People of the City

by Cyprian Ekwensi

  ‘Aina!’ He almost shouted out the name.

  She was quite changed. It was incredible, but she was becoming plumper, more seductive. There was a new and wicked glint to her eye. He steeled himself against the choking sensation in his chest. Her suggestive curves showed even in a uniform designed to reduce feminine charms to the barest minimum. Few women with their hair shaved off could have been exciting as Aina was.

  The female warder who had brought them down was standing with the other prisoners in the waiting-room, checking stocks. Sango went over towards her, but before he spoke she fixed him with a hostile look.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in answer to his request. ‘You cannot see Aina. It is forbidden. Law-abiding citizens are not allowed to speak to prisoners. You may see her on visiting day, next Sunday.’

  Sango had seen the flash of eager joy in Aina’s eyes. Her eyes were downcast when she knew Sango could not see her. But between the crime reporter and the girl a smile of understanding had passed. Sango felt the sadness and mystery of the whole episode.

  4

  All day long and all night long, wherever he went, the thought of Aina obsessed him. It seemed as if, in going to jail, she had left behind her something more distracting than her own presence: the silent accusation that he had deserted her in her moment of need. When the knock sounded on his door, he half expected to see her or her mother and would have been grateful to put aside the article he had been trying to work on so unsuccessfully.

  It was Bayo. He had a habit of dropping in on Sango whenever he felt like jazz. Sometimes he came alone, sometimes with his friends in their narrow trousers, pointed shoes and dark sun goggles.

  He breezed in now. ‘Amusa Sango!’

  Sango in a shirt and loin cloth was chewing the end of his pencil and puzzling out an article on ‘Sporting Criminals’. He looked up grudgingly.

  ‘Hello, Bayo!’

  ‘Always busy!’

  Bayo unbuttoned his coat, displaying his zebra-striped shirt. He fanned his face with a newspaper.

  ‘I’ve got a dame with me,’ he confided. ‘She’s crazy about jazz. I’ve told her about your records.’

  ‘Where’s she? So few people appreciate real jazz —’

  ‘Don’t start lecturing yet. May I go and fetch her? I left her at the street corner. Thought you’d be too busy to have us.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Shan’t be long!’ Bayo went out. Sango got up to tidy the room. His working table was in a hopeless mess. The armchairs were untidily set on the lino. He straightened the cushions. There was a knock at the door and they came in.

  ‘Sango, Miss Martins – Dupeh Martins.’

  ‘How’re you?’

  She smelt sweet. Sango took her soft hand gently in his, looking into the black eyes. She was a girl in that dangerous age which someone has called ‘the mad age’: the mid teens. Her eyes held nothing but infatuation for Bayo. This was a girl who belonged strictly to the city. Born in the city. A primary education, perhaps the first four years at secondary school; yet she knew all about Western sophistication – makeup, cinema, jazz . . . This was the kind of girl whom Sango knew would be content to walk her shoes thin in the air-conditioned atmosphere of department stores, to hang about all day in the foyer of hotels with not a penny in her handbag, rather than live in the country and marry Papa’s choice.

  As she sat down, Sango put her age definitely at sixteen. Do not be deceived by those perfectly mature breasts. Girls ripen quickly in the city – the men are so impatient. But why did she put rouge on her naturally blooming cheeks? She was pretty enough without it; and besides, it did not blend.

  ‘Well, what will you have?’

  ‘Beer,’ Bayo said. ‘Brandy for the girl.’

  He rose and shuffled towards the gramophone. Sango went out to give Sam instructions. From the corridor he could hear Basin Street Blues. Bayo lost no time. He commented: ‘One thing I like about Armstrong – he’s very original.’

  ‘Sure,’ Sango agreed. ‘Some good scat singing there.’

  ‘Listen to that! Listen!’ He waved his hand to the music. ‘Cau! That’s the part I like best. Terrific!’

  The girl smiled. ‘It send me – oh!’

  Sango said: ‘There’s plenty more there.’

