The sharp sound of Brother’s peg leg on the floor made me look up. He was standing in the doorway, the bead curtain bunched in one hand, the other hand on the door frame. There were two men in the restaurant, eating. They looked up at the same time and said, ‘Brother, Brother!’ their mouths full of eba. Brother limped to the man nearest the door and shook his hand; he waved to the other. He was in a black kaftan, and even from afar I could see the beads of sweat on his tar-black face.

‘This heat wan finish us kpatakpata,’ he remarked, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He had a hoarse, smoke-scarred voice. He was a big man, and I could easily imagine him holding two soldiers by the neck, one in each hand, till they died. He sat down at the first man’s table, in one of the white-plastic chairs with ‘Godwill’ written in dark paint on their backs. He lifted his head and caught me staring at him.

‘Hey, boy! On this fan.’ He pointed at the stationary fan above him.

‘It is faulty,’ I replied, staring curiously, trying to match the legend to the man.

He cursed and moved to another table. He carefully stretched out his wooden leg beneath the table, clutching his thigh with both hands. His real leg stopped at the knee, where it was strapped into a leather receptacle at the top of the wooden part; his trouser-leg was folded to the knee, exposing the long, cylindrical wood.

‘Come here,’ he said, waving a hand at me.

I closed my book and went to him.

‘I never see you before,’ he said, running his eyes over me, as if I was an item on a shelf.

‘Na Madam Godwill nephew,’ the man by the door said before I could speak. Everyone seemed to know who I was. Strangers stopped me on the street as I passed to ask me about Jos; and I wasn’t even a month in Lagos.

‘Oh, the one wey de do lesson with Teacher Joshua,’ Brother said, his face splitting into a smile. He extended his hand to me. His palm was callused, like a farmer’s; his grip was firm. His stare was dull, his red eyes heavy-lidded, like a reptile’s.

I nodded. He held on to my hand.

‘So, how Jos be?’ he asked, and before I could answer he went on, his eyes growing more animated as he progressed, ‘I de go there every week before, the time when I de drive bus – Lagos to Jos, Jos to Lagos. Every week. How the weather for Jos? Ε still cold?’

I nodded. ‘From November to March.’