by Nana Prah
As if hypnotized, she ambled over to the red and black Suzuki and stroked the sleek machine from its cool metallic handle bars to its elevated seat which would sink as soon as her ass sat on it. Such a fine vehicle. Could anyone else hear it begging her to straddle it and show it love by taking it out for a spin? She raised her leg to obey.
“If you don’t get her away from that motorcycle—” Amadu warned, “—you’ll never get your translations done.”
Lamisi’s foot hit the ground as she looked up from her trance to find Blaise standing next to her.
He stepped closer. “You’re kidding, right?”
Amadu shook his head. “Not even a little. She learned how to ride one when we visited our family in the north.”
“Makes sense,” Blaise said. “Considering that it’s a common mode of transportation along with bicycles.”
“She kind of got obsessed with the speed aspect.” Amadu rubbed a hand over his head. “Turned my parents prematurely grey when she flew by their car one day. As much as she pleaded for one when we returned to Accra, they refused.”
Lamisi waved her hand in her brother’s face. “Hey. I’m right here. That was a long time ago, Amadu. I’ve gotten over it.”
Mostly. She wouldn’t brag about having gotten a motorcycle license and borrowing one of her friend’s bikes every once in a while. The exhilaration of the wind rushing past never got old.
Precious grunted. “Once a speed demon, always …”
She let the rest of her words hang.
Lamisi took one last, longing glance at the motorcycle that would feature in her dreams tonight. She looked up at Blaise who seemed to be considering her. Too bad mind-reader wasn’t on her list of talents.
By the time they’d finished seeing the house, she had lost Amadu to the video game collection and Precious to the gym. At least, they wouldn’t be too far away in the unique basement space.
Her jaw dropped when they encountered the mini studio he’d spoken of.
“This is not small, Blaise,” she accused while taking in the hardwood floors, a closed-in booth with clear glass or plastic—she couldn’t tell—and equipment she’d only seen on shows or movies about music.
“Compared to professional recording studios, it is.”
Lamisi touched the panelled wall. “Is it sound-proof?”
“Yes. If I were hard-pressed, I could create an album here, but I use the place to tinker around and get my creative juices flowing. I leave the work of blending to my producer since he’s so good at it.”
Where was the cockiness she’d expected from someone who’d made it big in such a competitive business? Maybe they weren’t as different as she’d initially thought.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Blaise refused to let liking Lamisi get in the way of business. He’d handed her a non-disclosure agreement before exposing her to his work. The pain of past betrayals had served as a lesson. She didn’t seem to mind as she scrolled her signature onto the form after listening to his reasoning for it and then reading it.
They settled into the seats at the desktop computers he’d set up in his studio. Keeping his hands to himself during their session would be a feat of Mt. Afadjato proportions so he’d left the door open as an added incentive to behave.
She hadn’t exposed her breasts or legs in the overkill manner other women used to catch his attention, yet her jeans and loose-fitting red dashiki top tempted. Her hair had been freshly twisted and framed her face. Unlike the day they had met on the mountain and the restaurant, she wore makeup that enhanced her beauty. Especially her exotic, angular eyes. Breath-taking.
In the past few moments alone, he’d sucked in discrete deep breaths to take in more of her sweet yet somehow spicy rose fragrance. He’d have to set his mind to concentration mode in order to get the work done.
“I have six songs I’d like to translate.”
“Will they be the only ones on the album?”
He clicked a folder on the desktop.
“No, but those are the ones which will be mixed with French. If I can pull it off,” he mumbled the last.
Her hand on his shoulder sent a simmering buzz into him. When would he get used to the fact that their attraction was inevitable and electric?
“You can do it,” she assured. “To the best of my knowledge, it’s never been done on such a grand level by a Ghanaian artist, but if anyone can pull it off, you can.”
His chest puffed out with pride at her confidence in him. Support was a treasurable thing. The fact that she gave it out so freely and believed in him said a lot about the kindness and generosity of her personality.
He clicked on the song he’d entitled ‘You’re the One for Me.’
Lamisi scanned the words that popped up on the page. “How’s this going to work?”
“You asked me about the style of the songs.” He clicked on the bottom of the screen and opened his music player. His voice came through the speakers singing the English lyrics to the song he’d set to a rough beat he’d created.
Lamisi bopped her head and shook her shoulders. A good sign.
She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed when the song finished.
“Oh my goodness, those lyrics are beautiful. You’ve combined hiplife with zouglou.” She grabbed his forearm with her eyes wide. “Blaise, you’ve created a whole new style of music. That’s so incredible.”
He blinked at her several times. Not for the first time, he wondered about the incredible woman sitting next to him. “I’m impressed. You really know your music styles.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and avoided his gaze by staring at the computer screen. “I’m a fan of all genres of music. Like languages, I recognize them easily.”
The woman wore modesty like a light jacket during the cool dry Harmattan season. She possessed gifts that would make most people walk around with their nose stuck in the air looking down on everyone who didn’t come up to her level.
