigning indifference, Toke folded her arms comically. “Äkinfemi Martins. Forever the show-off smartass.”

Like you haven’t schooled me multiple times.” Femi replied, his hands tenderly greeting his wife’s make-up-free face. “And I trust my African people, the anointing oil gets unleashed once Santa shows his face.

“I can almost imagine my uncle Josiah engaged in one of his fire prayer sessions.”

Femi smiled wistfully. “God bless his soul.”

The prevous Christmas turned out to be his last. At least, everyone took solace in the fact that it was very memorable, after he succumbed to a heart attack in July.

Even with all said and done, I also need to understand the ideology behind the disparity as to animals killed during festive periods. Rams are killed during Muslim festivals, turkeys during Thanksgiving and then the awardwinning Christmas chicken. Why do animals have to dread such joyous moments while we humans celebrate? Or could the right question be, why isn’t there a uniform sacrificial lamb for all seasons?

Even as Toke struggled to hold back her laughter, she could not play down the possibility of her chat ending anytime soon.

Christmas, the time of the year when families gather to be jolly, merry and ho ho ho, what beautiful moments are shared. Yet, I do not understand why families strive to leave their fatherland for the white man’s land. What’s so wrong with families converging here and celebrating Christmas in Africa? Nigeria, to be precise? What’s wrong with a black Christmas in a black man’s land with his black family?  Why can’t there be dreams of a black Christmas? 

Written by Olamide Davis and Clinton Durueke

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Posted by on December 27, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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