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again. Jerry looked out the window and could see that there were police cars around. He could feel a certain lively excitement in the morning air.
    â€œIt is better for us to walk,” said Nurudeen’s dad, so Jerry gathered his files and slid across the seat, getting out after the man and straightening his jacket as he stood.
    â€œAh, masta,” said a voice, and Jerry looked to see the ironing-board boy. It was he who had opened the car door.
    â€œYou sold me a piece of junk,” Jerry said. He felt real anger and he glared at the boy. “The legs are too long and the top is warped.”
    â€œOh no,” said the ironing-board boy, but Nurudeen’s father had not waited, so Jerry didn’t speak again. He followed the man toward the ministry, and it really did appear as though something strange was going on. The path ahead of them was crowded, a murmur floating above it like a chant.
    Nurudeen’s father slowed and turned. “Something is truly wrong,” he said. “Everyone is going where we are.” He found a traffic policeman and asked him what had happened.
    â€œNigeria’s disgrace,” said the cop. “Another someone has started a fire.”
    They edged their way into the crowd, respect for Nurudeen’s father making people lenient and allowing them to get up to where the police had cordoned off the area immediately in front of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Jerry was surprised to understand that everyone seemed to know Nurudeen’s dad. When he looked behind him he could see that the crowd stretched all the way back to the road. He saw the ironing-board boy in a nearby group, following along.
    They were pressing up against the cordon when Nurudeen’s father found another policeman and told him they had business with the minister. They could see the building plainly now, flames coming from a set of windows up high. Workers were milling about, craning their necks upward on the other side of the cordon.
    When the policeman went off to find his commanding officer, Nurudeen’s father turned to Jerry and said something Jerry couldn’t understand. The mood of the crowd was bad and Jerry really did hope that they would soon be able to get past the cordon, where, if nothing else, there was a little more room to stand. Only a few months before someone had set fire to another big building, and ordinary citizens were beginning to lose patience.
    When the commanding policeman came over he greeted Nurudeen’s father formally, lifting the cordon and allowing them inside.
    â€œWhere did the fire start?” Nurudeen’s father asked. “I hope this time it was an accident.”
    â€œThe fire is contained, sir,” said the policeman, “but it was not accidental. We already have our evidence.”
    The man said that the floor on which the fire had started housed the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and Jerry began to feel a little strange. “Were there injuries?” he asked the police captain. “Was anyone hurt?”
    The policeman looked at him, but directed his answer to Nurudeen’s dad. “One hurt badly, two more suffering from the smoke,” he said.
    â€œI trust the minister is safe?” Nurudeen’s father said, and when the policeman pointed to a group of automobiles parked at the side of the building they walked that way.
    From where they had been standing the area that they now approached appeared to be crowded with police and fire vehicles, but as they got closer they saw that there was an ambulance as well. Nurudeen’s father asked for the minister again and was directed toward a black Mercedes-Benz, its doors opened, a small crowd forming a crescent around its near side.
    â€œExcuse please,” he said, edging in among the people. Jerry was right behind him but he was not at all prepared for what he saw. The minister of internal affairs was sitting in the back of the Mercedes-Benz, turned