Spokes knew exactly what he needed to do in order to reciprocate in full. He needed to let go of Daisy … finally.

To this end, he placed the two original forms in their respective manila envelopes, sealed and addressed them in the cursive that had made the missionaries not only proud of him but also have faith in him. Next, he placed the two duplicates in a white envelope and wrote his wife’s name on it. Last, he placed the blue carbon paper in his top drawer and locked it – barely used blue carbon paper was a much-prized commodity in these parts. When left unguarded, carbon paper had been known either to grow legs and walk out of the station, or develop magical abilities that allowed it to disappear into thin air.

It was long past the time he should have left for home, he thought as he reached for his fedora, which hung on the hook behind the door. He opened the door carefully and looked down the corridor at the movement and noise coming from the canteen at the other end. The corridor itself was empty, and the Desk Sergeant seemed to be intently examining the backs of his eyelids. For all of this, Spokes was truly grateful. He confidently went to place one manila envelope in the Chief Superintendent’s pigeonhole, and the other in the receptacle for outgoing mail. Before making an unobserved escape, he stopped at the Desk Sergeant’s station and quietly placed a few coins on the desk. Next, he wrote on a piece of paper, ‘For Petty Cash. Took two envelopes – one manila, one white – for personal use,’ and then wrote his initials, S. M. M. He placed the note under the coins, thankful that the Desk Sergeant was such a heavy sleeper.

He put the white envelope under his arm on his way out the building and was just reaching for the handle of the door that would lead him into the cool evening air when he heard something fall over and the Desk Sergeant curse and then say, seemingly without missing a beat, ‘I’ve got it, sir!’

Spokes could have pretended not to have heard him above the din, but he chose to turn around instead. ‘Got what?’ Spokes said, playing along, knowing full well what the sergeant was talking about.

‘What your middle initial stands for,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Marvellous!’ he shouted.

Spokes looked at him and then said, ‘Couple of chaps came up with the same name on the second Sunday of June 1973, I believe.’

‘And?’

Spokes let him hang in suspense for a minute and then said, ‘Not it, I’m afraid.’

The Desk Sergeant made a loud disappointed sound.

‘Is it an English name?’ the Desk Sergeant called after him as Spokes placed his hand once more on the door handle.

Spokes nodded.

‘A proper English name or an African English name?’

‘Both,’ Spokes mischievously announced over his shoulder.

An African English name was understood to mean an English word that expectant African parents had taken a particular shine to, regardless of what it actually meant, and which they would give as a name to their unsuspecting child. For instance, Spokes’s first name was an African English name. When Reverend Michael of the London Missionary Society had ridden his bicycle to check on the health of one of his flock, the woman had been greatly enamoured and fascinated by his bicycle, especially its wheels, especially the metal wires that ran in its wheels, especially the fact that the metal wires kept on rotating after the bicycle had come to a stop and the good reverend had lain the bicycle on its side in her front yard. She admired the metal wires’ ability to carry on even after the journey had ended. The woman, who was not ill at all but expecting a baby, pointed at the metal wires and asked the good Reverend, ‘What is that?’