by Odafe Atogun
Mr Player hesitated, not sure if he wanted to hear the music of a man back from the dead.
Aroli capitalised on his hesitation. He nudged Taduno. ‘Go ahead, play your guitar!’
But Taduno was too deflated to comply. He turned and walked out of the room. Aroli hurried after him. ‘Think of Lela!’ he pleaded. ‘We must explore every opportunity that comes our way, for her sake.’
Out in the street, Taduno paused to catch his breath, his eyes moist with tears.
‘The studio was the most precious thing in his life; that man took it away from him.’
‘You heard his explanation. TK was going to lose it.’
‘He took it away and gave him money for more booze, to complete his destruction.’
Aroli was lost for words.
‘And I was the one who brought ruin upon him. I was the star who made trouble with the government.’
*
On the taxi ride back home they were silent, deflated. Taduno wondered if there was any hope for him, Lela or TK. Aroli wondered if he and his neighbours would ever remember all they had forgotten. He was certain now that they, not Taduno, were the ones who forgot. A shiver ran through him.
Back at Taduno’s place, they sat in the living room, each nursing a bottle of beer.
‘I have to find him.’ Taduno spoke suddenly.
‘Find who?’ Aroli’s face creased into a frown.
‘TK. Somehow, I believe he would remember me.’
‘Why do you think he would remember you?’
‘Because we have both suffered and lost so much. You don’t forget when you have suffered and lost so much.’
‘Even if he remembers you how will that secure Lela’s release?’
‘We need each other. If I find him we will be able to inspire each other. I will inspire him to produce again, and he will inspire me to sing again. I must find him!’ He was charged with excitement now.
‘Where are you going to start? He no longer works in the studio. And according to Mr Player, he lost his house.’
‘That’s where I will start, where he used to live. Someone will know something about him, surely.’
‘Lagos is a very big city,’ Aroli warned.
‘Meaning what?’ Taduno queried.
‘Homeless people are often known to wander far away from the place they know as home.’
Taduno did not respond. He placed his face in his moist palms. Remaining like that for several minutes, he made up his mind to search the whole world for TK if he had to.
SEVEN
TK used to live in the lively neighbourhood of Ilasa, on a street where everyone knew everyone. An old record shop located at one end of the street played loud music, and from sunrise until midnight the music drove everyone at a fast pace through their daily activities.
The area boys moved through the street in tune to energetic music, picking the pockets of visitors, starting and quelling fights and generally running the affairs of the street, not with justice or fairness but with their fists, and on occasion with guns and knives.
While the street had no peace, it did have music, and it was that which made it special in the hearts of the residents. It was the music that persuaded TK to continue to live there many years after he became rich enough to live in a more affluent part of the city. Being a successful man who knew the true meaning of poverty, he continued to live on the street where he was born, to the disbelief of his business associates and the irritation of his many pretty female companions.
TK was a legend on the street, loved by everyone, even the area boys. He lived a simple life, and shared freely. For a man of his stature and wealth, many could not understand why he was content to drive a rickety Peugeot of no distinct model. He disliked designer clothes, and was always dressed in jeans and colourful buba tops, the exact manner he was dressed the day Taduno first ran into him in the brightly lit corridor of the studio that now belonged to Mr Player.
Taduno had been a regular visitor to the street in the past, and he was always well received. They all loved his music, because it enriched their lives with hopeful messages.
*
The record shop at the end of the street was still playing loud music the afternoon Taduno got there in search of TK. He had chosen to go there without Aroli because he considered the quest to find TK a personal business.
The area boys watched him suspiciously; in fact, everyone on the street picked up his scent. They were intrigued by this visitor who carried a guitar across his shoulder. And they knew without being told that he was looking for TK. They were somewhat surprised because no one had come looking for TK in a long time. When he lost his home and wandered away from that street, a string of pretty women had come looking for him in the first month, asking his neighbours if he had moved to a more affluent area. The women received rude responses, and they stopped coming after a while. Now a stranger carrying a guitar had shown up looking for a man that was no longer a part of their lives.
The pace of activity slowed down as Taduno walked down the street. He could make out several faces he knew, but there wasn’t any hint of recognition in their eyes – they just stared at him with the hostility reserved for strangers.
When he stopped in front of a block of flats where TK used to live, the noises on the street and the music from the record shop died, as if a switch had been used to turn them off.
He greeted a young woman who was selling oranges in front of the block. She responded with a blank look on her tired, pretty face. She had been selling oranges at that same spot for years. Taduno knew her and had bought oranges from her a number of times, paying her generously on each occasion. She used to fondly refer to him as ‘Oga Musisan’ – ‘Master Musician’, a name she pronounced with a demure smile. He waited to see the light of recognition in her eyes, but they remained blank and suspicious, the way everyone looked at him the very first time he came to that street, before they knew he was a friend of TK’s, before they knew he was the famous musician whose songs they played every day in their homes. Before they all became his friends – even the area boys – and they all began to call him Oga Musisan.
