Lomba suddenly remembers Sarimam. But it is as if she belongs to another world, another life – even her face is getting blurred in his mind. Has that much time passed? As if to reclaim his pain, last week’s heartbreak, as if to re-order his life, which is careering on an uncharted path, he says, ‘My girlfriend left me.’

They look at him. James pats him on the back. Emeka smiles and says, ‘Don’t worry about her. You’ll find someone new. You’ll love again…’ His final sentence is drowned out by the sound of his name being called loudly at the door. He stands up just as the caller rushes in.

‘Emeka, come, they are here!’ the man breathes rapidly.

‘Who?’

‘Soldiers! They are at the gate, asking to be let in.’

James looks at Lomba. He says, ‘You must leave here now. I am sure there’s a back door somewhere.’

They rush out after Emeka; they find him at the balcony, peering down. They see the green jeep parked right by the gate. There are about ten soldiers, each with a rifle. One of them is banging on the gate with the butt of his rifle. At that moment, a soldier looks up and sees them staring down at them.

Emeka turns back into the room. ‘These idiots will break down the gate if I don’t open it. Everyone must leave. Clean up the place.’

Lomba holds James’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’

James shakes his head. ‘No. I’ll stay. I am tired. I am sure there’s a secret room somewhere in this house. I’ll take a nap there till the soldiers are gone,’ he says with forced lightness. ‘You really must go now.’

People are streaming towards the back door, some still clutching their drinks. Lomba pulls him into his arms and gives him a brief hug. ‘Bye.’

They avoid looking into each other’s face. Lomba flows with the flowing bodies. He finds himself beside the painter. ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been searching for you,’ she says, flashing him a concerned smile, taking his arm possessively. ‘Follow me, I know all the hidden turnings.’

He follows her. They emerge into a long, narrow alley that leads to another street. She leads him to a car parked by a restaurant. ‘Hop in. This is my jalopy.’

He almost weeps with relief as he opens the car door and enters. He gives her a grateful smile and says, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Mahalia. My parents hoped I’d be a gospel artist – I ended up a painter,’ she says with a grimace and starts the car. ‘Maybe I’ll try my hand at poetry; I could make it faster as a poet, get out of this fucking country.’

‘Maybe,’ Lomba agrees. His eyes keep scanning the buildings and street signs as they drive.

‘Are you looking for something?’