People of the City

‘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