The moon was behind a cloud and, sitting out in the blackness of the yard, she could still smell that cheap, vapour-heavy scent of local gin. It trailed him, it clouded the paths that he walked. His drinking in Nsukka – his auburn, finely refined brandy – had sharpened his mind, distilled his ideas and his confidence so that he sat in the living room and talked and talked and everybody listened. This drinking here silenced him. It made him retreat into himself and look out at the world with bleary, weary eyes. And it made her furious.
