There comes a time when – in contemplating any crime, especially the large-scale, carefully planned type – one has to sit back and muse over the question ‘Isn’t there an element of sport in all this?’
This thought has come to me because the truly great crime loses its sense of sin and becomes nothing more than a matching of wits – in all fields of human knowledge including super-science – between the law on one side, and the outlaw and socially unacceptable on the other side. The fact still remains that there is as much thrill in pursuing a criminal across winding roads, in making one move ahead of him, as there is in watching a football match or a motor race. One difference, though: in a football match the stakes involved are far less gruesome . . .
He glanced up and saw the faith in Dupeh’s eyes. Dupeh obviously believed implicitly in Bayo. She must fancy herself in love with him. A girl of that age would believe in the first attractive liar who spoke love to he
r: therein lay the danger for all unguided teenagers.
Just at that moment Bayo paused, opened his zebra-striped shirt, and blew into it. ‘My it’s hot! Sango, I wanted to ask you: what about that girl?’
‘Who?’
‘The one who stole a cloth that Sunday morning?’
‘You mean Aina? Haven’t you heard? She’s in the white college now.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Serving three months’ hard labour. I saw her about five days ago. They had gone to collect medicines at the hospital. D’you know, I wasn’t allowed to speak to her?’
‘So sorry.’ Bayo became suddenly serious. ‘Sango, what are your plans about Aina?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean . . . but can’t you appreciate love? The girl is crazy about you.’
‘Well, I’m not crazy about her!’
‘You were telling me last time that many women do worse things than Aina, but are never caught —’
‘Yes —’
‘Is it because she’s a —’
‘It’s not because of anything. I just can’t think of marrying her.’
Bayo smiled. ‘If I were you, since she has sacrificed so much . . . I mean . . .’
Dupeh cut in: ‘Sango, have you got that new record . . . forgotten what it’s called . . . er Kiss me before I fall asleep and dream of you . . . something like that.’
‘That’s what we were just discussing, Dupeh. I’m not all that romantic. I only collect jazz.’
‘You’re out of date.’
‘Didn’t I tell you,’ Bayo smiled.
Dupeh came over and linked her hands with Bayo’s. She caressed him, spoke to him tenderly. Sango saw that his presence had become unwanted.
‘You’ve bothered me so much about Aina,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going to visit her mother. I want to see how she’s taking it.’
Sango took his hat and went into the street. He called at Aina’s but was told to come back in the evening.
•
Sango was to play at the All Language Club that evening. Towards eight in the evening First Trumpet arrived. While he sat reading a music magazine, Sango changed into the band’s uniform: draped flannel coat, black trousers and black shoes. The green ribbon in his buttonhole distinguished him as bandleader.
‘Look, Trumpet! I must go out. Just down the road. When the others come tell them I shan’t be long. In any case we’re not playing until nine.’
First Trumpet winked knowingly.