4. If someone had passed St. Clarence hall, he would be hypnotized. The harmony that blended with the reverberating echo was enough to imitate a sirens call. The enticing appeal of breathtakingly charms. The piano chords kissed the strings of the guitar. The sticks of the drum made love with the wrists of the trumpet. The relationships gave birth to impeccability. Las stood in front of the hall. His dreads flew in all direction as he shook his head vigorously. The deeper he went unravelling the strings of his bass, the more he wobbled his head. The microphone in front of him moaned for the comfort of his voice but his lips were firmly closed to permit stream of words. Frankly, Las was disconnected. The beat sounded too unprepared. It was like a pool without wet. He felt something was missing. He dropped his bass and told the pianist to transpose. In accordance, he directed the drummer to reduce his strength on hitting the snares and cymbals. He told the trumpeter to only play in solos and chorus. Even the backup singers were not spared. He told them to allow him introduce the song and sing the first chorus alone. They were to introduce their voice in the second solo. The arrangement that Las had ordered would have sent a crowd at a concert to the nearest hospital for overexposure to pure awesomeness. Still the frown sat comfortably on his face. Spectators who passed the hall didn't fail to drop their different respects.
"Amazing" "Second to none" "The world isn't ready”. The content of Las was a drum that complements couldn't fill. He listened for a bit, stopped playing his solo, listened more and felt another episode of discomfort.
"Stop" He ordered. "Take a break everyone. Take 40"
Everyone trudged across the stage. Each one not failing to hide their disappointment in their slow walks and voices. They dragged their feet along the wooden stage. Las heard some of them. "We don't get paid enough to receive this sort of criticism" "All because he studied abroad, he expects us to play like the Oyibos" "I don't know how long I can deal with these weekly rehearsal. They are becoming stressful o". The director walked towards where Las was sitting, Las was rubbing an handkerchief on his face. A stage prop standing beside him, ready to dispose the handkerchief and bring a new one when needed.
'Guy. That was amazing. What was wrong na?" The director asked. "You know we aren't really paying this people enough. So please be careful with the shouting and commands okay?
Las continued cleaning his face as if he didn't hear the directior. He sat still for a few seconds and waved the stage prop away. The prop pointed towards the dirty wipe and Las put it on the bowl he was holding out.
"I couldn't hear it". Las finally spoke
"The music I couldn't hear it. It wasn't speaking to me'. Las said to no one in particular.
The director gave a slow laugh. He bent low to Las and whispered. "Do you want me to send one of the boys to get you some ginger".
Las was confused about the director's context. He didn't know if he meant marijuana or a prostitute.
This was one of the questions he had no answers to. Why was Africans choice of dealing with stress looking for a way to escape reality?
"Just call the driver around, let me take a drive”
But the rehearsal! You know these people have other places to...”
"I'll be back in 10. Just a short drive to kill the worry" Las interrupted
'Okay" the director gave in.
In two minutes, he was out the hotel. Driving through the city, allowing his eyes tear up all pictures he could see. He saw a woman in front of the hotel. She was painted in rags and looked unkempt.
She chewed pieces of her hair and she looked lost. He told the driver to stop so he could observe her. She had been lying down in a still position till she heard the sound of his car close by. Las walked towards her. She shuffled and rearranged herself when she saw him.
"Please don't send me away sir. I need just a little change" The woman begged. Her hands held together, clasped in front of her as she begged on bended knees.
Las's driver had a scowl on his face. He whispered inaudibly about prostitute and promiscuous beggars. Las, unlike his driver looked at the woman in the face. He could tell she was once beautiful. At that moment he became the artist he was and wanted to unravel every scar on her skin. He wanted to paint her and sing her stories. His sensitivity was what pushed him into writing music in the first place. Before he blew up, he was just like her. Poor and nameless. The change in status motivated him. Poverty is enough motivation for anybody. He remembered his dreams. How he wanted to speak to the words not with his voice but with his music. He regarded himself as an artistic coward since he wasn't brave enough to speak with his own voice. Lately, he had lost connection with the sounds he created. His creations seemed distant. Everything seemed different.
