Bola looked up at him and said in the same cordial voice, ‘They must have missed us by minutes.’

‘I’ll tell them you are here.’

Now we were alone. I didn’t know what to say. Anything I said would be inadequate, awkward. Bola was still staring at the poster. The picture had been taken on stage; the man had a microphone in his right hand, close to his mouth. He stared back at us; the red light above him made his hair fiery, like a burning halo.

I cleared my voice. ‘The dream you had was right, then,’ I said. My voice sounded hollow.

Bola nodded. He was sitting straight, propping himself with both hands on the bed. ‘Just like that.’

I wished he would cry, or scream. This calm was unnatural.

‘I am sorry…’

‘Thank you,’ he replied automatically. I was relieved when the uncle returned with Peter and Paul in tow. They formed a solemn line, the father in the centre, facing us. The twins – huge and awkward, politely smiling and looking sad all at once – were so identical it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.

‘Peter, Paul,’ Bola intoned with a bright smile. ‘You missed us.’

‘Yes,’ they both replied.

‘We found the campus gate barred by the students – there was a sort of demonstration going on,’ the twin on the father’s left added.

‘So they’ve already started,’ Bola said, turning to me. There was a long silence.

The uncle put his hands in his pockets and brought them out again. He caught my eye. ‘Let me have a word with you,’ he said and walked out. He was waiting for me in the corridor. ‘Well, what do you think? Isn’t he behaving strangely?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe we should call the doctor.’

‘Good. Go and call him.’

I went to the living room. The women looked up expectantly when I entered.

‘How is he? How is the poor boy?’ Auntie Rosa asked between sobs.

‘He is fine.’

I looked at the two men who were still in the same posture as before, hunched forward in their seats, their hands clasped between their knees.

‘Uncle Bode wants a word with you, Doctor.’

Uncle Bode met us halfway down the corridor. ‘I think you need to take a look at him, Doctor. He appears too composed, too calm. Not a single tear.’

‘It is normal. He is in deep shock, too shocked to cry. The tears will come later,’ the doctor said. ‘The best thing now is for him to rest. Let me get my bag.’

When he returned, he gave Bola an injection in the arm. Bola extended his arm and stared at the needle disappearing into his flesh without flinching. The doctor patted him on the shoulder. ‘That will make you sleep. You need the rest.’

‘Thank you,’ Bola said.

‘You’ll stay with him,’ the doctor told me as they all left.