Ben Tsenong was a scientist, and he understood science. He did not understand the world, and most of what he knew of the world, he hated. He hated all the countries that used nuclear energy; he hated the people in those countries for the lights they left on, for their mindless television programmes, for their Space Invader machines, for their ice-crushing machines, for their neon lights and moving staircases and sunray lamps, for their electric toothbrushes, and toy train sets, for everything that was useless and meaningless and guzzled the energy that had made nuclear power at all necessary; and made it necessary for his father to spend his life down in that mine, breathing in those particles of dust that had radon atoms clinging to them, which had gone down into his lungs, and sat there, and set to work, beaming out destruction, killing good cells and making bad cells, until the bad cells began to multiply on their own, without any assistance, and dreadfully, painfully, started to kill the life that was his father, and destroy forever the will to live that was his mother.

Namibia had no nuclear power stations. The uranium that was mined here went mostly to Europe and North America. His father had never switched on a light that was fuelled by the uranium he had dug from the ground.

Smed came back in. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I can see what you mean,’ I said.

Smed offered me another cigarette; I declined. He lit one for himself.

‘Does the name Lukas Ogomo ring a bell?’

Smed’s eyes opened wide, and he nodded. ‘A very bad bell.’

‘Why?’

‘If he had his way, he would close down all uranium mines in the country, and if independence comes, he may well get his way. He’s totally committed to it, and although generally speaking he’s only a small noise in SWAPO, on uranium he is their leading spokesman. He’s friendly with Tsenong’s son too – but I don’t know how they know each other.’

‘Where is he based?’

‘Windhoek. Operates from SWAPO’s headquarters there. You thinking of employing him too?’

‘No, but I’d like to have a chat with him.’

‘I don’t think you’ll get very far.’

‘How about if I went to see Felix Wajara?’

Smed grinned broadly. ‘He eats white men for breakfast. You wouldn’t get an audience; you’d be wasting your time. If you want to talk to anyone, Ogomo is your best bet – it’s a slim bet, but at least he would be approachable. But be careful what you say.’

‘I’ll try.’

Smed looked at his watch. ‘Do you want to see around the mine before lunch? Or shall we just have a large drink here?’

‘Let’s just have a large drink here,’ I said.