•
Sango did not find out the full details of this incident until, out of sheer habit, he dropped in at the All Language Club. It was past midnight and Sango felt entitled to the treat, since he had already dispatched his copy to Layeni, the night editor of the Sensation.
‘Amusa Sango!’ It was First Trumpet. He looked up from a music score as Sango entered the club. ‘Where have you been? Since eight we have been waiting for you and now it’s over midnight? Or you forgot?’
‘I’m sorry, First Trumpet! You carry on. Lead the band for a change. Let me have an instrument.’
There was a clarinet which Sango took over; and, for the first time since he owned a band, he played sitting down. But his mind was not on his music. He was thinking generally of himself in the big city. What had he achieved? Where was he going? Was he drifting like the others, or had he a direction? Whatever that direction was, he did not feel at this moment that he was progressing along it. Certainly his mother would not be proud to see how he was making out. Crime reporter for the West African Sensation. Leader of a band in a night club. The old woman would think he was lost. As far as money was concerned, there was little of it being put aside for the rainy day; and then there were the girls, every one with her own problems and thrice as interesting as the last. Something must have happened to his noble resolutions.
The number was a hot one, and he rose and took a bouncing solo, registering the twisting, writhing bodies, the glittering jewellery, the shuffling feet and wiggling hips. He could smell the mixture of dust, perfume and sweat. The excitement rose to a rollicking climax topped with cheers. He looked up and saw his friend Bayo, just entering the Club and performing a late jig at the entrance.
During the interval, Bayo came and apologized for his irresponsible action. ‘Sango, I didn’t want you to know at all. I needed money, you know . . .’
‘You were joking with a hundred pounds’ fine or two years’ imprisonment, or both, so the books say.’
‘You know when they were searching me, I was shivering . . . I prayed and prayed. I was lucky they found nothing on me. You know what happened to the “nurse”? He was detained. No bail allowed.’
‘You’d better learn your lesson, Bayo. If I find you mixing with any more of the underworld, I shall never have anything more to do with you. You have angered Lajide, my landlord. He is very annoyed. Sam told me.’
‘Sango, I’m sorry. The mistake was mine. I did not know that woman was Aina’s mother. She arranged with the police! What, the malice that woman has against you! You better be careful yourself. The trouble was not meant for me, but for you. I advise you to leave Twenty Molomo before they plan something else.’
‘Aina’s mother? Of course! But didn’t you know? You were playing with fire. The first time I saw her I thought she was a witch. Honestly.’
‘Where’s the syringe?’
‘Don’t worry about that. It’s safe.’
At that moment the band began to stir to life once more. Sango took himself off and went back. First Trumpet was mustering forces for a Highlife. One, two! and away it went, soft, lilting . . .
•
Molomo Street was dead. Gone were the lingering lovers under the almond trees. The water-pump in the street dripped unnoticed. Sango’s steps were loud, clear and lonely. He turned into Number Twenty, a tired man.
The corridor was completely impassable. Arm-chairs, stools, books and lino cluttered up the passage. At first Sango thought that a new tenant had just moved in. He got to his door and tried to open it. The key would not fit. It was only then that the truth dawned on him. He looked more closely at the furniture in the corridor. He recognized, with gradually increasing shock and anger, his own bookshelves, his own radio and gramophone.
Sam emerged from the gloom.
‘Welcome, sah!’
‘What’s this, Sam?’
‘I tol’ you, Lajide is annoyed with you, sah. He remove all your thin’ and put his wife in your room. I been to police office to report him, but he bribe everybody; they will do nothing.’
Sam handed Sango a note which he read by the glow of a distant light. It said simply: I FINISH WITH YOU.
Considering how involved the whole procedure would be in taking Lajide to court, and the risk of having the penicillin racket dug up all over again, Amusa decided to let sleeping dogs lie.
The door of his own room opened and one of Lajide’s wives poked her head out.
‘Too much noise. You won’ let me sleep!’
Sango bit his lip to keep back the torrent of angry words. ‘I don’t blame you – but don’t rejoice too soon. You will be the next one in the corridor – and you will never come back!’
