Zamil’s manner changed. ‘You have a house for sale? I been looking for a house for one of my brothers!’
The daily papers had been featuring long articles about what they called the ‘Syrian Invasion’, in which they claimed that more and more Syrians and Lebanese were coming into the city and putting the small African trader out of business. They were also depriving him of living accommodation. One of them would take a whole compound and pay the rent demanded five years in advance, while ten Africans would squeeze into one room, musty, squalid and slummy.
‘This morning, I got wire from home . . . One of my brothers is also coming. . . . Myself, my sister, and servants in Clifford Street, we’re so crowded.’
Lajide laughed. He was obviously one of those unscrupulous men who meant to cash in on the situation. He threw back his head and rocked in a manner that brought a frown to Aina’s pretty face.
‘The house is not for sale. No! For lease, yes. And is ten thousand. No, we talk about that sometime.’
‘Tha’s all right for me.’
‘There you are! What did I say? You do me good, I do you good.’ He regarded Zamil questioningly.
‘Pay twenty pounds,’ Zamil said, slapping the financier familiarly on the shoulder. ‘You are my friend.’
Suad was prompt with scissors and brown paper, and in a few minutes, the full fifty yards were under her brother’s arm and he was taking the cloth himself to the jeep and Lajide was having a few final words with him.
Aina did not breathe till she felt the air was freer. She dared not show her face from behind the pillar. She heard the jeep drive away and was almost grateful for what had not happened. Suad was shouting about closing time, and already Zamil was half-shutting the doors.
Aina, as she left the shop, was challenged by Zamil who quietly insisted that his sister Suad would search her. It was an embarrassing moment for her when she was led into a private room and stripped to her undergarments. In the folds of her dress Suad found the five pounds Sango had given her.
‘Mus’ be some mistake,’ Zamil apologized later, when Aina rejoined him in the shop. The shop was now quite empty. All doors were closed, except one left open, no doubt for her departure. Zamil was acting queerly, Aina thought.
‘But Lajide told me . . . he said . . . are you not the girl who go to jail for shop-lifting.’
‘So tha’s what you were talking when you went to the car with him, eh?’ Aina straightened her cloth. ‘Now listen. Lajide is telling lies! You can go and tell him I said so. I work for a Lebanese two years. Baccarat! I never steal one penny in my life. When people don’ like you, they can say anything!’ Aina gazed steadily into his eyes.
‘Most sorry,’ Zamil said. ‘If I can do anything to help —’
‘No! Not you – or Lajide!’
She pushed back the door and was out in the streets. For her it was a proud moment. She wished she could always hold her head as high. She wished she could overcome once and for all that itch to lift things. Then, and only then, would Sango, the man she dearly loved, take her seriously.
•
Lugard Square was packed to overflowing, and long before Sango had actually arrived at the square he heard the music of First Trumpet floating about the hubbub. He listened for a moment to the hoarse and false promises for better working conditions, improved medical services, more and better houses . . . The speaker was a man from the S.G.N. Party. Many of the audience milled around in groups of their own, some selling cigarettes, many with an eye for a sucker on whom to pull a confidence trick or two. At a bookstall at the entrance to the square Sango bought a copy of the party’s booklet for sixpence.
There was no doubt that the S.G.N. Party would win the largest number of seats in the Town Council during the coming election. How the Realization Party was faring Sango found out the same evening. In a narrow lane beside the Methodist church, a man stood on a stool, his features dramatically lit by the dazzling glare of a gas lamp. He was saying much the same thing as the speaker of Lugard Square, namely, more houses, more food, more water and more light for the people.
‘He’s deceiving us,’ said a man on the fringe of his audience. There could not be more than thirty people listening to him.
Sango looked more closely and something in the speaker’s manner arrested his attention. It was the kind politician who who offered him a room he would not take. Now, Sango thought, was the time to help him.
After his speech, Sango told him how he had enjoyed his argument, and how he was taken by the R.P.’s ideas. ‘You want more listeners. The way to get them is to have some music, some attraction. Let something be going on while you talk.’
