He spied his table. To his left, Basic Stats. Right, Mass Communication. Centre, oh, African Studies.
Mchew.
Small journalist wey he dey wan chop. Tso. Even Anas
and Nana Aba all couldn’t have done all this. And he didn’t want to think of
all the Freud analogies he still had to appreciate…
Double mchew.
He unzipped his bag, pulled out a phone. Around him stood shelves
and shelves of books centuries old, or hours old, works of great dreamers and
thinkers and lunatics alike, a reader’s heaven, a student’s prison. Scores of
UG wannabe grads, and visitors who thought Balme Library a spectacular word of
art and ageless, timeless, collection of ideas—or had just downright lost their
way, or marriages, and thought the Balme a soother in its silent predictable
monotony—stood or sat or walked around. He shrugged. Let them. He was going to
relax.
And he stuck the pin in the phone’s hole, and plugged the headset
on. Time for inspiration.
*
Eish.
She was flipping through Quantum Geography and
Space Mathematics—an In-Depth Study by
Paul Hobb—very intriguing, but useless in Ghana—why on earth were Mom and Dad
paying her fees for that thing?—when she heard it. Mark Cordon’s whisper over
something electronic. Wow. It wouldn’t
be a surprise anywhere else, but in the Libraire Balme—that she wasn’t a French
whiz gave her no hindrance from trying out the language—? Odd.
She replaced the book, and glance over her shoulder. That boy, the
one ladies died over and later yelled at because he wasn’t moved by their
advances. Eish. So he too
he listened to gospel. Sagaa. But this
was a library. Oh, she saw the problem. He thought he was the only one
listening, but he hadn’t plugged the earphones’ pin in. Better go over and tell
him. Love gospel or not, this was a library. And she sure as Neptune was in the
solar system needed that A in Quantum Geog and Space Math. Ei, Space Math.
Complex.
She approached him—him seated with his eyes closed, fingers
drumming to the rhythm of Giving My Best.
So smug. ‘Excuse me,’ she started. His eyes flipped open. She gasped—the song
had ended and in rolled Ruben Studdard’s I need an angel! ‘I love this song!’ she gushed, at
once sitting opposite him.
‘Really?’ he replied, eyes alight. ‘Me too!’
*
Ohh-oh!
Who were those disturbing the sanctity of the library koraa ah? Oh. If he didn’t finish that
project on Electroencephalography in Modern Days he would get a referral oh.
Another one. Then his wife would pack up and leave for sure this time,
regretting having a half-man for a husband.
Hm. Let him catch them. This was a library, for goodness sake, not
a karaoke bar, or choir. People didn’t come and sing and go. They came to read,
and finish projects.
Not sing.
He strode toward the noise. A boy and a girl, a table of books—and
a phone—between them, listening to music. Hm. Kids of today. Oblivious to the
outside world. He opened his mouth to protest…he knew he would have…if at that
moment BeBe Winans had not taken over. Hei! BeBe Winans, with a voice like
thunder. Ohh, he pulled a chair and sat at the table. Yes. This was what
today’s youth should be doing.
*
Buruli ulcer would be eradicated if…
Tacky. Tacky English. She’d settle for nothing less than best. No
clichés in her report. She scrunched up the paper and bagged it.
And no interruptions.
Ah. Who were those
singing there? She would not mind, naturally—the Balme was always too quiet;
place could use some action—but their voices were mediocre. Untrained. Askew.
Shiaa. She got up, made
her way toward the sound. She’d give them a piece of her mind.
She got to them. Five, at a table, two girls and three guys,
singing along with sounds drifting from a phone on the table. Okay, singing
along with words, yeah. Key was everyone’s own choice.
‘You know—’ that was the moment Handel made his entry, and
goodness, did she love classical. Gospel classical most of all. And But they that wait was just killer…they’d sung it at her
wedding…
*
The librarian was bemused. Bewildered. Shocked.
The library seemed housed on…music. Most strange. He’d worked
there
a decade and a half and the place’s silence had always rivaled a cemetery’s. Now the house was…singing.
a decade and a half and the place’s silence had always rivaled a cemetery’s. Now the house was…singing.
He wove his way through shelves of books he’d never even read—his
true love was Archie comics, and the library had never taken stock of those—and
his jaws hit the ground.
About a hundred—maybe more—people stood in row, as though in a
choir, singing their voices sweet and hoarse—somehow the combo worked—with two
others—a man and woman, one holding a phone—conducting them to Donnie
McClurkin’s I will sing.
It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. So daring. So unexpected.
So welcome!
Quickly did he take his place in the Balme Choir.
*
‘...because praise looks good on a believer...’ Psalm 33:1
My best of your recently published pieces Debbie!
ReplyDeletemusic always touches, it has the warmest palms!
Beautiful!
Thank you soooo much! :)
ReplyDelete