‘Don’t be funny. I’m not going to see a girl.’
He walked down Molomo Street. At night the street had a rare mysterious quality that never failed to excite him. Veiled women slipping from hazy light into the intense darkness of the corners; young girls leaving their buckets at the public water-pumps and stealing away under the trees where the glow of a cigarette-end told of a waiting lover and the headlamps of a passing car would suddenly reveal embracing couples. ‘Put out your lights!’ the screams and curses would come. ‘Put out your lights, you clot!’
Sango stood near the public pump for a moment. He watched the traffic; crossed the road. A few minutes’ walk brought him to the house where Aina’s mother lived.
It had looked drab enough in the sun, but now the darkness gave it a quality of musty poverty. The only light came from a street lamp some fifty yards away, though the two houses that flanked it fairly glittered with their own lights. On both sides of the main entrance, groups of old women sat, indistinguishable in the gloom. One of them was selling petty things in a wooden cage. On the cage was a hurricane lantern.
‘Good evening,’ Sango said. He felt on the brink of an important discovery. ‘I’ve come to see Aina’s mother.’
‘Go in!’
He could not see his way forward. With hands outstretched he groped towards what might be a door. His head caught against something and he ducked. He was in. He could feel that the room was large, like a low-ceilinged hall. In one corner a light flickered. A dark figure approached behind the light. The figure entered a side room. The light faded.
‘Welcome,’ said a voice, and Sango was startled. ‘Welcome again . . . You asked for Aina’s mother? I’m here. Move towards this corner. Watch your step!’
He tried to move, but something caught his step and he staggered. Then he realized that the entire floor was covered with sleeping bodies. He was in a kind of bedless open dormitory. Everyone but the old woman slept on the floor. Old, young, lovers, enemies, fathers, mothers, they all shared this hall. From early childhood Aina had listened to talks about sex, seen bitter quarrels, heard and perhaps seen adults bare their passions shamelessly like animals . . . From early childhood she had learnt the facts of life without being taught.
The old woman said, ‘Have you seen her?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘The time is passing . . . Twenty years is not for ever.’
‘So you’re counting the days?’
‘What else is there for me to do?’
‘Yes, she’ll soon be out all right.’
The old woman coughed. ‘Aina had bad luck, too much. People always dislike her, for no reason.’
‘You still believe she did not steal the cloth?’
‘You’re a small boy . . . You know book, you work in a big office, but you are a small boy. You do not know yet the blackness that lies in men’s hearts. Such a one as Aina who is young and lively and beautiful. Some wish her nothing but evil.’
Sango was silent. The voice from the dark bed went on: ‘One day, I’ll tell you what happened, the real truth. But not now.’
Sango asked himself: why did I come here at all? Morbid curiosity, that’s all. And now this woman is bluffing. She is going to try blackmail next.
A bicycle grated against a wall outside. A man stood silhouetted against the door. Sango could make out nothing but a heavy dress, and around his shoulders what looked like a thick rope, looped, for climbing palm trees. The man brought into the room a strong smell of alcohol. He marched past Sango and disappeared into the gloom. Sango concluded that he was a wine-tapper back from his work.
The old woman resumed her insistent demands. ‘What have you brought for your old woman? You know Aina is gone and now —’ She checked herself. ‘I am living in hunger. No one to support me.’ When he did not respond she went on.
‘Aina was working for those Lebanese cloth merchants. She used to give me money every month when they paid her. Now she is in jail, no one gives me money. I am old.’
Sango felt the remark was an accusation. He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and brought out a wad of notes. It was the band’s money, and goodness knew from where he hoped to replace it. He tossed the notes on the bed and got out fast.
5
By ten o’clock the All Language Club was full, and still more people came. They liked what the Club was trying to do. No bars – social, colour, political, or religious. There were two bars, though; a snack bar, and one plentifully supplied with all percentages of alcohol right up to a hundred.
Some people came because they liked Sango’s music, or the music of the Hot Cats Rhythm, or the Highlife drumming of the unsophisticated Nigerian bands. They came in couples, they came alone and unescorted and sat under the palm trees and smoked and watched the bright lights.
Sango in his spotless jacket announced the next number. He winked at one or two girls. They winked back and trailed on after their wealthy and influential escorts.
Sango’s trumpet caressed his lips. The notes came tumbling out, slickly, smoothly, with all the polish of a Harry James; yet sometimes they were clear, high and tremulous with passion as if this young city lad were modelling his style after Louis Armstrong. Nobody noticed; nobody bothered. In the middle of a clever solo, Sango noticed Bayo and Dupeh enter the Club. They were selecting a table while a waiter hovered around them.
Yet more people came. Towards the small hours they poured in from the cinemas, from the other clubs with early-closing licence