Bobo wonders how they kidnapped him. He usually had a convoy of six or seven cars. Bulletproof jeeps screamed blue-and-red as their sirens cleared traffic for The Future to pass unopposed. He made sure he had armed aides to escort him because Nigeria was too unpredictable and people were all too ready to waste you without much provocation...

It had been a crowded flight as was normal at this time of the year, full of Nigerians who endure the winter cold of America, then trot home obligingly in the summer months. What a paradox. He cursed not too discreetly, suddenly fighting dizziness as he gingerly slid his bag out from under the holdall. How the f*ck did a bag that large get through customs anyway without being checked in? His knee buckled at that moment, and the holdall came crashing down, its zip sliding open partway to reveal something black and ugly and formless peeking out at the lip. It was there and gone so quickly, like the flicker of a cigarette lighter, that Tokunbo told himself that he had imagined it, the image of a shrunken animal form...

Winter in London comes in fits and starts, like a crazy temperamental lover. She hangs around for a while and the world seems warmer and then she disappears for weeks on end in a bitter freeze. Weather women predicted cold snaps every so often through the latter months of the year and for a week or two, the temperature would dip inconsiderately, wreaking havoc on my tropical conditioning...