The dark, burly guard keyed in the access code of the prison room, and as the heavy metal doors binged, I gave a silent prayer and went in with him. The room was square and spacious; about thirty by thirty feet, with white walls. It contained nothing else except a small reading table, a wooden chair, some paperback novels and a single change of clothing hanging on the wall. All these were by the northwest side of the room. And on the bed, sat my quarry. He sat with his face hunched over his body, and was tapping his bare feet lightly on the marble floor.

“Doctor Anthony, how do you do? I am Favour Uwa from the National Mast. I’m here for the interview, are you ready?” I said to the man who had, until that moment, focused on the same immaculate marble on the floor. He looked up at me, and I had the distinct feeling of being bare, that he could see through me. There was nothing in his eyes, they were dead.

After a indeterminable time, he nodded towards the chair. I went across the room, picked it up and sat opposite him, a few inches from his him. As I did this, the guard was obviously perturbed and darted looks from the doctor to me. I merely held out my palms to the guard, signaling that everything was under control.

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