Tango Meets Dan | by Carl Terver

   

The night was a tipsy one, at least for Dankolo. He sat at the Emerald Stop at Bello Kasim’s Crescent in Goma District. He had downed the last of whatever drop was left in the wineglass which the bartender served. It was his sixth glass. He stared at the empty wineglass that revealed through an oblique array of wine bottles and things of such shapes. He felt tiny little things play at the back of his skull, his bloodstream tingled with ethanol.  

Most of the bar was empty now. Bez’s Zuci Daya was playing in the background, which made him think for a moment about Hadiza. At the entrance of the bar a slim figure of a lady appeared – it seemed to be stepping out into the night. He thought of going after her when the ‘droid buzzed in his trouser pocket. He brought out the slim device. Data was on. It was a WhatsApp message – one of those night crawlers always online. He ignored it, opened the contact list on the messenger and scrolled up and down, different DPs nudging his attention. Sarah’s caught his eyes. He tapped on it, zoomed in, he pressed the lock button on the side of the slim thing and pocketed it back.

‘It’s ten-thirty,’ the bartender was saying.

Dan rubbed a finger on his tear duct as if to clear an eye bugger. 'Oh, yea,’ he answered the bartender. ‘The city doesn’t sleep.’

‘Well, you’re not the city.’

‘Why not? I was born and since been raised here . . . y’know. My grandfather was the cousin to the late Serajo, famous musician. Great country music. Hey, can you play one of his songs?’

‘You’re rambling — drunk talk. You should get going.’

‘Of course I will; just gimme another shot . . .’

‘No. Not in your present state.’

And Dan did start to go. He had got down from the bar stool at the counter and waltzed out of the Emerald Stop. This time it was Lucky Dube playing just outside the bar, the music was coming from a mai shai’s radio. . . so many people hate apartheid . . . oh why . . . Hey you rastaman  . . . And Dan did sway to the beats, throwing his legs up and down reggae-style, staggering, nodding his head here and there about.

Tango who had spent a hectic day shuffling through the jungles of Kano fleeing from henchmen of the state entered into the night after being in hideout where he had sought refuge for the waters to still. He was unkempt from head to toe and was heading for Bello Kasim Crescent. A figure ahead – still a silhouette – was gyrating and approaching. Tango smiled at this. It was Dan. 
     
Some yards away before he’d reach Tango, he tripped and down he crashed. All things scattered on the ground. He’d left his backpack unzipped; all of its contents spilled to the ground. Tango was only a feet away. He reached and pulled Dan up and sat him down on the ground, then began to gather the night-gyrating lad’s things: writing materials, spectacles, DVDs, papers, books. The books were peculiar Tango saw as he looked at every cover before packing them into the backpack. The Rose that Grew Out of A Concrete, Walter Rodney’s How Europe . . ., something on Mandela by Meredith, then Sigmund’s Introduction to Psychoanalysis. Frankenstein, Wuthering Heights . . . then — it was the book cover that caught him off guard — Half A Millennia of Conquest. It couldn’t be, Tango thought. So Kano youths read his books, even this erudite, as he has suspected, one as drunk as this lad in the middle of the night.

Dan had already got up and was beating the dust off his clothes, suggesting, reaffirming himself he had not passed sober . . . there was still some sobriety. He fought against the drowsiness. It wasn’t only sobriety he had to fight into his psyche but the face of the figure before him that he thought was an apparition that he thought he hadn’t seen. He lost his footing taking a step forward making him stagger again. He dug his hand into his pockets and brought out three Lemon Plus sweets, unwrapping them one after the other in a number of seconds and throwing them into his mouth and chewing them instantly so that his taste buds were assaulted with lemon tang. He was looking at Tango in the middle of the night wondering out of what study the man had stepped out from. He took a deep breath.

‘Mr Tango, I’m Dankolo Danjuma.’ Dan folded his arms in a way that both palms reined against each elbow in a way that you’d think he was cuddling himself or perhaps was catching a cold. The night was busy in the background away on its own. It was the end of November and the harmattan breeze blew with gay. ‘Mr Tango . . .’ Dan was saying.    

‘ . . . I wasn’t made prefect though I was the best history student at Crescent College . . .’ Dan was speaking, making gestures like an apprentice trying to explain to his master about a missing chisel. ‘I’m fresh out anyway. And . . . umm . . . I’ve read your book. It’s great — no, what am I even saying? I mean it’s provoking. It’s on my A-list . . .’

