I first stumbled across the name Christopher Okigbo in the scorebooks and cricket records at the Government College, Umuahia – the English-style public boarding school at which Okigbo preceded me by what seemed like light years. He gained my admiration originally for his abilities in cricket. Then in 1984, one year after leaving the Government College, Umuahia, I read a memorial piece written on Okigbo by the journalist Mike Awoyinfa, which appeared in the National Concord. My curiosity was reinforced by a birthday gift of Labyrinths from my father.

After my first encounter with Christopher Okigbo's poetry, love grew like a mustard seed. I was challenged to make a full discovery of Okigbo's human essence, a prospect, which I thought, would unveil the enigma of the poetry. That first encounter was an initiation: it was the first time of experiencing total submission to the lure of poetry – the haunting lyricism of Okigbo's poetry – at the end of which there was, in fact, no end. There was only that purge of the emotions described by the critic Sunday Anozie as so characteristic of Okigbo's poetry.

Works by Sunday Anozie and Professor D.I Nwoga offered me only brief, though useful, biographical insights into the life of the poet. I felt that more needed to be done to give flesh to Okigbo's bones. I wanted to recover him fully as an individual who lived intensely, and who wrote poetry that was volcanic and enchanting. In setting about this task, however, there was the immediate problem of a generational gap. In my case, I never met Christopher Okigbo. I was but an infant during the Biafra War which brought Okigbo’s life to a sudden halt.