How much more would he discover about her that would astonish him?
Rather than embarrass her further, he got to work. “Which of the lyrics will flow well in French to the beat?”
Time to see if he’d made the right choice with her, at least when it came to his career. Their personal relationship would be determined later.
***
Lamisi startled at the knock on the door.
A woman about the same age as her mother stood with her hands clenched together. “I’m sorry to disturb, but lunch has been ready for over two hours. Amadu and Precious have already eaten.”
Lamisi extended her body in a stretch that loosened tight muscles. “What time is it?”
Blaise displayed the face of his watch by flipping his wrist over. “Two o’clock.”
Grabbing his hand, she twisted his arm with disbelief to look for herself. “We’ve been at this for five hours?”
“It would appear that way.” He rotated his chair towards the door. “We’ll be up in a minute, Aunty. Thank you for coming to get us.”
The older woman’s smile pulled out a dimple on each of her chubby cheeks. “I know how you can go all day without eating when you’re in here. It’s not good for the body to work without sustenance.”
Not waiting for a reply, she turned and left.
“Five hours?” Lamisi still couldn’t understand how so much time had passed.
His laughter didn’t diminish her incredulity. When had she ever done anything where time flew by so fast? Sleeping didn’t count.
Focusing on the task had been impossible at first with her heart racing at his nearness. The occasional brush of knees when they swivelled their seats in the same direction happened too often to be coincidence.
And then, the job at hand had taken over, and that’s when everything but translating the lyrics had possessed them.
Getting to her feet, she tipped her neck from side to side, and then rolled it around. “This happens to you a lot?”
He towered over her
when he unfolded himself from the chair. “It does. Losing myself in the music is what makes me so good.”
She bumped his shoulder with her fist. “Here I was, thinking you were humble.”
Hands crossed over his chest as he arched backwards, he widened his eyes and gasped. “Who, me?”
“I don’t remember you being half as dramatic during your shows as you are in real life.”
“That’s because my manager said I had to tone it down.”
Their combined laughter filled the studio. No longer jittery about being near him, she could definitely get used to hanging out.
She may not get the chance again because they only had two songs left to translate. Now that they’d developed a rhythm, it shouldn’t take long. Would they remain friends? She’d really like that.
Who was she kidding? She wanted more.
She placed a hand over her stomach when it rumbled.
“Sounds like I overworked you. Let’s go eat.”
She followed him out of the secure haven she’d discovered in the studio. Would working on her dissertation in this room make time fly? She doubted it. The combination of being with such a talented man while creating something new and inventive had to be a contributing factor.
They walked in on Amadu fixated on a football video game in the entertainment room and left him to it.
Now, she prayed that Precious would also be occupied so she’d have Blaise all to herself for a little while longer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It didn’t take ten minutes for Lamisi to empty her bowl of the eba and okra soup. She sighed in contentment as she rested against the seat. “Please don’t tell my mom, but that was the best okra soup I’ve ever eaten in my life.”
The eba, as they called it in Nigeria, made from gari, a dried and then fried cassava, had been mixed with hot water to give it a more solid yet sticky consistency for shaping and scooping out the stew-like soup by hand. She hadn’t been embarrassed to lick her fingers once the food had disappeared.
Blaise placed a single finger over his lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“What do you do when your mother comes to visit?”
“I warn Aunty Vida not to cook as well.”
The older woman laughed as she came to the table. “As if I could downplay the gift Allah has graced me with. Besides, my cousin comes to visit just to eat from my hand. Would you like some more food? There’s plenty.”
She struggled to sit up from her lounged position in order to show respect. “No, thank you, Aunty Vida. It was absolutely delicious, but I’m full.”
She was even too replete to hide the slight bulge that made an appearance over the waistline of her jeans. If she were home, she’d unbutton them, but in Blaise’s house, she brought her chair closer to the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
The woman picked up their bowls before Lamisi could offer to help and swooshed out of the room whistling a happy tune.
Eating a Ghanaian woman’s food and then complaining about how stuffed you were tended to bring out all sorts of joy.
“She’s your aunt by blood?” she half-whispered.
“Yes.” He kept his voice as low as hers. “Not only is she my cook, but she’s my parents’ spy.”
“Interesting.”
“More like annoying. But my parents didn’t want someone they didn’t know preparing my meals. Being a chief, my dad can get paranoid. The good thing is that she doesn’t stay in the house with me.”
“I’ve heard about the fighting that goes on in the north when chieftaincy is called into issue. Not pretty.”
He held her gaze. “My father came by the stool peacefully. No one contested.”
She smacked hand over her eyes and groaned. “I’ve just eaten a meal like a glutton with royalty.”
His chuckle warmed the inside of her chest. Would she ever get accustomed to his joviality and how her body responded to it?
“I’d rather one day be called the King of Hiplife.”
She hated to disappoint him, but reality had to be faced. “Sorry, but that title belongs to—”
“Me.”
