Presently, the girl returns with the three bottles of beer on a tray. She puts one in front of each of them and opens them.

‘Thank you,’ Lomba says.

She smiles sweetly at him. ‘Na me go thank you, for the beer.’ She is a sex worker, and extravagantly dressed for the part. The top buttons of her tight, almost transparent blouse are open, exposing the top of her breasts. She is wearing no brassiere and her nipples are clearly visible through the dress. She smiles, and bends forward, cradling her bottle in both hands, rubbing it against her chest. She can’t be more than twenty-one, and quite pretty in a vacuous, unmemorable way.

Lomba turns to James. ‘This rain won’t go soon.’

James looks at his watch. ‘Three.’ But outside it is almost dark. The black sun hovers over the rooftops, still searing hot despite the rain.

‘The place we are going to is not far from here. When the rain abates we’ll walk there.’

‘Who are we seeing?’

‘A friend of mine. He is a writer, a poet. Emeka Davies.’

Lomba nods. He knows the name, he has read the man’s work, though he has never seen him. Not face to face. He has seen him on TV and in the papers, vituperating the military. He does not hide his membership of the underground pro-democracy group, N A D E C O (National Democratic Coalition). Most of the group’s members are in jail, or in exile – Emeka has refused to run away. ‘I Am Not Scared of Arrest’ was the headline of the last interview he granted Dele Giwa’s Newswatch. Lomba notices that the girl has dragged her chair next to his. She pulls at his arm and smiles. She introduces herself: ‘You no tell me your name, my own na Gladys.’

‘Hello Gladys. My name is Lomba,’ he says, casting an embarrassed glance at James, who isn’t looking at them – his head is bowed tiredly over his drink.

‘Lomba, which kin’ name be dat?’ she asks, and without waiting for his answer adds, ‘I like am sha. I like you.’ Her eyes meet his boldly. He turns away.

Someone claps his hands at the counter, asking for silence. They look up. The barman is fiddling with the volume control of the TV. There is a surge of bodies towards the counter, towards the TV. A hush falls on the room as the announcer’s words reach them: ‘… Alhaja Kudirat Abiola, wife of the jailed business tycoon and politician, Chief Moshood Abiola, was shot dead today by unknown assassins on the expressway…’

‘My God!’ James whispers. A loud murmur follows the announcement. Everyone is talking at once. ‘The bodies keep piling up.’

The girl is pulling at Lomba’s arm, impatiently now. ‘I get room behind. Make we go.’

‘No,’ he says.

She pouts. ‘You no like me?’