7
As far as Sango was concerned, Beatrice could not have chosen a worse time to call at Twenty Molomo. This girl, whom he had wanted to impress with his importance and charm, dismissed her taxi in front of Lajide’s house and stepped delicately into the courtyard. A wide-brimmed straw hat with trailing ribbons framed her face. Her eyes were hidden by the latest fad in glasses, silver-rimmed and so flattering that Sango stood confused and unable to fathom the eyes behind the dark shields. Her cool blue frock moulded a body that cried out to be wooed and she carried a black bag, while the gloves summarized her sophistication.
It was impossible that Beatrice had failed to notice the omolanke or hand-cart which stood outside while Sam loaded his master’s possessions on to it. It was common knowledge in the city that your method of shifting lodgings depended on your means. A poor man employed head porters; a man of average means hailed the hand-carts and trailed behind them with the more precious things. But a man who had posed as a band-leader would naturally be expected to go one step better and engage a lorry.
Beatrice had stretched out her hand, and as Sango took it she smiled, and said: ‘At last, I’ve found it. I was trying to follow your description from the All Language Club.’
‘I see! Welcome. It’s not all that difficult —’
‘For someone always locked up in Rokiya Hill it’s not so easy.’ She seemed then to notice the cluttered-up passage. ‘Are these your things? You are not packing? No, of course, you would have used a car . . .’
‘I’ve been thrown out, Beatrice.’
He caught the breath of her perfume and it went to his head. ‘I’m not all that well off, Beatrice. And as you’ve chosen to come at such an awkward time, I can offer you no hospitality.’
‘All right! Let me go and see Lajide. Wish me luck!’
She smiled and walked up the stairs. He was watching her swinging hips. Suddenly he felt angry at the way he was getting on in the city. Something must be done about it soon, for he was certain now that the good things were eluding him. He was actually getting nowhere, come to think of it. He was still crime reporter, West African Sensation, and band-leader at the All Language Club. If that was status, then he must be sadly mistaken.
•
Beatrice had been offered a seat in Lajide’s sitting-room. One look at the carpets, the expensive curtains, the large pictures and ebony carvings, had confirmed her first impression. This was a man who loved finery. He was not likely to be stingy in spending money on a woman he fancied. He was not economical either, or he would not leave the fluorescent lights on in the room. The window blinds had been tactfully drawn, lending a touch of enchanting glamour and romantic isolation to the room. She had to remind herself that it was afternoon, and hot. This was the reception-room of a man who might be called upon to make love at short notice by any of eight women. A glance in the mirror revealed that her spider-web of a dress had acquired a new and dazzling colour reflected by the lights. This was the sort of setting that made her most seductive.
Lajide came into the room as she was sitting down. He threw himself into a couch and stared at her with no attempt to hide his admiration. Even as he sat down, one of his wives, Alikatu, came into the room, carrying a large bowl of some aromatic fluid. She set it down and eyed Beatrice w
ith all the venom of a possible rival and disappeared, no doubt to go and gossip with the others.
It has started, Beatrice thought. She has already come to assess me. I am a woman and I understand.
Lajide sipped the fluid. ‘Welcome, Madam. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a room.’
‘Oh. What happen to the ol’ one?’
‘I’m not happy there . . .’
‘Finish? You’re not happy there, so you want to leave? Come on, tell me the truth! You have quarrelled with your husband, not so? Omashe-O!’ He shook his head.
‘Not that,’ Beatrice protested. ‘It is not healthy for me. I’m always sick there. I suspect somebody is trying to poison me, so I wan’ to leave the place.’
In his eyes she saw the brightening glow of desire. His face looked crafty; his lips twisted with a smile. ‘If I give you room, you will be my woman?’ He rose, opened a nearby cupboard, produced a bottle and two small glasses. He walked to the centre of the room, poured and downed a drink; then poured her one. ‘I like you; I like you very much.’
She took the drink, but his hand trembled so that it spilled on the floor. The fire in his eyes had settled into a steady glow, undisguisable. She could feel the almost boundless passion of the man: an insatiable lust that made him lord of eight women.