“Nope, but how about you being the King of Frenafrohip, considering that you just created a new style of music that’s going to be huge.”
“Frenafrohip. Frenafrohip.” He rolled the word around his mouth as if tasting it. “A combination of French, Afro, and hiplife, right?”
She nodded, impressed that he’d caught on. “It just came to me, but now that I hear you say it, it sounds too heavy. What about Francohip.”
“Francohip. I like it even better. How about creating a dance to go with it?”
“You’re on your own with that one.” Grunting with the stiffness in her joints after sitting for so long, she stood. “Let’s finish the last two songs, and then, we’ll head home and give you some privacy.”
“Or we could relax now and complete them tomorrow. Maybe after you finish church? If you’re free.”
Before she could answer, Precious yelled from her place on the couch. “We’re coming over.”
It took her the speed of light to reach the dining room. “I’m sure your poor brains are in need of a rest today. A good sleep will have you refreshed and ready for more work tomorrow.”
Lamisi lurched forward when her friend shoved her shoulder.
“Lamisi, Amadu, and I will be here bright and early so you can finish the work.” Precious tipped her head to the side and squinted up at Blaise. “Eight in the morning will do nicely.”
Who knew her friend could be so easily bought? Give her a gym and a remote control to an enormous plasma screen television, and she took over two people’s lives.
Blaise didn’t help by smiling. “Eight is fine.”
Aunty Vida strolled out of the kitchen. “Wonderful. I’ll have breakfast prepared for you, so don’t eat before you come.”
Precious clapped the cupped palms of her hands together.
“Great.” She turned her upper body, but then twisted it back. “By the way, is it okay if we take a dip in your pool tomorrow?”
Lamisi slapped a hand over her mouth with embarrassment while Blaise chuckled. “You have free reign. Enjoy yourselves.”
“You’re the best, Bizzy. In that case, we have to get going right away. We have some bathing suit shopping to do before the stores close. I’ll go get Amadu.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lamisi muttered. “It looks like your toys are too much for them to resist.”
“It’s no problem. I hope you’re available tomorrow, though.”
His voice pitched up with what she took to be concern.
She waved a hand down. “I’m free. Sundays are rest days for most of my family.”
“No church?”
The ring of a phone interfered with her answer. She glanced down at the table to see Deola’s beautiful, heavily made-up face flashing bright and broad on his screen.
He snatched the phone from the table and swiped it so the ringing stopped.
Air rushed out of her as if she'd been punched in the stomach. He’d claimed that he and the heiress were friends. Then why not answer the call in her presence?
She shook off the sense of betrayal and jealousy. She had no right to either. An ex complaining about her hounding jealousy claimed it had been the reason he’d broken up with her. She’d later discovered that he’d been a lying, cheating, manipulative bastard who had her thinking she might be going crazy when he really had been seeing someone else. She’d been grateful to her ex for inadvertently teaching her the signs of sneakiness in a relationship and that she should always trust her instincts.
Precious and Amadu came trooping up the stairs, discussing the best place to shop for swimming costumes.
Lamisi forced a smile. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
They each went to the kitchen to thank and said good bye to Aunty Vida.
The tension between them remained as Blaise walked them out. Her useless chaperones were loading into the c
ar when he leaned down and hugged her close. Her body and mind were not of one accord when she wound her arms around his shoulders and melted into him.
“Thank you, Lamisi. Now I understand why you couldn’t stop with expressing the gratitude last week.”
He released her before she was ready to leave the nest of his muscular arms.
Tomorrow. She’d committed to helping him, and she would. He owed her nothing, not even the truth about his relationship with Deola. Once she did him this favour, they’d be even, and she wouldn’t have to see him again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Everything had been going well,” Blaise complained to Abdul on video chat as he paced the living room an hour after Lamisi and her crew had taken off.
He’d sensed a sudden annoyance in her when Deola’s face had come up on his screen. Had she been jealous? He liked the idea of her caring enough about him to be.
His reaction to the call could’ve been handled better. He’d been taken off guard by how much he’d enjoyed Lamisi’s company and hadn’t needed Deola’s pushy presence disturbing their good time. It had happened anyway.
“Not only is Lamisi magic when it comes to knowing which lyrics need to be translated, but she’s cool to hang with. Easy.” He kicked the leg of the coffee table hard enough to jiggle the vase of fake flowers. “Deola, on the other hand, only cares about herself and instinctively knows how to ruin things even when she’s not around.”
Why couldn’t he see it before? Even her supposed friendship was toxic.
“What did Deola want?”
He’d returned her call because not doing so would have resulted in a catty, never-ending lecture about phone etiquette. When had he started to allow her have so much control over his life?
“She wanted to convince me that going to the VGMAs together would be better than me going alone or with anyone else because she looked fabulous on camera and knew how to handle the media.”
Abdul’s frown brought out the brackets at the sides of his mouth. “I told you not to mess with her. Your head got so big when she gave you a little of her attention.”
“Whatever, man. I need to get her to back off without hurting her feelings.”