He disappeared. Bayo stood looking at Suad’s window. It was in darkness. She couldn’t have fallen asleep. She must be as troubled as he was. Just two nights more in the city, then she would embark on that forced journey back home – to what? A dull life, at best. Her love, her life was here in the land where her brother had been all but naturalized. But would she be ready to elope with him now? The reckless thought frightened him.
Sango came back. ‘She’s sitting in the lounge. Bayo, she’s a beauty! She’s worth any sacrifice! But that fool Zamil is there too. And a strange woman – perhaps the Sybil you told me about. Some children too. No one seems to go to bed in this house. Wonder what we can do. This is a little harder than I expected.’
They crept into the yard. The steward was drying his hands on a napkin. He took Bayo aside and for a long time they argued and sighed – in whispers. Then the steward took a trayful of glasses into the large house. ‘Zamil is drunk. We may be lucky. I’ll try for you, if it can be possible.’
They waited. Soon he was back. ‘I have made signs to Suad. Is best for you to wait her in the cotton bush, behind the window. No one will see you there.’
Bayo went there and waited. Amusa went back to the night watch. Time crawled. He tried to imagine how the girl would be feeling now. Then he heard a rustle, delicate and light. A white figure in a pink dressing-gown flitted by. He saw the eagerness with which the two lovers embraced each other. Sango looked away with a sigh of pleasure. This alone, this abandon was enough reward for their effort.
Suad lifted her face to be kissed. She was breathing with some pain as if the tears choked her throat. ‘The licence? You have got it?’
‘They said you must come. And two witnesses.’
‘What we can do? I fly in two days. My brother, he has made all the arrangements. This night, tomorrow night, that’s all! Oh! I don’t want to leave you, my Bayo! My African love!’ She took his face between her hands with all the tenderness of a mother fondling a baby.
‘Do you love me, Bayo?’
‘I cannot sleep because of you.’
‘I love you too much. Bayo, kiss me!’
Bayo took her in his arms and kissed her with all the hunger of repressed love. Her lips were warm in their mad response.
‘Bayo!’ she whispered.
They were silent, treasuring the precious moments of their love. She it was who said, ‘Bayo, maybe we can run away! Yes, we can, my love!’
‘Can you come – now? No, Suad! Do not come. It will be too much suffering for you. And —’
‘I have some money. We can run away and never return. Never, never! Then Zamil will suffer.’
‘Enough talk! You are afraid, no?’
‘I’m not afraid.’ He could not bear to see her dejection. ‘Suad, I’ll die for you! In the whole world there’s no girl like you, Suad,’ he said impulsively. ‘Go and get your clothes.’ He was very muddled about it all, but there was no way out now, only forward. ‘Go get your things.’
At that moment the steward appeared. ‘Missus. I don’ know what’s wrong with Master. He’s searching everywhere for you.’
‘You haven’t seen us, steward. Understand?’
‘Suad!’ came the harsh call. ‘Suad!’ It was Zamil.
Suad nestled quickly in Bayo’s arms, wringing from their brief meeting all the joys of persecuted young love. His fingers sought her soft hair. Her frenzied lips searched fervently, not merely for his lips, but for his soul, probing for signs of assurance . . . searching for the slightest hint of fear or lack of constancy. ‘Good-bye, Bayo, kiss me, my love, and let me die.’
‘No, Suad. We go together. Without you, I die. Pack your things, let’s escape.’
‘Bayo, it is impossible. Embrace me, sweetheart, before I die.’
‘Hands off!’ Zamil had emerged from the bushes, dishevelled wild. In his fist a dark object rested.
‘Muhamad, don’t be silly. Put that gun away.’
A shudder ran through Bayo. ‘Keep still, Suad.’ His body vibrated with a new surge of joy and courage. ‘Your brother is a coward, and will do nothing. He’s strong only with a gun. Here, let me have the gun.’
‘Where are you going? Bayo, be careful. He’s drunk —’
Zamil stood his ground, but Bayo leapt. Two cracks split the air.