He reminded himself that he was now a man whose entire history had been erased from their minds. So he did not try to refresh the woman’s memory. He knew full well that even if she remembered the name she had invented and made popular on the entire street, she would not remember his face as that of Oga Musisan. For a brief moment he closed his eyes in frustration.
‘I’m looking for TK,’ he said with a friendly smile. ‘Where can I find him, please?’
Instead of responding to Taduno’s question, the woman turned to the entire street and, raising her voice as loud as she could, announced in Yoruba: ‘He is looking for TK ooo! I don’t know where he came from ooo!’
*
A crowd of hostile faces promptly gathered around him; there wasn’t a single friendly one among them. He turned this way and that way, and realised he was trapped.
He showed no fear, though. Somehow, the boldness in his eyes intimidated them. They stared curiously at his guitar, and they all thought it reminded them of someone, but they couldn’t remember who.
‘We understand you are looking for TK.’ It was the coarse voice of a fierce-looking area boy.
‘Yes, I’m looking for TK,’ Taduno replied, turning to the thug who had addressed him. He knew the young man, a tall and bony individual who always hailed Oga Musisan with his fists in the air. Now he merely gave Taduno a blank look.
‘TK no longer lives here. Who are you by the way? Where do you come from?’
‘I’m a friend of TK’s. Where can I find him?’
‘We don’t know where he lives. And we don’t want him back here.’
Taduno was astounded at the words of the young man. They tore his heart.
‘TK is a good man. He was a friend to you all. Why have you turned him into an enemy? Why?’
‘Because we don’t want any more trouble with gofment.’
‘TK is not a troublemaker. He only produces good music.’
‘TK and Oga Musisan were making trouble with gofment, and gofment came and beat everyone and arrested many of us, claiming that we were supporters of TK. They tortured us, and some people died in jail. Our people died in jail because of TK and Oga Musisan!’
Taduno was lost for words.
A bent old man stepped forward. He was bent not because of age but because of the years of suffering the city had heaped upon him.
The old man spoke with a thick drawl. ‘TK’s friend used to carry a guitar just like you. We all called him Oga Musisan. Now we don’t remember his real name. We don’t remember his face or anything about him. It sounds strange, but that is the truth. He used to make very good music in the beginning, but then he became a rascal, omo ita. How can any sensible person be rascal with gofment when gofment has guns and bombs? Can anyone be more rascal than gofment? TK and his friend failed to use their common sense, and they brought us grief when all we wanted was to live the way we have been living all of our lives.’ The old man shook his head sadly.
He continued. ‘And now you have come with your guitar looking for TK. We don’t have anything to do with TK any more, and we don’t want anything to do with you and your guitar. When you find TK pass our message to him. We want to live our lives in peace, not pieces.’
Taduno turned slowly to look at the faces surrounding him. Faces of people TK had been kind to. He paid school fees for many of their children. He paid their hospital bills, their rent arrears, and even their debts to rich, wicked neighbours. He shared his food with them so that no one went hungry on that street. And now they had all betrayed him.
Taduno struggled to hold back his tears. He felt pained for the people, for their ignorance. He felt ashamed for them.
‘TK was good to all of you. You betrayed him, you drove him away from your midst. How could you do that?’ Taduno’s voice was a whisper.
‘Go away before we report you to gofment!’ somebody shouted.
In response, Taduno unslung his guitar, and began to play a sad feathery tune. He did not need to sing. His guitar sang his song for him. It told the story of a man who loved his people so dearly he lived his life for them, shared their pains with them and gave them the joys and riches that abounded in his life. And then the people betrayed him and drove him away from their midst to roam the ruins of the city. Taduno’s music rose in volume until it resounded throughout the length and breadth of that street.
The music pierced the souls of all that heard it, like spears, even the hardened area boys. They retreated from him, their palms over their ears in agony, but nothing could stop the music from stirring their conscience. Some ran into their homes and locked their doors. But still the music found its way in. They lamented in loud voices like lunatics. They flung themselves on the floor and knocked their heads against walls until they began to bleed. They knew that they had committed mortal wickedness against a man who had showed them nothing but compassion.
*
By the time he ended his music, only one of the residents of that street remained – Baba Ajo, the man who had warned the rest of his neighbours to no avail not to pay TK evil for all the good he had done them. He wore the saddest face Taduno had ever seen.
So badly had Taduno’s music tortured the conscience of the people of that street that none of them ventured out of their homes even after the music ended. The orange seller had left her precious oranges behind and would not come out to get them while Taduno remained on the street.
‘I warned them,’ Baba Ajo spoke quietly, struggling to control his emotions. ‘I warned them, but they wouldn’t listen to me.’
Taduno remembered the man. His son was once involved in a ghastly accident. TK paid the hospital bill, without which the boy’s leg would have been amputated.
‘Do you recognise me?’ Taduno asked.
The man studied Taduno’s face. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he said with a frown. A frown that said ‘your face is familiar but I cannot remember where I have seen it before’.
Taduno sighed.
‘Where can I find TK?’
