Lomba answers, ‘He needs his passport.’

She takes it better than he expects. A brief silence, that is all, then she nods. ‘I understand. And money?’

‘Yes. Foreign exchange.’

When she returns with the two items, he tells her, ‘He said he’d contact you at his sister’s house, in Ikoyi, early tomorrow.’ The money is in pounds and dollars, a thick wad held by a rubber band.

‘Tell him to take care… not to worry about us. Let him do whatever he has to do.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ Lomba says, then he adds, ‘I am sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ she says.

He stands up to go. He asks, ‘Is there a back door?’

She leads him out into a tiny courtyard with more roses in flowerpots. She opens the back door and peeps out carefully before stepping aside. ‘Just take the path and you’ll come out on the next street.’

But it does not work out that easily. They are waiting for him when he appears on the next street – one of them, really. He is in the obligatory black coat and dark glasses; he appears suddenly beside Lomba as he stands by the road, anxiously waiting for a taxi.

‘I knew you’d take the back road,’ the man says, grinning smugly at Lomba, pleased that his deduction has turned out right.

Lomba turns a blank look on him. ‘Good day. Are you talking to me?’ he asks as pleasantly as he can. He searches out of the corner of his eye for an alley-mouth to dart into, or a doorway, but they are right by the road, alone.

No cars or pedestrians pass; only the huge, dark, evil sun hangs above their heads, looking down derisively. Lomba attempts to turn and walk away casually.

‘Don’t!’ the man hisses. He nods towards his right hand, which is in his coat pocket and is customarily clasped around a pistol.

‘What do you want?’ Lomba blurts out, throwing away all pretence.

‘Let’s go to the car,’ the man hisses again. Lomba notices that the hiss is not voluntary, not part of the cloak-and-dagger accoutrements, but because the man’s mouth is twisted: a broken left jaw that has mended badly. There is a scar on the jaw; it has been carefully concealed, but imperfectly, with a beard.

‘What car?’ Lomba asks, his mind like a trapped bird, flapping about, seeking a way out.

The man comes closer, shaking the hand inside the coat. ‘Don’t waste time. You must take us to him. We saw you pass together. Come on. Oya, let’s go.’

‘Don’t you want to see what I came to pick up, the money, the passport?’ Lomba asks, dipping his hand into his pocket.