‘Not possible? Why? Because he loves you more than me? Because he has more money? Why? Give me one reason, Alice, just one.’ He saw the stricken look on her face and realized that he had gone too far. He returned to his seat. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean that.’

When she spoke her voice was impersonal, distant. ‘Don’t be. It is true. It is the money. Are you shocked? Do you know how much it costs to keep my mother here a day? Twenty thousand naira. This is the best cancer hospital in the country. Twenty thousand, and she has been here over a month now. Where did you think the money came from – my father? My father has left us. Over one year now. He is in Abuja with his new wife. Ngai pays for everything – everything, including this dress I am wearing. Now do you understand?’

He did not answer. He only stared into the night dumbly. He felt her hand brush his, and her voice whisper, ‘Lomba, I am so sorry. So sorry. You must hate me now. Do you?’

Hate you, Alice, how could I? You were the idol of my idolatry. And even now, two years later, in my prison cell, as I look at the picture of you beside Ngai, in your wedding gown, all I can think of is the feel of your lips on mine when you kissed me that night before leaving me on the log under the nim tree. Later, much later, after your confession, I had asked you, ‘Don’t you feel something for me, even a little?’ I was looking for a keepsake, a souvenir to bring out and caress later. It was as if I knew I would one day end up a prisoner, forever separated from you. You did not answer me. You stood up and started to go, then you turned back and took my face in your hands and planted a feverish kiss on my lips. You turned and ran off towards the lights in the wards. I wonder why he waited so long before marrying you – was it to give you time to recover after your mother’s death? Or could it be that you were hoping, hedging, praying that I would…

*

‘You no de tire, you don look that picture for hours now, abi you know dem?’ a voice in the gloom muttered, shaking Lomba out of his reverie. It was one of the inmates; it was he who had brought the paper. The paper was months old, but it did not matter. It would go from hand to hand, eagerly read by anyone who could read, till it was tattered and undecipherable. The man reached for the paper; Lomba released it reluctantly. How was he even sure it was Alice? It could be mere resemblance; but what of Ngai…

‘Fine girl, abi?’ the man whispered, admiring the picture. Lomba nodded and whispered softly, ‘Yes, very fine.’

Lomba