Uncle Bode opened his mouth and closed it again wordlessly. I could see the pain etched like gullies in the landscape of his face; he seemed on the verge of tears. Doctor Dimeji stood up and whispered something into his ear; he nodded vigorously. He turned to Bola and said, ‘Let us go to your room. We’ll talk there. You too. Bola’s friend?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

I followed them down the corridor to Bola’s room. Bola took out his keys and opened the door. The moment we entered, Bola turned and faced his uncle. In a firm voice he said, ‘Uncle, I am not a kid. I know something terrible has happened to Dad, or Mum, or both. That’s why I came. I knew they were going to you in Ibadan yesterday… Has there been… an accident?’

The uncle sighed and bowed his head. He appeared relieved that the burden of breaking whatever bad news he carried had been lifted off his shoulders. In a toneless, droning voice he narrated the woeful tale.

There had been an accident. Bola’s family – father, mother and two sisters – had been in a car crash. It was late in the evening, yesterday, Wednesday; they were on their way to Ibadan for a visit. The after-rain road was treacherous and full of illusory reflections. The father, driving, had failed to see the truck lying on its side in the middle of the road. It was a military truck carrying the furniture of an officer on transfer from Lagos to Ibadan. The father and mother, who were in front, had died instantly; Peju, the elder sister, died on the way to the hospital; the other sister, Lola, sustained minor injuries and was presently in a hospital in Ibadan. Uncle Bode had been contacted early this morning by the hospital where Bola’s father worked, and the first thing he did after taking the corpses to the mortuary and putting Lola in a good hospital was to bring his wife and children down to Lagos to meet Bola, because he didn’t have the courage to do it alone.

‘We want you to come with us to Ibadan. Can you?’ he asked at the end.

‘Of course, of course. I have to see Lola,’ Bola replied. His voice was too cordial. His eyes were too bright – but there were no tears in them. He went with stilted steps to the bed and sat down. I sat down beside him. The uncle went and opened the window; he stood with hands folded behind him, his eyes fixed on Bola. I noticed his lips twitching. Bola was staring straight before him at the poster of a musician on the wall. Unseeing. A car came to a stop outside.

‘They are back. Paul and Peter. I’ll tell them you are here,’ Uncle Bode said, but he didn’t move.