Kamara moved closer to the bathroom mirror, turning from side to side, examining the folded lumps of her belly. She closed her eyes and imagined her belly flat as a book cover and then she imagined Tracy touching it with those paint-stained fingers. She opened her eyes. Josh was standing by the bathroom door when she came out. Tracy's seven-year-old son; he had his mother's round nose.

Lagos in June is steamy. But that Thursday afternoon at the Champion newspaper office, I did not notice how difficult it was to breathe or how the air was like a hot, moist blanket. I swaggered and smiled, too full of a sense of accomplishment. I had just had my collection of watery poetry published by a vanity press in London. I was doing my first newspaper interview. I was nineteen years old.