  ‘We’re going to enjoy ourselves.’ Bayo lounged in the divan. ‘By the way, Amusa, I’ve got a job with the Medical Department; an uncle’s influence did it for me. The pay is not bad either.’

  ‘Congrats, then! I hope you keep it.’

  ‘Things will soon be all right with me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dupeh added cryptically. ‘If you don’t keep running after girls. You have let them turn your head!’

  ‘Now, now!’

  Sango said: ‘I’m now going to play a record made in 1906, and I would like you to compare the original dixie-land style with the modern version.’

  He put on a record which began with a noise that made Dupeh’s face twist.

  ‘Sango,’ Bayo said. ‘Do you still play at the All Language Club? What’s happened to your band?’

  ‘It’s there when I can find the time.’

  ‘When next are you playing?’

  ‘Well, I have an engagement —’

  ‘Turn it off, please,’ Dupeh said.

  ‘Why, don’t you like it?’

  ‘Play something modern. I’m crazy about modern jazz.’

  ‘I’ll find you something. Yes, I have an engagement at the All Language Club; crime reporting for the Sensation is not enough. But when I return at night, I’m sometimes so tired that—’

  Sam came in with four bottles of beer and a packet of cigarettes. ‘Ah use the change to buy biscuit, sah.’

  He produced a small parcel loosely tied with green paper. As he fidgeted, five biscuits fell to the floor. They were cabin biscuits.

  The girl began to laugh. Bayo joined. Sango could not repress a smile. It was all very embarrassing to Sam. He did not see the joke.

  ‘You expect my visitors to gnaw cabin biscuits?’

  Bayo wiped the tears in his merry eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong with that, Sango? You eat cabin biscuits, don’t you?’

  ‘For myself, yes. For my visitors, no!’

  ‘I’m no stranger,’ Bayo said. He glanced at Dupeh.

  ‘I’ll eat them,’ she said. ‘I like them with beer.’

  ‘Shame on you, Sango,’ Bayo laughed. ‘Your boy Sam is very clever and understands our needs.’

  Sam was pleased. ‘T’ank you, sir and madam. God bless.’ He went out.

  ‘A very good boy,’ Dupeh said. ‘I like him.’

  ‘I’m lost without him,’ Sango confessed.

  ‘He’s sweet and honest,’ said Dupeh. ‘I can see that.’

  The beer put them at ease. Dupeh and Bayo began with slow lilting dances, clinging together like drowning people. Sango saw that he had become one too many and went back to his typewriter. There were three words at the top of the paper. ‘Sports and Crime’. He thought it over, and began to write.

  There comes a time when – in contemplating any crime, especially the large-scale, carefully planned type – one has to sit back and muse over the question ‘Isn’t there an element of sport in all this?’

  This thought has come to me because the truly great crime loses its sense of sin and becomes nothing more than a matching of wits – in all fields of human knowledge including super-science – between the law on one side, and the outlaw and socially unacceptable on the other side. The fact still remains that there is as much thrill in pursuing a criminal across winding roads, in making one move ahead of him, as there is in watching a football match or a motor race. One difference, though: in a football match the stakes involved are far less gruesome . . .

  He glanced up and saw the faith in Dupeh’s eyes. Dupeh obviously believed implicitly in Bayo. She must fancy herself in love with him. A girl of that age would believe in the first attractive liar who spoke love to he
r: therein lay the danger for all unguided teenagers.

  Just at that moment Bayo paused, opened his zebra-striped shirt, and blew into it. ‘My it’s hot! Sango, I wanted to ask you: what about that girl?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one who stole a cloth that Sunday morning?’

  ‘You mean Aina? Haven’t you heard? She’s in the white college now.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Serving three months’ hard labour. I saw her about five days ago. They had gone to collect medicines at the hospital. D’you know, I wasn’t allowed to speak to her?’

  ‘So sorry.’ Bayo became suddenly serious. ‘Sango, what are your plans about Aina?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean . . . but can’t you appreciate love? The girl is crazy about you.’

  ‘Well, I’m not crazy about her!’

