Julius kept running, bundling Duke into the steel-plated door of apartment 6J. They gasped and laughed as Duke pulled keys chained to his belt loop, turning two deadlocks, before a regular lock let them stumble inside.

‘Drink?’ Duke asked, kicking off squelching canvas sneakers as he moved towards the fridge.

It was a decent size by the standard of city apartments, though the entire place would have fitted in Orisa’s kitchen. There was a single bedroom and a small shower room. The main area was open-plan, with a basic kitchen at one end and a folding wooden partition separating Duke’s sleeping area.

Books and file boxes made the space feel smaller. Not just shelved, but mounded on chairs and tables. Histories, biographies, stacks of yellowing newspapers, jazz CDs, VHS tapes and audio cassettes hand-labelled with the names of famous people interviewed by Duke’s Uncle Remi.

As Duke poured a glass of Coke, Julius picked up a tarnished award, shaped like a TV camera on a tripod.

‘Nigerian Broadcaster of the Year, 1998,’ Julius read aloud, then from an award next to it that looked like a big gold testicle, ‘United States Broadcasters Association, Outstanding Report by an Overseas Reporter, Remi Balogun, 2003.’

A framed photo behind the trophies showed a decades-old picture of Remi in a brightly coloured safari suit. A man of action, jumping from a helicopter a couple of metres off the ground.

‘I remember when your uncle read the news,’ Julius said, nodding thanks as he accepted the Coke. ‘It’s eighteen hundred hours, and these are the headlines from Africa’s largest network …’

‘Uncle had a three-year contract, a smouldering Brazilian wife and a five-bedroom villa on Victoria Island,’ Duke said. ‘But he resigned when the broadcasting minister demanded that the evening bulletin have more lifestyle and entertainment news and less criticism of the president. Now, Uncle is a rebel, writing anti-corruption blogs and newspaper opinion pieces and binning angry letters about his bank overdraft and non-payment of his beloved nephew’s school fees.’

‘A rebel,’ Julius laughed. ‘That’s where you get it from.’

Julius moved to get a glimpse through the sliding balcony doors. He wiped condensation with the sleeve of his army jacket, thinking he might see smoke rising out of the precinct. But the view was in the opposite direction, towards Arctic Zoo. From this distance, the zoo was a hilly green canopy. The mildewed enclosures matching the green of overgrown paths and the hulk of the revolving restaurant topping the hill like some vast, rust-streaked flower.

‘I’ve drawn the zoo from up here,’ Duke said. ‘It looks eerie in the rain. And if the balcony doors are open, you can hear the tigers roar.’

Julius stared for ages. The violence at the precinct had been distressing and he tried to calm himself with deep breaths and the sight of rain pelting treetops.

‘Something stronger?’ Duke suggested.