Bayo groaned, clutching his stomach. Suad screamed. This was the final moment. The life was ebbing fast from him. The warmth glowed upwards but down below all feeling drained and faces of evil menace, void and empty, ricocheted with the night in a kaleidoscope of grimaces. Death had ceased to be a stranger. Suad clung to him, and lifeless and tangled together both of them crashed to earth.
The gun dropped with a clatter. Zamil’s eyes had become clear as drinking water. His madness had vanished with the slaughter of the two lovers who were too happy to know or care.
•
Sango had seen and heard the shooting. Desperately he hoped that no great harm had been done. He clutched his stomach, resolutely trying not to be sick, but up it came. He could not help it. There was a tap near by, and when he had soaked his head and rinsed his mouth Sango felt a little better. When he got up he went to the public telephone and made a call to the police.
The speed with which their van arrived surprised him. Yet Zamil was nowhere to be seen. His car had vanished from the garage. The Inspector waited patiently, convinced by the bloodstains in the cotton bush and the deep marks on the floor where the bodies had apparently been dragged that there had been a killing here.
‘Is it not the same Zamil of the counterfeit case? The one who was apprehended near Magamu Bush some time ago.’ The inspector was surveying the garden, flashing his torch-beam on every blade of grass. ‘We’ve had our eyes on him for some time. He hasn’t escaped us this time. We’ll get him!’
On Clifford Street West the loco workers who had a morning shift at 6.30 had begun to assemble. By dawn 163B Clifford Street West was the focus of the city’s speculations. A love crime! Still Zamil did not show up. Even the steward had vanished.
By 10 a.m. a call came through. It was from the Emergency Ward of the General Hospital, and the inspector recognized the voice as belonging to one of his colleagues. A man had just been admitted with severe head injuries. It was suspected that he had tried to take his own life by shooting himself. He had been found about five miles away at Elizabeth Beach, lying unconscious in his own car. The fisherman who saw him had taken him by canoe across the lagoon to the General Hospital.
‘Describe him!’ said the inspector, drawing Sango near the receiver so that he too might hear.
The description tallied with what Zamil would look like with severe head inquiries. But the inspector would not take the hospital’s word for it.
‘I’ll be right over,’ the inspector said.
And Sango went with him. This will be my greatest story, he thought, as they got into the police van.
•
‘I’m sorry to have to take so drastic a step, Sango,’ said McMaster. He was being very much the editorial adviser, Sango’s boss sitting in the editorial chair in the offices of the West African Sensation. He was not the friend that Sango had worked with for two years. ‘You understand how it is – a matter of policy. The Sensation does not stand for playing one section of the community against the other. Personally I have nothing against you or your writing in this tragic affair. . . . But I do not own the Sensation —’
Sango fingered the letter of dismissal. He was not really listening to McMaster. He was thinking in confused circles: Beatrice the Second, First Trumpet, Lajide, Twenty Molomo; and back to that terrible midnight, small-hours shooting. His rage and disgust; his oath of vengeance. It had now worked in reverse. He had been fired.
‘Amusa, less than a week ago, I thought we were all set for something really big: something you deserved. I’d always wanted you to take over the editorship when the need arose; with your drive, your fluent style of writing, your initiative —’
‘Must we go over it all again? You’ve paid me off, you’ve given me a decent testimonial —’
‘Personally I have nothing against you, Sango. Look, I don’t often go into details in matters of this kind. But I feel I owe you an explanation for purely personal reasons. You’re a good journalist – perhaps the most original in the city. All your writing invariably presents a fresh viewpoint. But in your handling of the Zamil murder case, you seemed to overreach yourself. You made an issue of it, and not a very satisfying one at that. Bayo fell in love with Suad Zamil. Right! The brother, Muhamad Zamil, objected, wanted to fly the girl out of the country. Bayo decides to elope with the girl. Zamil, drunk, shoots Bayo, wounds the girl who later dies in hospital. Zamil runs away, and is later found lying on the beach with bullet wounds in his head. That’s your story-line . . .’
