His only contact with the outside was when his mess of beans, once daily at six p.m., was pushed into the cell through a tiny flap at the bottom of the wrought-iron door, and at precisely eight p.m. when the cell door was opened for him to take out the slop bucket and replace it with a fresh one. He wrote that the only way he distinguished night from day was by the movement of his bowels – in hunger or in purgation.

Then on the third day, late in the evening, things began to happen. Like Nichodemus, the superintendent came to him, covertly, seeking knowledge.

Third Day. Solitary Cell

When I heard metal touch the lock on the door I sat down from my blind pacing. I composed my countenance. The door opened, bringing in unaccustomed rays of light. I blinked. ‘Oh, sweet light, may your face meeting mine bring me good fortune.’ When my eyes had adjusted to the light, the superintendent was standing on the threshold – the cell entrance was a tight, brightly lit frame around his looming form. He advanced into the cell and stood in the centre, before me in my disadvantaged position on the bunk. His legs were planted apart, like an A. He looked like a cartoon figure: his jodhpur-like uniform trousers emphasized the skinniness of his calves, where they disappeared into the glass-glossy boots. His stomach bulged and hung like a belted sack. He cleared his voice. When I looked at his face I saw his blubber lips twitching with the effort of an attempted smile. But he couldn’t quite carry it off. He started to speak, then stopped abruptly and began to pace the tiny space before the bunk. When he returned to his original position he stopped. Now I noticed the sheaf of papers in his hands. He gestured in my face with it.

‘These. Are the. Your papers.’ His English was more disfigured than usual. He was soaking wet with the effort of saying whatever it was he wanted to say. ‘I read. All. I read your file again. Also. You are journalist. This is your second year. Here. Awaiting trial. For organizing violence. Demonstration against. Anti-government demonstration against the military legal government.’ He did not thunder as usual.

‘It is not true.’

‘Eh?’ The surprise on his face was comical. ‘You deny?’

‘I did not organize a demonstration. I went there as a reporter.’

‘Well…’ He shrugged. ‘That is not my business. The truth. Will come out at your. Trial.’

‘But when will that be? I have been forgotten. I am not allowed a lawyer, or visitors. I have been awaiting trial for two years now…’

‘Do you complain? Look. Twenty years I’ve worked in prisons all over this country. Nigeria. North. South. East. West. Twenty years. Don’t be stupid. Sometimes it is better this way. How. Can you win a case against government? Wait. Hope.’