‘What’s that?’ he muttered. A small crowd ahead, by the roadside. But crowds are a normal aspect of Lagos streets: bell-ringing commodity hawkers offering a bargain, or a miracle healer plying his trade, or a fight, or a robber being lynched, or a preacher… It was a preacher. He was balanced precariously on an upturned bin, arms flailing demonstratively as he sang a song of devotion preparatory to a sermon.

It was not a preacher, it was Bola. We stood at the crowd’s fringe, staring, dumbfounded. The song was ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, and his chest heaved and his eyes rolled with fanatical frenzy as he sang it. He was barefooted, dressed only in his boxer shorts and a flimsy T-shirt. He stopped the song abruptly mid-stanza and began to speak.

‘The military has failed us. I say down with khakistocracy! Down with militocracy! Down with kleptocracy!’ His right hand, clenched in a fist, pumped up and down with each declamation. ‘According to Wole Soyinka, “The man dies in him who stands silent in the face of tyranny.” According to Amilcar Cabral…’

He was repeating, word for word, Sankara’s speech of yesterday.

‘Something is wrong with him,’ Paul said, shock and dismay in his voice. ‘He is foaming at the mouth.’

He must have been at it for some time now. He looked exhausted, but he was gripped by some maniacal energy that kept him standing, waving his arms, pushing his progressively hoarsening voice to the edge of the gathering and beyond. The crowd consisted mainly of loafers: park touts, out-of-work bus conductors, Area Boys, all eager for a little diversion, drawn by the acrid whiff of incipient violence. The respectable part of the crowd, civil servants on their way to work, began to disperse as Bola’s words became more and more incendiary.

‘Let’s get him,’ I said to the twins. I began to push forward. ‘Excuse me please, excuse me.’ I ignored the glares and hisses, firmly pushing aside elbows and shoulders. Peter and Paul followed closely in my wake. When we were almost at the centre, we suddenly realized that we were not the only ones approaching Bola. Two men, identically dressed in long black coats and dark glasses, had reached him just a step ahead of us. One was talking to him; one stood beside him, his eyes panning the crowd, his hands in his pockets. Security agents.

‘Bola!’ Peter called. At the sound of his name, Bola lifted his eyes and began to smile. But the men held both his arms and plucked him down from his perch. He followed them meekly as they forced their way through the crowd. We hurried after them till we were walking abreast of them.