‘Welcome, sir,’ he says to Lomba, extending his hand and pulling out a seat for him. Lomba shakes the hand. He has never seen the man before, who looks to be about the same age as him. The young man resumes his seat. There is an old-fashioned decorousness to his gestures and carriage, a gravitas that Lomba finds uncommon.

‘This is Mr Joshua Amusu, from Morgan Street. He came to see you specifically… well, he’ll tell you why,’ James says. Ordinarily, James is fond of long, complimentary introductions; Lomba wonders why he is willing to relent today. He turns to Joshua.

‘Mr Lomba, you may not know me, but I know you. I was your neighbour when you lived on Morgan Street, about two years ago,’ Joshua begins. Lomba nods. He doesn’t recognize the face, but that is not remarkable; the two years he spent on Morgan Street are now a blur in his mind; they’d been harsh and brutal years, filled with hunger and near despair, until James saved him.

‘I am afraid I don’t recall your face.’

‘It is all right. I came because of a feature article you wrote on Morgan Street two years ago – about our abject condition. It was a good piece, it gave a lot of us hope. I still have it. I came in the hope that you would want to write something like that again.’

Lomba smiles. ‘You want me to write another article on your street? What good would that do you? Nothing happened after the first one.’

The young man turns to James as if for help, but James only smiles and nods encouragingly. ‘Go ahead, Mr Joshua, tell him about the demonstration.’

‘We are going to have a demonstration, a peaceful one, next week, at our Local Government Secretariat, and we want you to report on it.’

Joshua turns fully to face Lomba and for the first time Lomba notices how intense the young man is. He has the build and the eyes of a fanatic – deep, sunken eyes that seem to glow in their sockets as he speaks; he has a thin, wispy beard to which his hand strays as he makes a point; and he is thin, almost emaciated. But his intensity is restrained, almost unnoticeable.

‘A demonstration…’ Lomba says, talking to James. ‘Isn’t that a risky thing to do at this time?’

‘It is something we have to do. All we want is to draw the government’s attention to our plight,’ Joshua says. How simple it all sounds, Lomba thinks; but the man doesn’t look like a simpleton.

‘What if trouble breaks out? It usually does. The military government doesn’t take kindly to such things.’