It has been nearly a decade since we graduated; I have not seen Ani since then. We were never really close, but I do remember spending hours rehearsing Pygmalion together and her wicked sense of humour. She’d start improvising around her lines differently each time, driving our drama teacher absolutely livid. Affectionately irreverent, she used to crack us up with her interjections in class, too.

‘We thought we’d have our Saturday eating out at the club,’ she says. ‘First time in months we’ve come here, and I run into you!’

A tall man stands a step behind her.

‘This is just great! Please join us for a drink,’ I say. They exchange a quick look and nod. Ibo tenses slightly.

‘Ani, this is my friend, Ibo,’ I say as they move the wicker chairs to sit at our table.

‘How do you do?’ she says and turns. ‘And this is my husband, Renan,’ she says.

As Renan locks eyes and hands with me, I am thrown into a slow-motion film strip. Time settles to a trickle, a shining sliver. My being expands under the wisps of clouds aflame overhead and I feel weightless, levitating.

I linger in the forest of green in his eyes and the power of his handsome and beckoning face. Sandy auburn hair, a strong chin, a kind and warm expression like he’s the one who’s found a long-lost friend. I am transfixed.