‘Because Nigeria was thrown out of the Commonwealth of Nations early this morning. It was on the BBC.’

They return to their seats. Lomba avoids James’s eyes as he passes him.

‘You can’t write with chains on your hands.’ James’s voice is soft now, apologetic. ‘Sorry, I had to be brutal – but you needed it. We are all in this together. That young man: I saw the doubt and uncertainty and fear in his eyes; of course he knows that in our country there cannot be a peaceful demonstration, the troops will always come, there will be gunshots, and perhaps deaths. He knows that, I am sure, but he is still willing to do it. The time has come when a few bruises, even deaths, don’t matter any more. That’s why I think you should go. To encourage him and show him he is not alone.’

Suddenly Lomba feels ashamed, ashamed that he has shown himself to be insensitive, even morally wanting. He nods. ‘I understand… I am sorry.’ James is his mentor; the one person he’d choose if he were to choose a role model. He’d want one day to be able to say exactly what he means, to mean exactly what he says; to shed all that is excess, unnecessary, so that at first sight his beholder could say, ‘This person is like this, and not like that.’ James is about fifty.

‘I have something to show you, it will make you understand better why nothing must be taken for granted,’ James says, smiling. He picks his jacket from the hanger behind him and puts it on. He adjusts his tie. ‘Come, we are going to Badagry.’ He is a tall man, over six feet. Lomba feels dwarfed when he puts an arm around his shoulders and steers him to the door.

Outside, the sun hangs low in the sky, red and opaque, the way it looks at sunset – but this is only noon. The heat makes the road ahead shimmer and shift.

‘It will rain today,’ James says. He has not told Lomba what he is going to show him at Badagry. The road is deserted on both sides, they seem to be the only commuters. Where has everybody gone too? Lomba wonders. It is as if a heavy threat hangs over the city – threat of a plague, or war – and everyone has parked their cars and locked their shops and run home to die before their hearths. Even the car radio is filled with static; the announcer’s voice waxes and wanes unintelligibly. They pass Mile Two, pass the State University, pass Okoko, and soon the sleepy village of Badagry looms before them.

‘We are going to the slave museum.’ James shows his hand at last. The museum is an old, narrow, single-storey building on the beach.