‘I’ve tried; I can’t get a good band.’
‘I’ll play for you.’
The politician took off his glasses and looked closely at Sango. ‘Young man . . . Oh, it’s you! I was wondering where I’d met you! Dele’s friend!’
Throughout that week Sango and First Trumpet with the rest of the band toured the streets of the city. Large banners fluttered from their lorry with the words: THE REALIZATION PARTY WILL REALIZE YOUR DREAMS. They stopped at street junctions and one of the representatives would speak to dancing listeners. Very often they wanted to know in advance where the next speech would be.
First Trumpet did not entirely agree with Sango. He thought Sango was a fool not to play for money. But Sango told him: ‘We have our weekly engagement with the All Language Club. That will pay for our needs.’
But that Saturday, arriving as usual at eight, Sango heard music coming from the bandstand. He asked for the manager of the Club and was shown into a tiny room by the Club’s garden.
The manager seemed to be going through his books. He looked up when Sango knocked and said: ‘Ah, Mr. Sango. Sit down!’
Sango felt it coming.
‘Now, Mr. Sango; I’ve engaged the Tropic Rhythms Band to play for me, until you stop this nonsense.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘For the last five days, you’ve been playing election music for the Realization Party. I, as manager of this Club, am not in agreement with their policy.’
As he spoke he fingered an envelope lightly. ‘I’m paying you fifteen guineas for tonight and fifteen guineas for next Saturday in lieu of notice.’
‘But – really, this is ridiculous! I —’
Sango took the envelope and walked across the premises, seeing nothing. First Trumpet joined him.
‘Sango, d’you know what I heard? The manager of this Club is broke. He’s selling out – and Lajide is to be the new owner!’
‘Mere rumour. Don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. One boy from the Tropic Rhythms told me; it must be true.’
‘Okay! Anyway, jus’ call the band together, First Trumpet. We’ve been sacked; so we mus’ begin to look for another boss. First let’s share our money.’
All this meant some inconvenience. Sango could not think where they would hold their rehearsals from now on. The manager of the All Language Club had been so very kind to them; but now there was no more question of using the club in the afternoons.
•
Sango was in a blue mood as he walked about the city, drifting with the aimless ones, looking but not seeing. He walked longer and longer into the night because he did not like the thought of going home and also because the lights and the noise created in his guts a restless desire to be part of it.
He hoped that one day he would become editor of the Sensation, and settle down with a girl from within this city. But so far, no progress. To him it mattered, for he believed that a man had to have a home behind him if he must build. At the moment, not even the foundations had been laid.
Nothing penetrated his gloom, not even the cruel snort of a bus that nearly ran him over.
‘Sango!’ It was the voice of a girl.
She was still wearing the same dress she had on when he left her at the Hollywood. ‘Where are you going, this night? Better be careful. Some
drivers are mad!’
‘I’m taking breeze,’ said Sango, still startled.
The traffic spun dizzily across where she stood and, when it had calmed down somewhat, she crossed the street to meet him, moving in that way that gave him the greatest pleasure. She linked her hands with his and they walked and talked.
‘You look sad. What has happened?’
‘Nothing, Aina.’
She was not to be put off. ‘When somebody loves you, you do not know, because you are proud. All right! If you like, tell me. If not, I will not worry you.’
He was touched, and he said: ‘It won’t interest you. There’s a place not far from Molomo Street called the All Language Club. You know the place? Well, we used to play there. But now we have been sacked. They gave us our money and told us never to go there again. That’s why I’m sad. What I want now is a place where myself and the boys can meet and practise. We can still find work, but we must continue to practise together.’
She smiled. ‘Is that all? And you say it won’t interest me; but why now?’ She puzzled over it for a moment. ‘Sango, there’s a place on Molomo Street – near your own house. No one uses the place. It is a large compound. In the daytime, the Alhaji teaches Muslim children. But in the afternoons, there’s nobody there. I can speak to the Alhaji for you.’
