SOLOMON'S BRIDGE {Part II/WORK IN PROGRESS}

ONE GATE * *

Five friends meet up as usual at their favourite Friday club of choice, the One Gate. It is a popular place to hang out in Canaan, because of its cozy, colourful, scattered huts, the romantic canopy of trees, a fusion of derelict western bits of clothing, the bunches of dried plant leaves, and the beckoning temptation of it's overall artful decadence; it is a blast from the past, where everything wild and game is cooking...

Barbecued crocker fish fresh from the ocean, bush meats roasting on the spit, grilled steaks seasoned with natural spices, chicken soups with garlic, goat heads in clay pots going round on wide wooden platters, local delicacies like Nkwobi, Ekpang-nku-kwo, fish pepper soups, African salad, sweet Palm wine in every wooden cup, fumes of cigar smoke holding nostrils hostage to frustratingly slow meanderings...

Its seven pm. The live band strikes up an Ogele rhythm, creating a festive ambience. Frank Udoh is talking basic gibberish; a special language he developed, to cope with all the strong alcohol he consumes, in-between sense and nonsense. With frank, Bobby is always tempted to feel more intelligent.

"... please, no sanctimonious drivel tonight, Bobby," Frank warns him, wrinkling his button- like nose, "-waitress!" he yells, "-I want more palm wine!" Bobby notices a tattoo on his tongue, for the first time, "Is that a tattoo on your tongue? White and red stripes? Seriously?"

Frank's eyes lazily sweep across the garden club, his big mouth split in a silly half grin. After another gulp of chilled palm wine, he quietly observes his friend for a few minutes, his short fingers caressing the bottle lovingly, before again, unscrewing the cap and taking another long, lusty swig. Bobby sighs and checks his watch. The gang is yet, incomplete. He wonders what is delaying Trombone, Uzzy and Nurudeen.

***************

NURUDEEN

While driving down the hill he turns on the radio, tuning to the local station, Basement FM. The voice drifting over the air waves slithers up his spine. Its evocative, knowing, never failing to electrify him.

A voice from the past, a voice from the future, a voice he knew but didn't know, even though he'd been hearing it for the past one year; a sexy, loose style of her consonants and vowels washed over him goose bump after familiar goose bump.

Because, this is how she would have said hello! That's how she always said "hey, it's a beautiful night;" she used to drag her 'R's and clip her 'T's.
Aydee, his Benin university sweetheart, speaks to him through his stereo, except, it isn't Aydee. It is Candy Cool; your night companion on 85.5 high.

Candy reminds him of her so much, but women walking on the street remind him of her also, he seems to see her everywhere, and this makes him wonder if he is finally going insane, or delusional. Last week he'd chased after a damn bus. A bus, imagine that! Because, he thought he'd seen her boarding. Same hairdo, same body shape, the voluptuousness, even the same liquid honey gold skin.

I'm getting delusional.

The husky voice laughs, "You won't feel lonely tonight, darling, because I'll be right here ..." Slow, soft jazz filled the air space. The road stretches ahead of him in a blanket of darkness. Of all the nights in September; this had to be the night when the street lights from the hill to town don't work. He comes to a sharp bend and tries to slow down, but something is wrong.

Chike died in a car crash, brake failure...

He didn't change school, but stayed back, determined to fill Aydee's days with terror, to silence her with fear. But a week later, he reported her continued absence. She'd not been seen again since that night. She just... disappeared.