In England, sending your candidate overseas for medical treatment would be political suicide. Not here it seems.
last Saturday Umar "comeback kid" Yar'Adua arrived at Lagos Airport. He told waiting journalists reports of his death were "highly exaggerated", before jumping into a waiting helicopter with his hangers on and heading out to Ado Ekiti.
The retinue kept coming, more and more jumped into the helicopter, everyone dressed in a primary-coloured kaftan and matching hat. The rotors started up and slowly the chopper lifted off the ground.
"Its too heavy-O!" exclaimed Mr U. "Look at it! he's going to come back from illness and die in a crash! Na wa-o! everyone wants to be with him, they are killing him by any means."
"He looks well," said Mrs U.
"So would you after a stint in a German hospital!" Mr U replied, giggling. When he laughs he lets out a little he-he-heee, and his gappy teeth show.
The clip of Yar'Adua's return intrrupted a particularly bad football match that Umoh and I were watching. The Nigerian Eagles under 21s was already one down to the Ghanaian side after 15 minutes. A few weeks ago the Black Stars hammered Nigeria four one in a friendly. Berti Vogts has a lot to do.
Mr U's house is in the Kado estate, just out of town. His wife is a civil servant, and with a combination of his and her salary they can just about pay the mortgage and the school fees for their third child. The others are making their own way through university.
Behind the steel burglar-proofs the house is almost entirely bare except for an old setee, a tv and a fridge. Resting on the curtainrail is a picture of a younger mr and mrs, he has his policeman's white gloves on, his broad square jaw only barely able to fit his wide grin. She has the flowing white dress and a delicate smile. Now Mr U walks with an arkward shuffle. I think he may be in pain, but if he is he's not letting on.
As Mr U is finding me a glass, Mrs U says: "We were very young when we married, but I wouldn't do any different if I had the time again. Some people think that its better to build a career and then get married, but with all the things we've been through I don't think we could have done it alone."
He arrives with a cup and the beer and Mrs U says: "We Cross Rivers people do the best pounded yam. You eat pounded yam?" But I am stuffed still from lunch.
There is a knock on the door. No one is expecting anyone.
"Who is there?" Mr. U barks after a glance at his wife. It is the neighbour, and everyone relaxes. Abdullahi comes in with his wife, she is covered head to toe in a black veil that totally covers her face. I don't really understand the pleasantries exchanged in pidgin, but then I hear the talk switch to muslim-christian relations.
Mrs U: "I don't know many muslim people, but I always say our neighbours are so nice. Any religious people must be peaceful, or they are not religious, I say." Abdullahi's wife nods under her veil. The material hangs out from the face stiffly.
Mr U turns to me and says quietly, his eyebrows arched: "Fanatics, it is their way." The neighbour doesn't seem to hear. After some more pleasantries the neighbour gets up to leave.
Mrs U sits back down and says: "I have never met his wife until right now, lovely people, but its very odd talking to someone you can't see."
"It is their way," says Mr U with a shrug. "She will never lift the veil while I am around, or you are there."