I know where the turn-off is. I guide the driver. Dark paddy fields lie on either side of the road. The little boutiques by the wayside are shut for the night their plank doors closed tight. Men are stretched out, sprawled in sleep on the cemented ledges. Drowned in sleep. Covered against night chilis with a light cloth flung over their bare-chested bodies. A lorry carrying vegetables, coconuts and bunches of half-ripe plantains wrapped in sacking and straw is parked on the roadside. The driver and cleaner sleeping under it, feeling the warmth of the tarred road from the day’s heat. A night kade is still open, neon lights blazing away. Hopper batter is being tilted in the pan. White, crisp-edged hoppers are piled up on a single plate. Rows of Fanta, Sprite, Pepsi, line the shelves. Bright orange, green, red, brilliant shining colours. We now take the road which leads into the interior. We pass tea and coconut estates, earth walled huts. We reach our destination.

It’s the family property, a coconut estate of a hundred acres. Several family members have built their houses on this land. None of them will dare come out. No one does, these days. No one wants to risk life. These are dangerous times. The knock on the door at midnight heralds the unknown threat. Abduction. Disappearance. Death. The leader of the revolutionary movement for that locality lives closeby. Although ‘our man’ belongs to the ruling political party, they are both on good terms. So the killing won’t be pinned on him. Death will come from his own people, those whom he has served for years, so faithfully too.