  ‘You were telling me last time that many women do worse things than Aina, but are never caught —’

  ‘Yes —’

  ‘Is it because she’s a —’

  ‘It’s not because of anything. I just can’t think of marrying her.’

  Bayo smiled. ‘If I were you, since she has sacrificed so much . . . I mean . . .’

  Dupeh cut in: ‘Sango, have you got that new record . . . forgotten what it’s called . . . er Kiss me before I fall asleep and dream of you . . . something like that.’

  ‘That’s what we were just discussing, Dupeh. I’m not all that romantic. I only collect jazz.’

  ‘You’re out of date.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you,’ Bayo smiled.

  Dupeh came over and linked her hands with Bayo’s. She caressed him, spoke to him tenderly. Sango saw that his presence had become unwanted.

  ‘You’ve bothered me so much about Aina,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going to visit her mother. I want to see how she’s taking it.’

  Sango took his hat and went into the street. He called at Aina’s but was told to come back in the evening.

  •

  Sango was to play at the All Language Club that evening. Towards eight in the evening First Trumpet arrived. While he sat reading a music magazine, Sango changed into the band’s uniform: draped flannel coat, black trousers and black shoes. The green ribbon in his buttonhole distinguished him as bandleader.

  ‘Look, Trumpet! I must go out. Just down the road. When the others come tell them I shan’t be long. In any case we’re not playing until nine.’

  First Trumpet winked knowingly.

  ‘Don’t be funny. I’m not going to see a girl.’

  He walked down Molomo Street. At night the street had a rare mysterious quality that never failed to excite him. Veiled women slipping from hazy light into the intense darkness of the corners; young girls leaving their buckets at the public water-pumps and stealing away under the trees where the glow of a cigarette-end told of a waiting lover and the headlamps of a passing car would suddenly reveal embracing couples. ‘Put out your lights!’ the screams and curses would come. ‘Put out your lights, you clot!’

  Sango stood near the public pump for a moment. He watched the traffic; crossed the road. A few minutes’ walk brought him to the house where Aina’s mother lived.

  It had looked drab enough in the sun, but now the darkness gave it a quality of musty poverty. The only light came from a street lamp some fifty yards away, though the two houses that flanked it fairly glittered with their own lights. On both sides of the main entrance, groups of old women sat, indistinguishable in the gloom. One of them was selling petty things in a wooden cage. On the cage was a hurricane lantern.

  ‘Good evening,’ Sango said. He felt on the brink of an important discovery. ‘I’ve come to see Aina’s mother.’

  ‘Go in!’

  He could not see his way forward. With hands outstretched he groped towards what might be a door. His head caught against something and he ducked. He was in. He could feel that the room was large, like a low-ceilinged hall. In one corner a light flickered. A dark figure approached behind the light. The figure entered a side room. The light faded.

  ‘Welcome,’ said a voice, and Sango was startled. ‘Welcome again . . . You asked for Aina’s mother? I’m here. Move towards this corner. Watch your step!’

  He tried to move, but something caught his step and he staggered. Then he realized that the entire floor was covered with sleeping bodies. He was in a kind of bedless open dormitory. Everyone but the old woman slept on the floor. Old, young, lovers, enemies, fathers, mothers, they all shared this hall. From early childhood Aina had listened to talks about sex, seen bitter quarrels, heard and perhaps seen adults bare their passions shamelessly like animals . . . From early childhood she had learnt the facts of life without being taught.

  The old woman said, ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘The time is passing . . . Twenty years is not for ever.’

  ‘So you’re counting the days?’

  ‘What else is there for me to do?’

  ‘Yes, she’ll soon be out all right.’

  The old woman coughed. ‘Aina had bad luck, too much. People always dislike her, for no reason.’

  ‘You still believe she did not steal the cloth?’

  ‘You’re a small boy . . . You know book, you work in a big office, but you are a small boy. You do not know yet the blackness that lies in men’s hearts. Such a one as Aina who is young and lively and beautiful. Some wish her nothing but evil.’

