White Elephants Prt 2

To read part one of this story click here :-)

The lawn behind the Presidential Palace teemed with guests when Mustafa finally pulled into the crowded driveway, an hour after checking into the gates. Security had been heightened in and around the premises, with numerous checkpoints being set up on the road that led to the palace. Jazz music emanating from a band playing under a pavilion softly accompanied the guests’ din. A man in a crisp red coat yanked Anisa’s door open and effortlessly flashed her a smile. It was clearly practiced. Mustafa was already at her side by the time she had stood upright beside the already pulling away car. White gloves extending to her elbows now covered her forearms and Mustafa hastily held a stylish bisque jacket behind her. She slid her arms into it before he gently pulled it over her shoulders and then adjusted a paisley tie that throttled his thick neck. His bespoke black suit was equally immaculate, befitting the elegance that the surroundings reeked.

“Are you okay?”

Anisa nodded at her brother.

They made their way into the foyer and on emerging on the lawn, Anisa’s coat and gloves had yet again given way to her lanky arms and slightly visible back.

“I see Zu,” she said looking toward the performing band. A black woman next to the pavilion was speaking to a group of people whose faces were wreathed in smiles. She coincidentally tilted her head and met their glance. Smiling, she slumped her head sideways and winked. Anisa smiled back then sneakily waved at her.

“Your children will be so beautiful Mumu! If they take after their mother. You? You’re just plain ugly.”

Mustafa chortled and softly prodded her ribs.

“At least I’ll have children, cat lady.”

Zuria curled her arms around Anisa’s torso then darted backward to take in her appearance.

“You are so beautiful Isa!” she crowed.

“Not as you, Zu.”

Mustafa stood mutely, awkwardly taking in the female ritual unfolding in front of him. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, you too are beautiful Mustafa,” Zuria quipped as Mustafa pecked her cheek. “Aww, you wore the tie!”

“It’s hideous Zu!”

“I know!”

Anisa chortled.

“I’m glad you’re here! The Gambian ambassador, with his awful fake accent, has been all over me.”

“He still wants to buy you lunch?”

“He wants to get into my pants, that’s what!”

“If only he knew what I know…” Mustafa jested. Zuria covered her face with her hands in mock mortification.

“I love that band,” Anisa cut in, gently bobbing her head to the music’s lilt, her eyes firmly shut.

“Wanna join them?”

“Oh no no no! My father would kill me.”

“He’s not here though.”

“The cameras are,” Mustafa chimed in.

“I want to Mumu!” Anisa pleaded.

Musa was protective of his daughter. Overbearing at times even, but always let his guard down whenever she was around Mustafa. Mustafa was a toned down version of Musa. He was still his son though. One could tell. His indrawn disposition, firmness at times and jolie-laide warped nose.

“I’ll ask them not to take any photos.”

“I don’t know…” Anisa vacillated, casting Mustafa an imploring look.

“Okay. One song.”

“You are the bomb Mustafa.”

An excitement suddenly engulfed the room. Everyone’s attention was shifted to the palace’s well-lit patio. A short black man in a red cap, with a tall white man who clearly knew how to wear suits well in tow, walked towards a furnished green tent set up besides the pavilion. Two women on either side of the men followed slightly behind. The atmosphere around the garden abruptly filled with the sound of handclaps.

“Gotta go,” Zuria blurted before squeezing Mustafa’s hand.

The crowd grew quite suddenly. The two men sunk into the leather seats modishly arranged in the tent. A waiter stood rooted in front of Anisa and Mustafa, tray held out and fake smile riveted on his face. Anisa returned an equally fake smile and picked a glass of champagne. The fizzing bubbles popped as she took a generous sip of the yellow drink. Mustafa had picked a tumbler filled with vermouth. He supped at it, his tongue lapping against his lower lip every time the tumbler left his mouth.  

“You really want to sing?” Mustafa inquired nonchalantly. It was more of a statement than a question.

“It could be my big break.”

“Zuria is a bad influence on you.”

“She encourages my abilities,” Anisa softly protested.

