But somehow it is hard to imagine that Lomba died. A lot seems to point to the contrary. His diary, his economical expressions, show a very sedulous character at work. A survivor. The years in prison must have taught him not to hope too much, not to despair too much – that for the prisoner, nothing kills as surely as too much hope or too much despair. He had learned to survive in tiny atoms, piecemeal, a day at a time. It is probable that in 1998, when the military dictator Abacha died, and his successor, General Abdulsalam Abubakar, dared to open the gates to democracy, and to liberty for the political detainees, Lomba was in the ranks of those released

This might have been how it happened: Lomba was seated in a dingy cell in Gashuwa, his eyes closed, his mind soaring above the glass-studded prison walls, mingling with the stars and the rain in elemental union of freedom; then the door clanked open, and when he opened his eyes Liberty was standing over him, smiling kindly, extending an arm.

And Liberty said softly, ‘Come. It is time to go.’

And they left, arm in arm.

The Angel

Today is the last day of my life.

I knew it when I woke up in the morning and saw a crow croaking on my window ledge. I shivered and waved the pillow at it. I watched it fly away through the trees, croaking till it disappeared.

‘When your time comes, you’ll know,’ a marabout once told me.

Now I know; even if I hadn’t seen the black bird I would have known.

Death hangs around me like a mist, and now as I sit by the window in this bar, waiting for the Angel of Death, I feel as if anyone that looks at me can see it.

‘Only a blessed few can see Israfael, the Angel of Death, when he comes for them. His face is the most terrible thing to behold,’ the marabout said. His words echo in my mind as if he is standing before me, uttering them. But it was six months ago that we went to him, Bola, Lomba and I. We had gone, on Lomba’s suggestion, to Badagry to see the slave port, but halfway through the tour we wandered off, depressed by the guide’s mournful and vivid descriptions of how the chains and mouth locks had been used on the slaves.

‘There is a fortune-teller somewhere on the beach. Let’s go to him,’ Lomba said. But when we found him he told us he was not a fortune-teller.

He had a crude shed made of bamboo and raffia high on the cliff, overlooking the sea. He was seated on a flat rock before the shed, a skinny Buddha, facing the water. He was naked but for a goatskin around his waist; his skin was wrinkled and scaly from sunburn. His head was clean-shaven; his eyes were hooded, dreamy.