Lajide sat down, crossed his legs, lit a cigarette. He said: ‘Zamil, how you enjoy the new house? Perhaps some of your brothers, they want fine place like that, eh? I got a new house for sale!’
Zamil’s manner changed. ‘You have a house for sale? I been looking for a house for one of my brothers!’
The daily papers had been featuring long articles about what they called the ‘Syrian Invasion’, in which they claimed that more and more Syrians and Lebanese were coming into the city and putting the small African trader out of business. They were also depriving him of living accommodation. One of them would take a whole compound and pay the rent demanded five years in advance, while ten Africans would squeeze into one room, musty, squalid and slummy.
‘This morning, I got wire from home . . . One of my brothers is also coming. . . . Myself, my sister, and servants in Clifford Street, we’re so crowded.’
Lajide laughed. He was obviously one of those unscrupulous men who meant to cash in on the situation. He threw back his head and rocked in a manner that brought a frown to Aina’s pretty face.
‘The house is not for sale. No! For lease, yes. And is ten thousand. No, we talk about that sometime.’
‘Tha’s all right for me.’
‘There you are! What did I say? You do me good, I do you good.’ He regarded Zamil questioningly.
‘Pay twenty pounds,’ Zamil said, slapping the financier familiarly on the shoulder. ‘You are my friend.’
Suad was prompt with scissors and brown paper, and in a few minutes, the full fifty yards were under her brother’s arm and he was taking the cloth himself to the jeep and Lajide was having a few final words with him.
Aina did not breathe till she felt the air was freer. She dared not show her face from behind the pillar. She heard the jeep drive away and was almost grateful for what had not happened. Suad was shouting about closing time, and already Zamil was half-shutting the doors.
Aina, as she left the shop, was challenged by Zamil who quietly insisted that his sister Suad would search her. It was an embarrassing moment for her when she was led into a private room and stripped to her undergarments. In the folds of her dress Suad found the five pounds Sango had given her.
‘Mus’ be some mistake,’ Zamil apologized later, when Aina rejoined him in the shop. The shop was now quite empty. All doors were closed, except one left open, no doubt for her departure. Zamil was acting queerly, Aina thought.
‘But Lajide told me . . . he said . . . are you not the girl who go to jail for shop-lifting.’
‘So tha’s what you were talking when you went to the car with him, eh?’ Aina straightened her cloth. ‘Now listen. Lajide is telling lies! You can go and tell him I said so. I work for a Lebanese two years. Baccarat! I never steal one penny in my life. When people don’ like you, they can say anything!’ Aina gazed steadily into his eyes.
‘Most sorry,’ Zamil said. ‘If I can do anything to help —’
‘No! Not you – or Lajide!’
She pushed back the door and was out in the streets. For her it was a proud moment. She wished she could always hold her head as high. She wished she could overcome once and for all that itch to lift things. Then, and only then, would Sango, the man she dearly loved, take her seriously.
•
Lugard Square was packed to overflowing, and long before Sango had actually arrived at the square he heard the music of First Trumpet floating about the hubbub. He listened for a moment to the hoarse and false promises for better working conditions, improved medical services, more and better houses . . . The speaker was a man from the S.G.N. Party. Many of the audience milled around in groups of their own, some selling cigarettes, many with an eye for a sucker on whom to pull a confidence trick or two. At a bookstall at the entrance to the square Sango bought a copy of the party’s booklet for sixpence.
There was no doubt that the S.G.N. Party would win the largest number of seats in the Town Council during the coming election. How the Realization Party was faring Sango found out the same evening. In a narrow lane beside the Methodist church, a man stood on a stool, his features dramatically lit by the dazzling glare of a gas lamp. He was saying much the same thing as the speaker of Lugard Square, namely, more houses, more food, more water and more light for the people.
‘He’s deceiving us,’ said a man on the fringe of his audience. There could not be more than thirty people listening to him.
Sango looked more closely and something in the speaker’s manner arrested his attention. It was the kind politician who who offered him a room he would not take. Now, Sango thought, was the time to help him.
After his speech, Sango told him how he had enjoyed his argument, and how he was taken by the R.P.’s ideas. ‘You want more listeners. The way to get them is to have some music, some attraction. Let something be going on while you talk.’
‘I’ve tried; I can’t get a good band.’
‘I’ll play for you.’
The politician took off his glasses and looked closely at Sango. ‘Young man . . . Oh, it’s you! I was wondering where I’d met you! Dele’s friend!’
Throughout that week Sango and First Trumpet with the rest of the band toured the streets of the city. Large banners fluttered from their lorry with the words: THE REALIZATION PARTY WILL REALIZE YOUR DREAMS. They stopped at street junctions and one of the representatives would speak to dancing listeners. Very often they wanted to know in advance where the next speech would be.
First Trumpet did not entirely agree with Sango. He thought Sango was a fool not to play for money. But Sango told him: ‘We have our weekly engagement with the All Language Club. That will pay for our needs.’
But that Saturday, arriving as usual at eight, Sango heard music coming from the bandstand. He asked for the manager of the Club and was shown into a tiny room by the Club’s garden.