Zuria got back to them just when everybody was moving to the tables set up in front of the green tent. The red tube dress she was in earlier had given way to an arresting blue blouson dress whose hem enthrallingly embraced her thickset hips. Mustafa coughed.

“What?” Zuria asked simpering.

“I chocked on sight of you.”

“I look that bad?” she quipped planting her lips on Mustafa’s.

“Far from it,” he answered as Zuria rubbed out a red lipstick smirch off his lower lip.

“The president must have an extra room available for his niece and her boyfriend,” Anisa hissed at them, her face slightly contorted.

“Sorry Isa,” Zuria apologized. “You’re on next by the way. Before the food is served.”

“Whoa! It’s that easy to get a gig?!”

“I know a friend,” Zuria smiled back.

The jazz band had long been replaced by a group of oddly dressed young men with bizarre hairstyles.

Kalimba, kalimbayooo…

“Do you know how much your president hates those guys?” Zuria asked.

“What! No way! They sing at every function the president graces!”

“He hates them. My father said the president told him he only has them sing because they sang to his wife once, and she thought he had asked them to. So she has always had them invited to state functions.”

The young men were now dancing on the pavilion, their lead singer gyrating his waist uncivilly. The black man in the green tent clapped his hands and laughed as he pointed out the lead singer’s evocative movements to the tall white man. The white man apathetically nodded his head.

“There’s the Gambian fool,” Zuria pointed at a table as he tapped Mustafa’s thigh.

A fat bald man was laughing as he grasped a woman’s waist. He shook as he laughed, as though he was having a series of convulsions.

“That’s not even his wife.”

A young man approached Zuria and whispered in her ear before leaving.

“It’s time Isa.”

Anisa sighed profoundly. She was used to singing in front of people. However, singing in front of the president was clearly an uncharted ocean. She trailed Zuria as they snaked their way between the tables onto the pavilion. The crowds chattering grew. The members of the jazz band ambled onto the stage. Anisa sat on a wooden stool and adjusted a silver microphone that had been thrust into her hand.

Then she started humming, her fingers snapping steadily. A wave of silence slowly descended upon the guests. Her lips parted. She sounded off-key. She kept singing. The murmurs arose once more. The band member with the red tie’s upright bass’ hollow plunks suddenly rend the air. The notes looped around Anisa’s now silvery voice before the saxophones timbres’, mellow yet bubbly, joined in ripping the air around with their reminiscent harmonies. Anisa closed her eyes and cranked up her voice an octave higher. The bass’ atonal strums intensified, the red-tied man now tugging on its strings wildly. Her voice remained stout and firm, her numerous vocal exercises coming off much to the awe of all around. The ensemble suddenly all together went mum, letting Anisa’s voice dance among the crowd. The saxophone player in a trilby then gently joined in, his instrument sounding like a man begging. The second saxophonist joined in the act, his instrument sounding kind of squeaky. Anisa opened her eyes, winked at the bassist and then suddenly stopped singing. The saxophones went dumb too, before the bassist started pinching on his strings and then swiftly damping their vibrations using his palms bringing the act to an end. The entire congregation was up on its feet. Anisa stood up and grinned. Mustafa was smiling and clapping too.

She walked down the set of stairs fixed beside the pavilion into Zuria’s embrace.

“Yeah, about pictures not being taken, the president kinda wants to award you a head of state commendation.”

“Wait, what?!” Anisa shrieked.

“The French embassy could also perhaps ask you to perform at an event next month.”

                                                                                     *

Anisa looked into the mirror in front of her. A card with her name lay next to her set of combs. It was an invite to attend a state banquet following Independence Day celebrations. Numerous luminaries would be in attendance, and several exceptional achievers would also be awarded state commendations. It was twenty years since she had gotten hers. As usual, her attendance was imperative. Her skin was a little wrinkled, time’s cruel hand starting to show. A five year old girl barged into the room.

“Mama, dad says we have to leave.”

“I’m done,” Anisa said smiling at the child. She ran out of the room.

Anisa picked up a lapel pin with the country’s flag and her name embroidered in its center. She pinned it on her coat and ran a hand through her cropped hair. She sighed and got up.

“Remember to carry your jacket Madison.”