‘You like me . . . what of your wives? I don’t want any trouble.’ She sipped her drink and found it was whisky, very welcome in her present mood.
‘Never mind about them. You have your room. I won’t stop you from anything, but you must be my woman. You will be free, and live outside. You hear me. I will keep you outside; you won’t mix with the others – here. Don’t bother about the rent . . .’
The terms were worth considering.
Lajide moved closer so she could smell his thick whisky breath. He must have been drinking the whole day. ‘When I say a room, I mean a good room. You see, is no good living in a hole; no, not girl like you. One Lebanese is coming to see me this night about my fine house at Clifford Street. I will give you a room from there. What say you?’
‘Do you want a reply now?’
Lajide shrugged. ‘As you like. People are rushing for the house . . . I can reserve one room for you, but if you waste time —’ He waved his arm, the arm of the giver and the taker.
‘Reserve a room for me, Lajide. But I’ll think of the other part.’
‘What you have to think about? Is not many women I will say, I want you to be my woman, and they begin think. Fancy that!’
‘Perhaps my husband will like to see you about the room first.’ Beatrice smiled very sweetly.
Lajide’s face drained of colour. ‘Your husband! That’s all right! That’s all right, I don’t worry. Come, I take you home in my car.’ He reached for his bunch of keys.
Beatrice hesitated.
‘Come now —’
‘Just a minute, Mr Lajide. That young man downstairs, Mr Amusa Sango. What did he do to you?’
‘Leave him alone. He’s a very bad young man. I give him notice long time, then he want to put me in trouble. He bring C.I.D. men here. Better for him to go now in peace before big trouble meet him in my house.’
‘Can’t you give him a room in your new house?’
Lajide’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Me?’ and he laughed.
Down the stairs Beatrice went, with the man in the voluminous robes trailing close behind her. She noticed that the corridor was now clear and that Sango was gone. Lajide was talking incessantly, about his wealth, his influence in the city, and the stupidity of certain tenants.
At the door of Twenty Molomo a maroon car of American make, streamlined, with chromium streaks, glided to a stop nodding proudly. The door opened and a Lebanese in a white shirt and shorts slid out.
Lajide whispered to Beatrice: ‘Tha’s the man who want to buy my new house.’ He raised his voice: ‘Hello, Muhammed Zamil . . . I just goin’ out.’
‘Lajide, is the house ready?’
‘Almost ready.’
‘Every day almost ready; every day almost ready —’
‘I want to do fine job; have patience, you will like the place when I finish.’
‘Is all right for me now.’
‘Oya!’ said Lajide suddenly. ‘Let’s go now. We see the house, then you sign!’
•
Finishing touches were being put to the house at 163B Clifford Street West. The painters, electricians and carpenters had been working hard in the last few weeks. It was painted in a sun- and rain-resisting cream on the outside, the inner walls in a very pale green. The garage was spacious enough to take Zamil’s car without its tail preventing the doors from closing. There were quarters for the ‘small boy’, cook and steward.
Beatrice thought it was a much more useful house than the one she shared with Grunnings on Rokiya Hill. But where in all this scheme did she fit in? She decided not to accept a room here, if Lajide gave her one. She might just as well be Zamil’s mistress.
Zamil got into his car, and held the door open for Beatrice to come in and sit beside him. And there she sat between two men, each trying to please her, while her mind dwelt on Amusa Sango and his plight.
They drove into a side street and Zamil who had been showing signs of impatience burst out: ‘What’s matter, is this Clifford Street?’
‘We go and see my solicitor. Have patience!’
Lajide drew his pouch, selected a cigarette and lit it. ‘You want the house, or you don’t want the house? Ah-ah! I never see hot temper man like you. If you don’t want the house any more, let me go back!’
‘I’m sorry, Lajide. I thought —’
‘Park your car and follow me. Beatrice, you wait for us.’
She watched them go up a narrow lane. When they emerged a long time afterwards, smelling faintly of alcohol, the agreement to lease 163B had been signed, sealed and delivered.
