At first I was discomfited by his taciturnity, which I mistook for moodiness; but in close-up I saw the laughter kinks behind the eyes, the lips twitching, ready to part and reveal the white teeth beneath. I came to discover his playful side, his pranks on the girls, his comradely solidarity with Bola against the others. Apart from his work, his family was his entire life. Now I saw him – in black and white – after work, at home, seated on his favourite sofa, watching CNN or reading the papers, occasionally turning to answer Lola’s persistent, needling questions, or to explain patiently to Bola why he couldn’t afford to buy him a new pair of sneakers just now. Big, gentle, quiet, speaking only when spoken to. Remember him: conscientious doctor, dutiful father, loving husband and, to me, a perfect role model.

But Ma Bola was my favourite, perhaps because she was so different from my mother, who was, coincidentally, the same age as her. Ma Bola was slim, her figure unaltered by years of childbirth.

‘Your sister?’ people often asked Bola, and he’d look at his mother and they’d laugh before correcting the mistake. Ma Bola was a secretary at the Ministry of Finance – she called her husband ‘darling’, like white people. Her children were ‘dear’ or ‘honey’. The first time she called me that, I turned round to see if there was someone else behind me. She had laughed and patted me on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to our silly ways.’ Like white people. Her greatest charm was her ease with people. She laughed so easily; she listened with so much empathy, patting you on the arm to make a point. After a minute with her you were a captive for life.

‘Take care of my husband for me,’ she told me often. That was how she sometimes fondly referred to Bola: ‘my husband’. ‘He can be so impulsive, so exasperatingly headstrong.’

‘I will,’ I promised.

She went on to tell me how, in traditional society, parents used to select friends for their children. We were alone in the kitchen. She was teaching me how to make pancakes. ‘Cousins, usually. They’d select someone of opposite temperament – someone quiet, if theirs was garrulous, someone level-headed (like you), if their own was impulsive. They’d make them sworn friends for life, to check each other’s excesses. Very wise, don’t you think?’

‘Very.’

‘If I was to select a friend for Bola, it’d be you. But Providence has already done it for me.’