Aina led the way confidently into a kingdom where Sango felt a complete stranger. He could not believe they were still on Molomo Street till he had gone and sat in the revolving chair in the barber’s saloon. Aina left him there and went about her mission.
The barber came limping in, and winked knowingly. ‘You take up with her again? I tell you, the girl like you too much.’
Sango smiled. ‘Where’s Lajide?’
‘I see him in his car with that new woman. They say he buy some new place – All Language Club. You know the place?’
‘I use to play there, barber.’
Now it was clear. If Lajide had become the lover of Beatrice, it could only mean that she had put the idea of buying the Club into his head.
Aina came back to say that all would be well. The Alhaji had given permission. He was very pleased with the idea because he thought Sango’s band would make the school popular. Sango and his men could go there twice a week – Mondays and Thursdays – to practise. She smiled happily and said: ‘Let us go to the beach by the lagoon and play.’
Again the barber winked, a little more knowingly this time.
•
Sango had not noticed the moon till he saw the shadows of the coconut fronds waving against the sky. The surf beat with violence and the courting couples were dark clumps on the sands. There was a faint breeze with a tang in it.
‘Don’t be sad any more,’ Aina said, leaning against him.
‘No more. I’m happy.’
‘Because of me? Sango, do you love me now?’
He was silent, trying desperately to collect his thoughts, to marshal his forces against the wiles of this seductress. He looked at her face, serene, with long lashes and pouting lips. In the eyes he read admiration. Just for this once, he decided to be defeated. He held her to himself and she sighed the sigh of love in triumph.
10
Bayo it was who brought the news about the battle for Beatrice. Lajide, as owner of 163B Clifford Street, was at war with Muhammad Zamil, the tenant – or so it seemed. How else could he explain what had happened? Zamil, after buying the house, had allowed Lajide to let one of the rooms to the girl; but he could visit Beatrice only by day. Sleeping in her room was out of the question for a man who had eight wives.
‘Tha’s where the trouble began,’ Bayo said. ‘You know that Zamil is a bachelor, always home in the evenings – and Beatrice is the kind of girl that foreigners like.’ Bayo glanced round the crowded restaurant where Sango had taken him for lunch and continued: ‘I know all this because when Beatrice was there she helped me a lot. I used to meet Suad in her room and no one would know.’
‘Wait a minute. “When Beatrice was there,” you said just now. You mean – she’s no longer there?’
‘She left. I don’ know where she is now. Perhaps she’s gone back home to the Eastern Greens. I heard she was very ill lately.’
‘Home is the place for her,’ Sango said.
‘I wish she had not left Zamil,’ Bayo said. ‘It has upset all my plans. I’ve not seen Suad for three weeks now. When I go to the shop I cannot meet her, and at their home it is so difficult.’
He sipped his lime-juice. He had not touched his steak. It was unlike Bayo to show no appetite. ‘Sango, what am I to do? I love this girl very much!’
‘It will pass away,’ Sango said. ‘I’m sure it will. She’s not taking you seriously. And you are only kidding yourself. Come off it! When that girl meets some young man from her home, you think she’ll remember you?’
Bayo sat back in his chair, but his depressed mood remained. Sango could not get him to talk about anything else but Suad Zamil.
•
Beatrice had become the thorn in Lajide’s flesh, the one woman his vanity and money could not conquer in a city where women yielded to money and influence. He could not understand the girl, because their backgrounds were so different. Beatrice came from a poor but proud family where values still mattered. Right was right, but wrong met its punishment. The end was not the most important thing, but the means. Lajide had lived too long in the city to care about right or wrong, so long as the end was achieved. And that end was so often achieved by money that it was inconceivable to him that money could ever fail in anything or with anybody.
Lajide went to see her in the department store. She had told him of her desire to work there and within a week he had made the desire a reality. He boasted to his friends: ‘One of the girls in the department store is my gal!’