Looking at this woman reminded Las of a feeling that used to be familiar.
"What's your name?” He asked. The question left a puzzled mark on her face. She was used to hearing two kind of voices. Silence or the sound of coins thrown on her basket. This noise was different. It sounded like music. "She" she hesitated "My name is Shey"
"I'm Las" He added without being asked. "I'm an artist. I sing". The calmness in his voice didn't reveal the fidget that hid there a while ago.
"Oh. I am a beggar" her gaze shifted to her naked feet.
He felt embarrassed. Her answer made him feel like a bully. A rich man that was profiling her plebeian outlook. The driver hooted to show his impatience. Las remembered his promise to the director. "Short time to make amends, he thought. She was scratching her middle fingers and she blinked constantly. Often she looked past him, other times she looked through him
"I'll be performing at this hotel this weekend. I want you to come" I need you to come. he almost blurted out. Before she could reply, he emptied his pockets and gave her a bundle of notes and a VIP tickets. He rode off so that she wouldn't get a change to reject his proposal. He felt happy.
"Oga what did you give to that woman. This is Lagos o not Yankee. She can take it to a medicine man and use it against you. One woman in my village did it to her husband o. You can’t trust any beggar o." The drivers concern trigged laughter. He laughed it off He drove around the city listening to his own song. Being his own critic. He avoided conversations with the driver. The driver's concern was met with disinterested nods. He wrote down lyrics that the wind whispered to him. When he had felt enough freedom, he told the driver to head back to the hotel. The drive was slow. He had asked for it. He needed a clear picture for memory sake.
When he was about to enter the hotel, he took a last glance at shey. "Stop" he ordered. The car screeched to a halt. There the woman laid, marijuana in her hand. Wrapped with the VIP tickets that he had given her. He opened the door and walked towards her.
"Couldn't you get some food? Marijuana doesn't help you know?
She stared at him. The stare was so intense that he felt she was staring past him
"Don't you remember me?"
"Please don't send me away. I just need a little change" her voice sounded exactly like the first time she said it
"No you don't understand. we have met'
"Have we"? She scrutinized him from head to toe. She said nothing and stared at his pocket. He got the message. He threw her some coins and got back into the car. The drive back into the hall featured the driver saying a million words. Mostly about the woman. He reiterated his theory that she was a prostitute and a drug addict. Las thought he was changing her life when he offered the money and the tickets. He was his music and she was the audience. He was supposed to affect her.
To change her. "I'm such a joker" he sighed. He has given her one last look and saw her dragging the cigarette between her lips. She laid still.
He had been gone for an hour and the director was on stage with the instrumentalist and singers.
Apparently there had been some form argument and the director had stepped in as a peace maker.
Las got on stage. "Let's take it from the top". Everybody assumed positions. Slow Feet and lips that grumbled aloud. This time the mesh was below average. The chorus were chewing the lyrics off. The drummer was faster than the pianist. The trumpeter had started with him and had missed
the chorus. Inside him, he burned. He screamed and cried. He wanted to make immediate adjustment but he remembered the episode with shey. "Why bother? "-he thought. He played his lips close to the microphone. He unbuttoned her heart and poured his music into her soul.
One day
One day
I hope someone steals a line from my song
One day
One day
I hope my music is played somewhere special.
I know that I won't live forever.
But I hope I sing a song that will.
The chorus removed the locks from their lips and joined in the chorus.
Time isn't pregnant. It won't give you anything. His hands are empty. His words are impotent. He has no eyes hence he blinds those who have eyes. He has no legs. So he floats. Time flies. He waits for nobody. He marries no one, speaks to no one and loves no one. Since I was so busy to wait for time, time caught up with me.
Written by Festus Obehi Destiny.
A siren call.