It was a soft Lagos night—the kind of night that swallowed other nights. Her eyes, large, ovate, wonderful, called out to me. The night was shedding its skin on us. We considered each other's bodies—mountains to be overcome. Later, on a bed that had put me through more than my frail body could handle, I ran my fingers through her hair and confessed: I am homeless, a vagabond, nothing but a vagrant in the world.

She wasn't one for long talk. Her love was a verb, an action word. When she turned I knew my days of wandering were over.

—I have a place in Edinburgh.