Dark at fourNobody warned me about the light. On the first English winter, the radiator, and what freedom looks like as paperwork.EnglandThe clinicA sexual health clinic in England: no bench with a malaria poster, no question about how, a nurse who did not flinch, and a leaflet with four letters on it.HealthNnaAn Igbo church in London on Easter Sunday. A man who knew who I was, and what he called me anyway.FaithThe addressI am building a website. Everything, in English and in Igbo, with my face on it, at a fixed address. On why a man builds his own memorial while he is well.WritingA call from OwerriThe boy from Aba called the British number. He has shoes now, and a job, and a number a friend wrote on his own arm to give away. On how a line becomes a line.Support lineTen yearsTen years since the hundred-naira notebook under the mattress. What is different, what is the same, and the sentence I still write at the top.Beginning