‘Hello, hello! Ladies and gentlemen, brotherhood of the pen! I am happy to announce that we have here with us a man who a moment ago we all thought had been arrested; a man whose office was this morning torched by… well, we all know by whom.’ Everyone laughs; he goes on: ‘Mr James Fiki, editor of The Dial. And with him is Lomba, also of The Dial.’

Loud clapping. The seated figures totter to their feet, the dancers disengage – all make a beeline for James and Lomba. They shake hands and hug and utter congratulations. Lomba finds himself holding a beer. Someone drags him to one side. ‘How did it happen, exactly?’

Lomba gulps his beer. He doesn’t know how to start. There are over five faces circling him, waiting; he feels like an actor on his first night, petrified by the lights, scared he’ll miss his cue.

‘Were you in the building when the fire started?’

He turns to the voice, grateful for the cue. ‘No. We came and met the fire.’ They are still waiting. But what more is there to say? ‘Everything was burnt to ashes.’

‘The bastards!’

‘I’ll write that into my new poem.’

‘I’ll use it as the prologue to my new book. It is just the symbolism I’ve been searching for.’

Hands grasp his. Names are mentioned. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he repeats at each introduction. A kaleidoscope of faces: some he has met before, a lot he is seeing for the first time. He feels his head reeling, but he quaffs his beer determinedly. When he moves, he staggers and almost falls. Someone holds his hand. ‘Steady.’

He is led to a seat… He flops down and searches the room for James. At last he sees him standing out on the balcony, deep in discussion with Emeka Davies. The music comes to an end. A young, waif-like figure in a baggy jacket stands alone on the floor, a piece of paper in his hands.

He speaks: ‘The title of my poem is “Now Is Time”. It is dedicated to Akin and Ogaga and Dele Giwa and all brothers and sisters in the struggle.’ He proceeds to read in a surprisingly deep and sonorous voice:

‘Chains break

When they get weary of chaining

And the chained, like the chick within

The egg, waiting, is visited by Liberty’s sunlight

Now is the time

To cast off our irons,

Time to step off night’s threshold,

Time to redouble effort, like rowers

Approaching shore

Time is

Quicksilver, always fleeting, its favours

Ungathered, and once gone none can recall it,

Delay it, or bend it:

Now is time

To stifle for ever

The crafty demons of this earth that

Daily clip our wings. Now our sun

Is rising, our gloom lifting. Now is

The time to cast off the iron that binds us.’

‘Nice, isn’t it?’