People of the City
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?’