  Sango was silent. The voice from the dark bed went on: ‘One day, I’ll tell you what happened, the real truth. But not now.’

  Sango asked himself: why did I come here at all? Morbid curiosity, that’s all. And now this woman is bluffing. She is going to try blackmail next.

  A bicycle grated against a wall outside. A man stood silhouetted against the door. Sango could make out nothing but a heavy dress, and around his shoulders what looked like a thick rope, looped, for climbing palm trees. The man brought into the room a strong smell of alcohol. He marched past Sango and disappeared into the gloom. Sango concluded that he was a wine-tapper back from his work.

  The old woman resumed her insistent demands. ‘What have you brought for your old woman? You know Aina is gone and now —’ She checked herself. ‘I am living in hunger. No one to support me.’ When he did not respond she went on.

  ‘Aina was working for those Lebanese cloth merchants. She used to give me money every month when they paid her. Now she is in jail, no one gives me money. I am old.’

  Sango felt the remark was an accusation. He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and brought out a wad of notes. It was the band’s money, and goodness knew from where he hoped to replace it. He tossed the notes on the bed and got out fast.

  5

  By ten o’clock the All Language Club was full, and still more people came. They liked what the Club was trying to do. No bars – social, colour, political, or religious. There were two bars, though; a snack bar, and one plentifully supplied with all percentages of alcohol right up to a hundred.

  Some people came because they liked Sango’s music, or the music of the Hot Cats Rhythm, or the Highlife drumming of the unsophisticated Nigerian bands. They came in couples, they came alone and unescorted and sat under the palm trees and smoked and watched the bright lights.

  Sango in his spotless jacket announced the next number. He winked at one or two girls. They winked back and trailed on after their wealthy and influential escorts.

  Sango’s trumpet caressed his lips. The notes came tumbling out, slickly, smoothly, with all the polish of a Harry James; yet sometimes they were clear, high and tremulous with passion as if this young city lad were modelling his style after Louis Armstrong. Nobody noticed; nobody bothered. In the middle of a clever solo, Sango noticed Bayo and Dupeh enter the Club. They were selecting a table while a waiter hovered around them.

  Yet more people came. Towards the small hours they poured in from the cinemas, from the other clubs with early-closing licence
s. A very short man was trotting beside a girl who might have come from the pages of a South Sea travel book. Yet Sango knew she was a West African. Everything about her was petite, delicate. Her almost transparent dress was cleverly gathered at the waist. Her ear-rings and smile shone.

  ‘Who is she?’ Sango asked, with a heart now beating faster. His eyes followed her to her seat.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the First Sax. ‘My, my!’

  ‘Who is she?’

  Faces lifted from music scores. Heads shook. ‘Don’t know her . . . Must be new! Yes, sir!’

  Sango was conscious of that strange excitement which had possessed him that night when he first saw Aina. The symptoms were the same: an insistent restlessness, a desire to be near this creature, to bask in the radiance of her beauty. He could restrain himself no longer, and during the interval went over to Bayo. Behind the dum palm, Bayo was making a scene. He was a little drunk, and Dupeh was having the worst of it.

  ‘I’ve told you I don’t want to be interfered with! If you love me, love my ways! That’s my policy.’

  Sango stood for a moment, surveying the scene with amusement. Bayo, talking of policy! His sports shirt open at the neck, he was pacing up and down before the table, bellowing and waving his arms. Dupeh sat still, her head drooping. A handkerchief was pressed against her nose. She was crying. A number of men were trying to tell Bayo not to hurt the girl.

  ‘Bayo, come here!’ And when he came, Sango spoke in low tones. ‘Stop this wretched show you’re making of yourself. There’s something you must do for me. Look! That girl over there . . .’ He indicated her without moving his arm.

  ‘Pale blue dress, sort of off-the-shoulder?’

  ‘Gipsy ear-rings too . . . they’re always in the fashion, aren’t they? Which reminds me. I have an ear-ring to return to Dupeh! And the condition you left my room in! Sam will never forgive you!’