She took him to see her mother, who had a room to herself. There were women, plenty of them, in the corridor and inside the room. Relations, friends, church members; they had come to be with her in her final moments. She looked so tiny in the narrow hospital bed, swaddled in the white hospital sheets, like a child. Her face was bony and drawn, yet when she opened her eyes a certain vitality still persisted in the sunken pupils – a death-defying light. He stood by the door, at the edge of the mat on which the women sat. They moved their legs, making room for Alice to reach the bed. The room was dark, close; a small, earthenware pot in a corner contained incense on coal, but beneath the smell of incense the odour of putrefying flesh was noticeable, a faint subterranean smell of death. Alice put down the food flask on a stand and sat on the edge of her mother’s bed. She took the shrivelled, claw-like hands and whispered softly, ‘Mother.’

‘Alice. You are here.’

‘Yes. How are you feeling?’

‘Better. How are your brother and sister?’ The voice was faint, whispery.

‘Fine. Uncle Ngai will bring them after school.’

There was a pause, then the mother asked, ‘And your father, has he phoned?’

Lomba noticed a tremor in the voice. Alice did not answer immediately; she leaned forward and flicked away an invisible speck on the sheets. ‘He hasn’t phoned.’ She looked up, as if seeking a distraction. She waved Lomba over.

‘Mother, this is Lomba. We were in school together.’

He went to the bed, bowed, feeling so inadequate, so out of place in this room full of women and the odour of death. ‘Good day, Ma.’

She turned to him. From this close the smell was overpowering. Her face was atrophied, wasted. ‘Hello, my son. Thank you for coming.’ She sounded tired.

When she fell asleep, Alice took him for a walk.

‘I am not keeping you, am I?’ she asked. She sounded anxious, she did not want him to go. They took a path that led to a quiet clearing away from the wards. They sat on a log under a huge, shady nim tree. ‘This is where I come to be alone.’

He was surprised when she brought out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘When did you start smoking?’

‘Back in school, in final year. You were gone then. Why did you drop out?’

The memories came washing over him like waves. He shrugged. He felt sad all of a sudden. ‘I guess I was exhausted.’

‘And what have you been doing ever since?’

‘I am a journalist. I am trying to be a writer.’

‘Yes. You were going to be a writer. Are you published yet?’

‘Not yet.’