Sango smiled. ‘As far as you were concerned, that was my story-line. But don’t forget, Bayo was my personal friend. And I was present when Zamil shot and killed him, and the girl he loved. The least I could do —’
‘Was to fight him in the Press?’ McMaster flicked away an ash.
‘Naturally.’
‘I see . . . Now it’s a little clearer why you let yourself go to the extent you did. I’m not sure it was the best way you could have won public sympathy. But I know how it feels to have your best friend killed right before your eyes. It happened to me in France during World War One. Well, you’ve won your fight. Zamil will die of his wounds; or if not, he’ll be hanged. But your reports were most embarrassing. The Board of Governors employed all tact and influence to avoid legal action. As you know we have never been popular either with the Daily Challenge or the Daily Prospect who regard us disdainfully as the voice of the British Government. A fine mess we’re getting into!’
There was little more to be said. As Sango walked down the steps, he heard Layeni saying loudly to the others: ‘Yes! . . . These rude college boys! They have no respect for their seniors! Imagine writing things like that for all to read! I’ve been with the West African Sensation fifteen years yet I wouldn’t dare . . .’
Sango stepped quickly into the street, tearing himself from the people and the place to which he had become attached. On the lagoon a fisherman was taking advantage of a break in the rains to dry his nets. Beatrice the Second! He had begun to plan how they would both benefit from his new promotion; and now . . .
13
Sango was sitting under his favourite coconut palm by the lagoon looking at the ships and cargo vessels. It was a busy afternoon. Down the road came lorries from the hinterland, loaded with produce to be stacked in the adjoining ware-houses. It was the usual afternoon scene on this part of the lagoon and Sango caught himself dozing in the still, oppressive air. Looking up for a brief moment he saw a lorry careering down the road. Something about this particular lorry caught his attention.
It could be the sign, painted in yellow letters on a black background: TRAVEL TO GOLD COAST OVERLAND. Or the numerous flags which fluttered from all parts of the lorry. But the real fact was that it was completely out of tune with its surroundings.
‘Amusa! Amusa Sango!’ came the sharp cry of a female voice, and at that moment the lorry pulled to one side.
Sango could see no one. From the lorry, a short and stocky man came down, followed by a girl whom Sango immediately recognized as Beatrice the First.
‘She recognized you first,’ said the stocky man.
Beatrice was smiling. A large raffia hat shielded her head and shoulders from the sun and through her dark goggles Sango could not see her eyes. Yet it seemed to him then that something had gone out of Beatrice the First. This could not be the same girl who had set his blood aflame in those nights when his band had pride of place at the All Language Club.
‘Sango, this is Kofi. He’s a transport owner who travels between here and Accra.’
Kofi extended his hand. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. I feel I actually know you.’
Beatrice linked her hands with Kofi, and Sango thought: So now it’s Kofi. Happiness at last. You will now forget Zamil and Lajide.
She was pale and very thin and when she coughed Sango could not bear the sound.
‘Beatrice has been ill and is only just recovering.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Beatrice brightly. ‘Sango, I went to look for you at the All Language Club.’
‘You know I don’t play there any longer. Not since the manager sold it to Lajide.’
‘I was hoping to call at the offices of the West African Sensation.’
‘You wouldn’t find me there, either. Lost my job. Fired. Just this morning. It’s a fine day, isn’t it? A fine day to lose one’s job.’
‘I’m sorry, Sango.’
‘Beatrice is a very good girl,’ Kofi said. ‘She’s been with me for a little while, and we’ve been happy. Not so, Beatrice?’
‘Yes, and you’ve furnished our flat wonderfully. Kofi, don’t forget, you will drop me near Lajide’s house . . . I want to see him alone. Perhaps Sango is coming our way – or is he too busy?’
‘I’ll come,’ said Sango.
They drove through the streets till they came to the turning where Beatrice would get down. Kofi got out to help her down.
‘D’you want me to come with you?’
‘No, Kofi. I shan’t be long.’
She kissed him on the cheek and as she walked down the street, Sango sighed. She could still be the heart-snatching Beatrice he used to know.
