The newspapers were heaped up on a low bench, the kind pupils use in the private classes of eccentric schoolmarms. Damata sat reading placidly and without haste. Engrossed in the news, he didn’t notice the maids singing in the kitchen or the kids playing noisy games of hide-and-seek. Each time he sat forward to grab another paper his deck chair groaned like ship’s rigging. The noise was driving him mad. He was sick of telling Bia to get it seen to and she just retorting: “Man, that chair’s fine, Damata.” Such pig-headedness! They’d lived together for years, had a few kids – yet that stubborn way of hers was still an obstacle to their getting properly married. All the same, no good house in Mindelo closed its doors to her, for Nhô Damata was an upstanding man and had recognised their children.From his waistcoat pocket he removed a silver-edged snuffbox. With a sharp tap, he knocked the contents forward before taking a pinch between thumb and forefinger.Good stuff this. He took his snort and felt the pungency of ground toasted tobacco warm his nostrils. Stretching out in his chair, he settled down to enjoy the afternoon.