The first rain of the year was tapering off and Eppy was about to discover a truth that was to mark the rest of his life. A cool wind breezed through his slit-eyed louvres, calling out the child in him. He resisted for a moment, all Management Trainee of him, then he caved in and passed through the kitchen, shedding layers. He took a knob of soap from the sill. His feet slipped into the yellow slippers on the stoop. No longer nude, he stepped into the delicious drizzle and paused, arrested by memories of childhood. The catarrhal tap had dripped a bucket full, and was dripping still. As he crossed the yard, a distant mongrel howled at the incontinent moon. Eppy dipped a bowl into the bucket. He let his body drink the water. The memory of the day’s vicious heat was dead. The bathwater was cooler than the rain. He let his body savour the breeze. The breeze was cooler than the bathwater. Then he searched his memory for the food or the sex or the thrill that approached the present pleasures singing in his stunned body… and that was when he knew: he would never write the grand theory of marketing, or make a billion naira, or gain the office of managing director, or save the world. Not when the greatest pleasures of this sinful world could be had for nothing, in his birthday suit, by the broken tap in his village house.