‘She’s a funny girl,’ said Kofi tenderly. ‘I have never understood her and never shall.’ He stood still until Beatrice turned the corner.
Kofi climbed back into the lorry. ‘D’you mind coming to my place? We live on the outskirts of the city. You’ll like it. We can have a drink, and talk about you, and —’
‘Beatrice!’ Amusa laughed. He liked Kofi and in a way was sorry for him. That dog-like attachment to Beatrice!
‘I’ll tell you something: a moment ago, you said you lost your job. I think you need a holiday. Why not come to the Gold Coast? It will be a real change for you.’
‘The Gold Coast? But I don’t know anyone there.’
Kofi laughed and turned on the engine. The lorry responded with a throaty rhythm. ‘You know me. Look! We will talk about it a little more.’ The lorry was moving through the streets. ‘My lorries run to the Gold Coast every week. Whenever you want to go, let me know. Here is my card. We are going to my house now, and you will know where we live.’
The idea was appealing. Sango thought the Gold Coast would be a good place for a honeymoon. He took the card and slipped it into his pocket.
•
Lajide, draped loosely in a floral cloth – his own version of a pyjama suit – walked into the sitting-room to find Beatrice already seated. A full row of his seven wives occupied the divan on the other side of the room. He waved an impatient hand at them.
‘What are you all doing here? Get out and let me speak to my visitor!’
He drew a chair and said: ‘Welcome, Beatrice.’
She fanned her face with the straw hat. ‘I have come to see you about Sango. I’ve just seen him and he told me he would like to play for the All Language Club —’
‘I don’t want to hear anything about Sango. I thought there was something else . . .’
Beatrice hesitated. ‘There was something else . . .’
Lajide looked up. ‘What?’
She opened her handbag, took out a bundle of papers. For three days she had been carrying these papers. ‘Do you know Messrs Tade and Burkle?’
‘Timber dealers? Yes, I know them.’
‘They’re planning to put you to court.’ He looked surprised, and she added: ‘They say you altered the marks on some timber they sold to an American firm—’
‘Ah! But I bought the timber from them . . .’
‘You have altered the marks and put your own marks.’ She waved the papers. ‘These are the real receipts of the actual buyers.’
&nbs
p; Lajide smiled. ‘You got those from Tade and Burkle. Never mind. Let them put me to court. I have my own receipts too. Two hundred tons of timber at twenty-five pounds a ton. Is that all, Beatrice? Thank you. You have done well. I was annoyed with you at first for leaving me because of that transport lorry-driver. Yes, I know all about that. I have seen you in his lorry. But now, I see that it’s me you love. Beatrice, won’t you come back to me? I’ll treat you well this time. That timber man is not better than I am.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘Money is not everything. A man can have money and still not be a gentleman.’
‘I am a gentleman! More gentleman than Sango or the lorry-driver.’
‘You’re mistaken. No gentleman calls himself by the name. Let people see your deeds and judge.’
‘Beatrice, you drive me to hell! I don’t know what I see in you. With my position, and all my wives! What you’re doing to me, is it good, Beatrice?’
She rose. ‘I must be going home now.’
‘Back to that man?’
‘I just heard about Tade and Burkle and I thought to come and warn you. I don’t want you to go to jail.’
He moved near and held her hand. He must have caught a whiff of her perfume, for he tried to press his attentions on her.
‘Not here, Lajide! Take your hands off! Now look what you’ve done to my clothes!’
She went to the long mirror and straightened her dress. ‘I’m going, Lajide. Good-bye!’
One thing she knew. Lajide would never be able to find those receipts. The fact was that Tade and Burkle had made a silly mistake. They had sold the mahogany logs to Lajide at a ridiculous price, only to discover that an American dealer was paying much better money for them. To protect themselves they had to recover Lajide’s receipt, and to Beatrice had been assigned the task. Beatrice had been able to obtain the receipt from Lajide’s clerk, but for days she could not get herself to take them to Messrs Tade and Burkle because she still felt a sense of loyalty to the financier. She decided to give him one last chance. If he would compromise on the Amusa Sango situation, she would not betray him.
People of the City Page 13