He saw her now in the top rung of the ladder, fetching down a packet of something for a white woman. She looked ultra-smart in the close-fitting uniform with the ‘D.S.’ above the breast. Her eyebrows were cleverly pencilled and she wore lipstick.
‘Choose one scent – for yourself!’ Lajide said impulsively as the white woman made her purchase and left. ‘You look too fine, Beatrice!’
‘Lajide, please!’
‘Ready to close now,’ he said possessively.
‘Remain half an hour.’
‘Beatrice, you vex with me? I go to the restaurant till the time reach.’
‘You know that men are not allowed to stand about talking to girls in this store. You must be buying something or moving on. Unless you want me to be sacked?’
‘No, no!’ he said quickly, and went up into the restaurant above the store.
As he entered, Bayo pinched Sango and said: ‘Look! That’s Lajide, your former landlord. Let’s ask him. Perhaps he has seen Beatrice.’
‘Forget it,’ said Sango.
Neither of them could imagine the mental torture through which Lajide was passing. The girl was far too stubborn and independent. He was prepared to go any length to make money and yet more money, to consolidate his position with her. It was all strange to him, because he took it for granted that he was master where all women were concerned.
He did not get back home till late in the evening. He was tired. He had a wash, changed into a light cloth, and called Alikatu. She was his third wife. But it was Kekere, Lajide’s eighth wife, who came to say that Alikatu was not yet back from the market. She brought him a drink, and curtseying, offered it to him.
Lajide was bored. ‘Sit on my knee and amuse me,’ he told Kekere.
She was the youngest of them all, about eighteen, with very round eyes. He called her Kekere, which means ‘small’ because in position she was the most junior of them all. He never did this till he was in a playful mood or wanted some favour from her. Her soft fingers rested on his cheek.
‘Why have you been so angry lately? You have neglected all of us . . . Or are we going to be nine?’
‘Me? Angry? Nine! Ha, ha! . . .’
�
�Where are you going, Kekere?’ Lajide said, as she rose laughing from his knee.
‘To put on some music.’
‘Not too loud! The compound has been very quiet since that Sango left this place. I don’t want any noise. My head aches.’
She gave him a saucy look. ‘All right! But I’ll play my favourite record.’
He watched her bare shoulders. For a girl so young she looked very mature. Her bosom trembled beneath the cloth as she moved. He was excited by the soft freshness of her well-made body.
‘Is all right now. Come and sit here.’ He tapped his knee.
Beatrice would never obey such commands; and now even Kekere was being naughty. She bent forward and twisted her hips, dancing a wiggle dance to the music. Lajide watched the cloth, fearing it would soon drop off.
‘Stop that! I want to think! What’ll you say if a stranger enter here and see my wife with her cloth off?’
‘No one will come.’
She laughed and continued to tease him with her dance. He was discovering her for the first time. Did he really have a girl like this here, under his own roof and yet —
‘Come and sit here, Little One!’
‘I hear, my Lord!’ She moved, noiseless on her toes, and stood with hands behind her back. ‘I’m here.’
‘Is this madness?’
She laughed and sat on his knee. He held her close, imagining desperately that she could be Beatrice. He did not see the strangers enter.
Kekere whispered: ‘They want you.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I can see them: two men.’
Lajide had never seen them before, yet they called him by name. Instantly he was on his guard. He pinched Kekere. ‘Go into the bedroom. I’m coming . . .’
‘So you always say, and you won’t come to me. You’ll go outside to that woman.’
‘Go, I’ll meet you. Truly.’
She went. It was not often that love came her way. At the bedroom door, she turned and made eyes.
One of the men carrying a brief-case came into the room. ‘We have come to discuss business.’ As he spoke his partner entered and they both sat down. ‘It is like this. We have five lorries, big, nice, in good condition, We want to sell them, and we want one thousand five hundred pounds for them – spot cash. You can repaint them and sell them at eight hundred pounds each. The timber merchants will grab them quick.’ He produced a cigarette and lit it.
People of the City Page 10