We slept early. At seven o’clock, before turning in, Auntie Rosa and the twins came in to say good night. I was seated on the chair, staring through the window at the darkness outside. I turned and stood up. We watched as she went and stood at the edge of the bed, her hands clasped over her bosom. She remained like that for almost ten minutes, staring at Bola’s sprawled form. Then she turned to us. Her face looked tired, her eyes were red and swollen. She raised up her hands, her face staring at the ceiling. ‘God, God, it is you that knows everything,’ she said, her voice husky and cracked from crying.

‘Good night, we are in the living room if you need us,’ Paul and Peter chorused as they led their mother away. Bola woke up around three a.m. I had not slept; I had lain in the dark, staring at the ceiling through the gloom. Different thoughts flitted through my mind as I listened to his heavy breathing beside me. Then the breathing stopped abruptly. He sat up. I felt him staring at me. I held my breath, my eyes shut tight, pretending to be asleep. He got out of bed, feeling his way carefully in the dark. He went out of the room. Through the half-open door I heard his soft footsteps heading for the bathroom. When he returned he stood in the dark facing me, then he went and turned on the light. Through slitted eyes I watched him take out something from the desk drawer – it was his photo album. He moved the chair to the desk and opened the album and started to flip through the pages. It was his family album. I knew the pictures, each and every one of them. On my first night in this room, we had lain on this bed, side by side, as he turned the pages and introduced me to each snapshot, each occasion, each universe. I gritted my teeth and shut my eyes tight as I felt the tears threatening to overflow. Not now, Lord.

My first day with the family replayed itself in my mind, but in black and white, and the reel grainy and distorted in places. I was seated with the family, nervous, pretending to follow Carl Sagan on TV, covertly assessing their movements and utterances. Peju, seated next to me, suddenly turned and asked casually, ‘Lomba, what is the capital of Iceland?’