He shakes his head. The news has left him confused. ‘I like you… but I am impotent,’ he says at last. ‘I don’t have a gun.’

They leave. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, but the sky still rumbles, the clouds keep gathering, choking up the last traces of light in the sky; far away on the horizon a building burns in leaping flames, defying the rain’s pacification.

‘The arsonists are still busy,’ James mutters, glancing at his parked car, which is up to its bumpers in water. The roads have all turned into rivers bearing logs, items of clothing, a cooking pot, a dead dog. They roll up their trousers and wade grimly through the flotsam to the car.

James checks the doors to confirm that they are locked. ‘I’ll send someone to get it later. Let’s go.’

Lomba follows James through dim alleys and flooded back roads; their shoes are heavy with water and mud. Often he stumbles – the beer he has drunk makes him feel light-headed and dreamy. Finally, James stops before a house gate. ‘Here we are,’ he says. They roll down their trouser-legs and stamp the mud off their shoes. There are cars parked by the gate. ‘He has visitors.’

James pushes open the gate and they find themselves before a front door caged in burglarproof railings. James presses the doorbell and they wait in silence. Emeka Davies comes down himself to let them in. Lomba recognizes him immediately: tall and huge and bearded and light-skinned.

‘James!’ he exclaims, his pleasure lighting up his face. He unlocks the security bars and engulfs James in a bear hug.

‘I was told they had taken you away! Thank God! Thank God!’

‘This is Lomba, he writes for our arts pages,’ James introduces after the hug. Lomba finds himself wrapped in the huge arms.

‘I am a fan. I read your pages religiously.’

‘Thank you,’ Lomba says, gasping for breath.

‘Come up and meet the boys. Every writer in Lagos is here today. We are having a reading for two young poets who were arrested yesterday. Akin and Ogaga. You’ve heard about them, of course?’

He leads them upstairs, holding them by the hand. This makes climbing the dark, narrow stairs awkward, and Lomba stumbles, hitting his leg on a step.

‘Watch out. Careful. Careful.’

The sound of music reaches them before they get to the door. Afro-beat. Fela. The saxophone blare twines itself around them and drags them forward. The room is full and noisy and brightly lit; the windows and doors are all open. Figures sit on seats around the cleared centre where couples dance close together. Everyone seems to be holding a beer and a cigarette. At the door, Emeka claps his hands dramatically and calls in a loud voice for attention. The dancers stop. Someone lowers the music; all eyes turn to the newcomers.