Beatrice heard Lajide say: ‘The house will be your own for five years now.’
He took out a cheque from his pocket-book and looked at it once more. He acted like a man slightly tipsy, waving it in Beatrice’s face and saying with his drunken breath: ‘Five thousand pounds on this paper. Ha!’
Zamil said: ‘Lajide, we must celebrate. I want you to come with me for a bite – anywhere.’
He drove to the department store by the lagoon. Gingerly Beatrice walked along the pavement between the two men. As usual the snack bar was crowded with people of the city out to relax and look at the lagoon. They were mostly girls of the Dupeh type, fashion plates of the most devastating type – to young men. With every swing of the doors, the restaurant filled more than it emptied.
They sat down and made their orders. Beatrice could see at once that Lajide felt ill-at-ease, and shortly after the steward had taken their orders he begged to be excused.
‘I’ll see you later, Beatrice. I got business at home.’
Beatrice looked up and saw a man, notebook in hand, just coming in through the swing doors. It was Amusa Sango. He had not seen her. Her heart fluttered till she was giddy.
‘Is a big day for me,’ came Zamil’s voice beside her. She was not listening. ‘Name anything you like downstairs in the shop and is yours . . .’
The waiter arrived with a tray full of orders for three. Beatrice looked beyond the waiter and saw that Amusa had come in with a girl. Who was she? She could not see the face behind the make-up and sunshade.
‘I must leave you now,’ and she got up, smiling, and walked across the restaurant conscious of admiring eyes. Sango looked up as she approached.
‘Beatrice!’
She took the only vacant seat next to Sango, beaming happily. ‘What brings you here?’
‘You want to hear my hard-luck story? Well, I couldn’t find a place in the city. My work has to go on, so what did I do? I took my things to the railway station and deposited them in the Left Luggage Office, and here I am!’
‘And your boy – what did you do with him?’
<
br /> ‘Sam has gone back to his younger brother. His brother is a trader. Lives in a tiny room just off Twenty Molomo. I’m sorry I had to lose him, but —’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Amazing! Do you sleep at the station, too?’
‘Not yet. I’m now a hanger-on till I can find a place. My First Trumpet has invited me to share his little room with him.’
‘Is not easy,’ Beatrice said, and told him how Lajide wanted her to be his woman.
‘When you’re a man,’ Sango said, ‘they want six months’ or a year’s rent in advance. When you’re an attractive woman, single, or about to be single, they want you as a mistress. That’s the city.’
‘What am I to do, Sango?’
‘If I were not engaged, I would say, marry me. As it is, I can only advise you to stick to Grunnings. He’s much nicer than either of those two men – Lajide or Zamil. He’s responsible, at least.’ He stopped when he noted her obvious disappointment. He looked at her and felt a strong desire to protect her as a woman in danger.
‘I don’t know what to do with my life,’ she said. She glanced round nervously as if to see if anyone had overheard.
Sango said, ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet and you can tell me about it. Do you mind if we pass by the offices of the West African Sensation? I have a report to hand in to the editor.’
‘I don’t mind, Sango. But where’s the girl with you?’
‘Disappeared. Don’t worry. She was just a pick-up.’ He folded his notebook, paid his bill. Together they walked through the thick cigarette fumes. He was flattered by her loyalty to him.
They passed by Zamil’s table and he looked up in surprise. Once out by the lagoon, they found a park bench under a coconut palm looking out at the ships anchored in the lagoon. A woman with a child strapped to her back was buying fish from a canoeman. Near by a man was dragging his nets out of the lagoon and pouring hundreds of silvery little fish into a canoe.
Beatrice talked freely, with little interruption from Sango. He listened, and as her story unfolded he asked himself: what is the secret of getting ahead in the city? Beatrice had disclosed that she came to the city from the Eastern Greens, from the city of coal. She made no secret of what brought her to the city: ‘high life.’ Cars, servants, high-class foods, decent clothes, luxurious living. Since she could not earn the high life herself, she must obtain it by attachment to someone who could. But she was not so well, and having found Grunnings, who did not quite satisfy her, she had to stick to him.
People of the City Page 7