‘TK no longer remains in one place. He roams the city. Some say he spends a lot of time at TBS. Others say they have seen him at Mile 2, Oshodi and so on.’
‘Has anyone come looking for him recently?’
‘No, they stopped coming many months ago. At first a lot of his women friends came looking for him. They wanted to know if he had moved to a bigger and better house, but my neighbours chased them away. So they stopped coming.’
Taduno groaned quietly.
Baba Ajo continued. ‘When you find TK please tell him I tried my best but they wouldn’t listen to me. Tell him I’m sorry for all that happened to him. My name is Baba Ajo.’
‘I know you. Your son once had an accident. He was to have his leg amputated, but TK made sure he got the treatment that saved his leg.’
The man could not hide his surprise. ‘Who are you?’
‘Like TK, I used to be a friend to you all. But I guess not any more. If I were to tell you who I am you will not believe me, you will only get confused.’
‘Any friend of TK is my friend. You are my friend.’ There was an eagerness about the man that showed how much he wanted to express his friendship for TK.
‘I will give him your message when I find him.’
‘I pray you find him. He was a good man who did not deserve to be betrayed. They took side with gofment against TK. Where was gofment when TK was helping us? Where was gofment?’ The questions left a pang in both their hearts.
Taduno thanked him and made his way from that street the way he came – slowly, with his guitar across his shoulder.
*
He narrated his experience to Aroli in a quiet mood. He felt pained not just because of TK’s ordeal, but also because he knew how much he loved his less privileged neighbours. How much he used to care for them. How he used to take their pains as his own. How he saw their plight as his own. How he gave them hope. ‘Yet they betrayed him so cruelly!’ he lamented.
Aroli shook his head in dejection.
Later that evening, Judah paid him a visit. The boy listened to him playing his guitar for a while. But they both looked forlorn because the music he played that evening told sad stories. Although he longed to, he could not lift the boy’s spirit with a beautiful song.
EIGHT
He was very anxious when he woke up the following morning, and his anxiety drove him through the city in search of the prodigious music producer turned homeless destitute. He travelled on one rickety bus after the other, with his guitar across his shoulder, a forlorn figure, searching the faces around him, hoping for a miracle.
Many stared at him, wondering why his guitar hung on his shoulder so awkwardly. Others wondered why his eyes were so expectant, yet so hopeless. A few gazed upon him with pity sensing that he bore a pain too intimate to be shared with the world.
At Mile 2 bus stop, and then Oshodi, he jostled amongst commuters who spoke in so many tongues. They spoke in Ibo, in Yoruba, in Hausa and in a hundred other tongues. It was as if people from all tribes of the country had converged at the bus stops on the occasion of his epic search. He was looking for a short man with Afro cut. And as he searched the faces at the bus stops, he was amazed how many such people there were in the city. At TBS, the square where a motley crowd gathered every day to see nothing in particular, he peered at the face of every beggar who bore the slightest resemblance to TK. He roamed the square until he became faint with hunger; yet still his tired feet carried him on. Night fell, and as the crowd waned, a gentle breeze lifted the square, drying the sweat from the faces and bodies of the homeless men who now remained.
For a while Taduno sat down to rest. Then he resumed his tour of the square with renewed energy, peering into every face more closely, knowing that the man he sought belonged to the small group that now remained. He drew angry responses as he we
nt along. Some of the men raised their fists in warning, others lashed out at him with their legs; but the threats were not enough to deter him. He continued until he had gone round the square and stared into fifty or so faces.
In the end he collapsed on a wooden bench. And with his last ounce of strength, he unslung his guitar and began to play a forlorn tune that found its way into the hearts of all the men in that square. Gradually, they gathered around him, and they huddled together as one, knowing that the music they were hearing was a tribute to all their woes.
*
It was almost midnight when he began to make his way from the square towards the bus stop where the tired voices of bus conductors screamed various destinations. One of the homeless men trailed him. Taduno thought he was about to be mugged. Still some way from the bus stop, he hastened his steps, but the man soon caught up with him.
‘Excuse me, please.’ The voice lacked energy.
‘Yes?’
‘Who is it you are looking for?’ the man queried, in a quite educated voice.
Taduno hesitated, surprised that the man spoke such good English. ‘An old friend of mine,’ he replied.
‘The one for whom you played your guitar?’
‘Yes.’ Taduno relaxed, seeing that the man was not out to mug him. ‘His name is TK.’
‘TK, the music producer?’
Taduno stopped in his stride and turned to face the man. ‘You know TK?’ He was awash with excitement.
‘Yes, I know him.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I’m nobody, just a homeless man.’
Taduno looked away.
‘And you say you know TK?’
‘Oh yes. He slept at the square with the rest of us last night.’
‘He did?’
‘Yes, he did. He comes and goes. I didn’t see him today, but I’m sure he will come back. Come again tomorrow, and bring your guitar with you. Your music is very good.’
Taduno nodded. ‘Thank you.’
He tipped the man some money. Then he continued to the bus stop, stopping once to look back.