‘Oh,’ Tango interjected as if recovering from amnesia.

‘Dankolo Danjuma. I know you; you run that blog . . .’  

‘Ahh . . . Yessir,’ Dan beamed, spirited. He became even enthusiastic mixed with the joy of meeting his revered intellectual. This intellectual, a grail, read his blog! At least, he was not one of those renegades that abhor the internet.

‘I’ve visited your blog more than once, you know . . .’ By this time they both were exchanging pleasantries and acknowledging each other. Tango was fine and so was Dan. Tango had not been sticking his head out too much because of the state government on his tail; Dan has been having the time of his life upon graduating from secondary school. Yes, Dan ran a blog: aftertangoshamoc.blogspot.com. Hamoc was the acronym of the initials of the title of Tango’s book.

‘So, really. What is a teen doing out by this time of night?’ Tango asked.

‘Ah,’ Dan blurted, blushing. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. I guess am . . . Can I get a drink?’

‘No. let me.’ Tango made to the Emerald Stop and ordered a Red Label for himself and a La Voltic for his new friend.

 

Both sat on a bench somewhere in the streets. A bulb shone hanging from a tree. The city was spotted here and there with light from buildings. Dan gulped down his bottled water relishing the chill it sent to his internals.

‘I love Red Label,’ Dan said.

‘I know,’ Tango replied.

‘First time Biafra/ was here, we’re told, it was a fine/ figure massively hewn in hardwood . . .’ Dan was reading from memory a poem. 

‘Voracious white ants/ set upon it and ate . . . till it became a furrowed empty scarecrow. Biafra, 1969.’ Tango relayed. 

‘That’s where you got the title for your book, right?’ Dan asked.  

‘Yes,’ Tango replied. The two were silent for a while. Tango sipped at his Red Label. 

‘I love Achebe, y’know,’ Dan said. ‘I love his 1966 poem and Mango’s Seedling. So. Mr Tango, what is a personality like you doing out late in the night looking haggard?’

‘The State is after me. I’ve been in hiding. And if their plan to nab me secretly doesn’t work out I’ll soon be declared a wanted man which will make me a prey of scorn.’

‘After you for what? For writing? For inspiring young people like me? Aren’t you supposed to be a blessing?’ Dan asked endlessly.

Tango sipped at his Red Label. ‘You think I am?’ He smiled. ‘I guess the world thinks differently.’

Dan reached into his trouser pockets and brought his ‘droid out. He pressed the power button. Pthue-pthue-pthue came a low battery signal. He looked at notification. Two percent.

‘Shit’, he blurted.

‘What is it,’ asked Tango. 

‘Oh, battery’s down.

‘I wanted to put something up on the blog but that might have to wait.’

Tango tilted his head looking up at Dan, brows arched, in a way that questioned Dan’s intent of putting something up on the blog. 

‘Look, Mr Tango. We’ll sure meet next time. Can I have your phone number?'

Tango shook his head. ‘Can’t use a phone, was bugged last time. They’ve placed tabs on me.’

Dan looked a bit surprised. He never expected Kano’s security departments to be that sophisticated. ‘No problem. I think I’ve got your email. Will reach you there.’ All of a sudden Dan was acting like he wasn’t recently fighting drowsiness. He was energized. He brought out some more Lemon Plus sweets and handed some to Tango, ‘here, have some,’ he said.  Dan hunched his backpack over his right shoulder and stood in front of his idol. ‘Next time, Sir.’

‘Next time. Don’t send any emails. Everything’s bugged. Won’t be any good if they think you’re connected to me. I’m an enemy of the state.’

Dan had begun walking, slowly, then faster, then he sprinted. Tango reluctantly shouted: You think the internet can save me? There was a reply if Tango heard, a ‘yeah’, but the night carried away the vowels that it sounded only faint. 



About the writer. . .

Carl Terver is a Nigerian writer, poet, essayist and curator of Afapinen Litmag - a literary blog of criticisms on life, art and culture. He currently lives in Abuja.

This story is a part of what the writer thinks may happen in the full story which is yet written. A first part was published here sometime back. The writer wishes to share these 'parts' of the story as they come. May it be noted that the stories may not be reconciliatory as the timelines do not follow a sequence.