‘What are you going to do after school?’

‘I’ll become a writer.’

‘You mean a journalist?’

‘No, a writer. Novels and poems. I’ll dedicate my first book to you. “To Alice, the Love of My Life”.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

What light and winged things promises are, fluttering away on the wind no sooner than they are uttered. I also promised to meet you the next day when I left you in the morning, a happy smile on your face. I had a happy smile too. I look back at my life, before and after that moment, and I daresay that that was about the happiest moment of my life, that moment spent with you. We were not to meet again for over three years – because my friend went mad, because of the riots, because I dropped out of school, because of so many things. What was a mere promise in the face of all these cataclysms, what was love but luxury? But life’s paths are never straight, they wind and turn and convolute and return long-lost friends back together again – only now when they meet things can never be like they used to be: we have gone through so much sea change on our long voyage. We have acquired other tendencies, other appetites, other loyalties, and other pains. And other lovers: for me there was Sarimam – my other great love – but no two loves, or pains, or loyalties can ever be the same.

Lomba had gone to the Mercy Hospital in Ikeja to capture the dying paroxysms of a once-famous high-life musician suffering from Aids for The Dial’s arts page. After the slow and painful interview, he stood outside recovering, removing the cassette from the recorder – and there she was before him. He had seen the car come to a stop, he had seen the pretty girl step out and wave to the man behind the wheel; the car left and Alice stood there before him.

‘Alice!’ he exclaimed. He made no effort to conceal the pleasure and surprise in his voice.

‘Lomba!’ In her voice too there was pleasure and surprise. She was wearing a light-blue dress with black shoes; a broad snakeskin belt hugged her waist, accentuating her curves. And her face… How could he describe Alice’s face other than to say it was her face, unchanged, yet subdued, more mature.

‘It’s been long,’ he said superfluously.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

He pointed to the food flask in her hand. ‘You came to visit someone?’

‘Yes, my mother.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘She is ill?’

The mother had breast cancer. It had been discovered too late. The breast had been removed, but the rot had already infected other cells. She was dying.