‘But Kela, don’t you think America is a bit too far to go to? There is a whole ocean to cross before one reaches there.’ They laughed.

I shook my head patiently. ‘No. It is not an ocean, it’s just a tiny river. All you have to do is to imagine it. Wait, I am coming,’ I said and dashed to my room. I came back with my Pathfinder’s Atlas and spread it open before them. They were amused and a little intrigued by my earnestness. I pointed. ‘See, this is Africa, this is Nigeria, and here is Lagos.’ I drew a line. ‘Across is America. If we could magically shrink up the ocean and reduce it to a little river, then all we’d need to get to the American shore is a tiny bridge. A walking distance, really.’

They laughed and stood up to go.

‘But think about it,’ I said. ‘All we need is a little imagination to discover that things are not as fixed or as impossible as we believe.’ I was trying to show them what Joshua had shown me, but all they did was pat me on the head and say to my auntie, ‘You have a young philosopher here, madam.’ And they left.

As soon as they were gone, Auntie Rachael left the bed and came and sat on the arm of my seat; she put her arms round my neck, resting her chin on my head. I was not used to this. My father only patted you on the back if you did well; and I had learned to duck under my mother’s arms whenever she opened them. But I let Auntie Rachael hold me for a while. Finally she pulled back. There were tears in her eyes.

‘Kela, my son, you must be careful. Never ever show them you are brilliant. They’ll kill you. Don’t you know that lightning only strikes the tallest tree?’ Her eyes left me and went to the wall. And now I saw it: what I had missed all along. The soldier’s picture was not on the table close to her bed any more. It was up there on the wall with all the others.

‘Poor Davou. He was like that, too. He never learned to keep his head low. He was always standing up for something, for someone. He was among the very first to volunteer when the war broke out. They killed him.’ Her voice was low and whispery. Her print dress smelled of camphor. Her eyes were not red any more these days, and the tell-tale smell was totally gone from her breath.

‘Go,’ she said, standing up, ‘and always remember, our land is a land of pygmies. We are like crabs in a basket; we pull down whoever dares to stand up for what is right. Always remember that.’