One morning the surgeon came in, and his face was grave. He told me that my case had been reviewed in great detail in the light of the stricter policies now being introduced to deal with recidivism in released politicals. He was very sorry about the length of my detention, he said. He himself admired the modern intricacy of my work and its bold rejection of consensus—its assertion of Africa over the white north-west—and it had been burdensome to him to torment me. It seemed to him that here in this place I had purged out some deep unpleasantness, likely the inner contradictions of my art and my unawakened politics, and if I were released I should be an excellent and enthusiastic son of progress. My gift, he said, was to bring an underlying truth before the physical eye, as I perceived it unerringly with my inner, artistic one—and such a gift was vast and not lightly to be put aside. However, there were no grey areas in the revolution, and his perception was not of itself sufficient to release me. Indeed, he regretted very much that the steering committee of Alem Bekagn had ordered me done away with. I was to die in this place, at the order of a government which knew nothing of me, to atone for a crime of portraiture. My end was appointed in a month, the earliest convenient date.