It's a cool night on the 31st of December 1965. Ama Bonsu plays through the radio as Quincy turns off Oxford Street, Osu, drumming on the steering wheel, and parks his father's ‘57 Vauxhall Victor in front of the Nirvana bar. The polished bonnet catches the streetlight, and for a moment, it becomes a spotlight, and he’s the next Jerry Hansen.

Laughter from the bar pierces his reverie, and through the window, he can see Archibald, Dorcas, and Wilberforce already holding court at their usual table. Victoria is seated with them, elegant in a green dress that makes her look older than nineteen. She waves her fascinator in his direction.

He smiles at his friends and steps out into the night. The dry air carries the scent of grilled fish and frying kelewele from the chop bar next door.

Inside, the band—a five-piece with matching dashikis—sweats through a rendition of All For You that has couples pressed close on the small dance floor. At the bar, men in crisp white shirts debate Osagyefo’s latest speech while the bartender uncaps a never-ending stream of beers.

“Akora Barwah!” Archibald cries, standing up and pulling Quincy into a half-embrace.

Victoria guides Quincy into the empty seat beside her.

A waiter delivers Star and roasted groundnuts to the table.

"Here’s to ‘66,” Wilberforce says, raising his glass. “Tomorrow.” He goes round the table. “Edinburgh, Nottingham, Sheffield, and,” settling on Quincy and Victoria, “Cambridge."

"Medical doctors, all of us," Dorcas adds, raising her glass. "Can you believe my mother's telling everyone in Kanda that her daughter is going to meet the queen?"

"Your mother's been telling everyone that since you were six," Archibald laughs.

Victoria leans into Quincy's shoulder. Her white glove is soft against his arm. "We'll come back different," she says quietly. "Won't we?"

Before he can answer, a hush ripples through the room like wind through grass. The band fumbles a note. A bottle stops halfway to someone's lips. Even the argument at the bar trails into silence. And all eyes turn to her.

Quincy’s eyes don’t need to. He can hear the floorboards creak with each sway of her hips. He can even hear the cowries softly clinking in her braids. Her scent reaches him, shea butter and something wild—like the sea at dawn seven years ago. She had danced like there was no crowd, only a sacred audience of one.

Archibald clears his throat and leans forward, lowering his voice. "Kwame Attah told me Julius went to see her parents last week."

Wilberforce shakes his head. "I have it on good authority that they are no longer together. She was at Globe last Tuesday. With someone else."

"Who?" Victoria asks, her voice sharp.

"Does it matter?" Dorcas says, stirring her beer with a straw. "Not even Lamiokor herself knows who or what she wants. It’s hard to believe she topped our class."

Victoria places her hand on Quincy's thigh.  Her fingers press down firm. His foot stops tapping to the beat of the music.

"I'm glad you're done with her," Victoria says, loud enough for the others to hear. "You deserve someone steady."

Quincy finishes his beer in one long swallow and stands up. The chair scrapes against the floor. "We should go. It's getting late."

The others exchange glances but follow suit, gathering their things and then piling into his father's Vauxhall. Archibald calls shotgun, but Victoria slides into the seat before he can claim it, smoothing her dress beneath her.

Quincy turns the key. The radio turns on as the engine rumbles to life. Alome is playing, but Victoria turns the dial, and Nat King Cole's Ramblin’ Rose floats through the radio.

Then Lamiokor's hand appears on the door.

Quincy refuses to look at her.

She opens the door, and she stretches out her hand, palm up, waiting.

Quincy grips the steering wheel tighter. He turns to Victoria. She is staring straight ahead, her jaw set, her gloved hands folded carefully in her lap. She looks like a photograph, perfect and still.

He looks down and realises his foot has been tapping to the beat of the song. His shoulders sag. His grip on the steering wheel loosens.

Lamiokor peels his hand off the wheel, and as he slides out of the car, she envelopes him in an embrace under the streetlight.

He rests his head in her hair.

"Mi hiɛ hɔ," Lamiokor whispers against his chest.

"People said."

"Amɛ mitaoɔ ni mikɛ lɛ ahi shi."

"I heard."

She pulls back to look at him, streaks of mascara creeping down her cheeks. "Shi, misumɔɔɔ lɛ."

He draws her back close. "I know."

She squeezes him tight.

Without realising it, they fall into rhythm, a gentle back and forth.

“Ojoɔɔ tamɔ Jerry,” mumbles Lamiokor.

But Quincy hears her, and his heart crests with the music. A smile finds its way to his lips.

Victoria turns off the radio and climbs out of the car, dusting off her dress. The others follow suit. Wilberforce and Dorcas start down the street. Archibald remains, watching his friend. Victoria reaches for his arm. She gives him a faltering smile and a tug that tries to be firm, and they both disappear into the darkness.

Quincy and Lamiokor keep swaying under their spotlight. The bar is still going—laughter, a trumpet—but it sounds far away now. They keep swaying to a melody only they can hear, her cowries clinking softly, his heart keeping the beat, the Vauxhall idling, the harmattan night cradling them as 1965 dies.