Mkiluani House was named for the old mkilua tree that stood in the middle of the yard. Its tough flowers, curled like alien hands, smelled of some rich fruit soaked in lemon sugar. Around the tree, a frothing garden; beyond, the coral stairs and landings that led to the high roof; and, between all that and the street, a heavy wooden door. Helge had loved this house from the first, and she loved it still, though her husbands, both Belungi-born and bred (so she had spoken the shahada with a softened open heart and a clean sense of surrender) were no longer there. The house is mine, she often told herself, though husbands come and go. And at least, for now, Helge’s daughter, Nuru, was coming back for Christmas.
For Christmas Eve, Nuru would bring the one thing Helge really missed, marzipan, which would melt along the way but still taste like itself, and they’d exchange small gifts over sweet wine as bats flickered in the thatch. In the morning, they’d stroll down to the women’s beach and kick sand at each other, then sigh and swim into the quiet, pleased as always at the stillness of the bay before the men arrived. Helge was a little lonesome in Belungi now, but knowing Nuru would be there made her heart feel light.

Hannibal now goes to church, the old patrons in the palm wine bar opposite the town hall knew, yet they were surprised when they looked out and saw Hannibal stepping out of a bus with other members of his church, shouting in tongues along with his fellow congregants and raining damnation on the heads of the latter-day Philistines who organised the New Masquerade Festival.