As I neared my block, I began to notice how quiet and deserted everywhere looked. I had not passed a single student since I entered the gates; the basketball court, the kiosks, the benches, all were empty. Something was wrong. I remembered the boycott of lectures, the promised demonstration. I had been away for two days, and in that space anything could have happened. The air everywhere was so volatile, so charged, waiting to explode. I saw two boys standing at the turning to the girls’ blocks. They had stopped talking and were staring at me. I raised my hand and waved. They waved back.

My room was open, the door broken, hanging askew from the top hinge, half-blocking the entrance. And there were papers scattered all over the verandah and the steps, down to the grass. I looked around: other doors stood open, revealing empty interiors. I followed the trail of papers into the room. The room looked as if a battle had been fought in it: the mattresses were thrown on the floor; books, papers, file binders and cups and spoons covered the space around the mattresses, looking like motifs in a demented collage. I picked up a paper from the floor; it was a poem, my poem. I picked up another; it was a page from one of my short stories. I looked at the other papers, recognizing my handwriting, scared to bend down and gather them. Most of them were torn; boots had marched upon them, covering the writing with thick, brown mud. I felt the imprint of the boots on my mind; I felt the rifling, tearing hands ripping through my very soul. All I could think of as I stood there, with the torn, mud-caked papers in my hands and around me, was: I have been writing these stories and poems for as long as I can remember now, these are my secret thoughts and dreams.

I sat on the naked bedsprings. I saw my bag in a corner; shirt-sleeves and trouser-legs trailed out of it like intestines from a busted carcass. My mind was sore, tired; I could not think. The sound of feet shuffling up and down in the next room made me stand up. I rushed out. It was Adegbite. He was in the middle of the room, bending over an open box. He was stuffing books and clothes indiscriminately into it. He turned when he heard my footsteps. His eyes were wide and scared. He laughed when he saw me.

‘Lomba! Man, I thought it was the fucking police again.’

Police?

‘Yes. Where have you been? You missed the action. It was bloody brilliant.’

I looked round the room. Here, also, the mattresses were on the floor, and the iron window was broken off its hinges – that was all. No torn papers.