As tears rolled down his face onto the envelope, he realised why the envelopes in which Lela sent her letters had stains: the stains were teardrops, the pain she felt, carried across time and place. Now, as he watched his tears drying up on the envelope, he felt hope, knowing that she would be reminded of his feelings for her upon receiving the letter.
Not until he had sealed the envelope did it occur to him that he had no clue where to send the letter. For a while he was lost in thought, but seeing no way of getting the letter to Lela, he went outside and left it in his mailbox. And, hoping that whoever delivered her letter to him would find it and take it to her, he took the padlock off the box.
*
He hid the letter he received from Lela where no one could find it. For her sake, he reminded himself, he must not allow anyone, not even Aroli, to know about it. Her words kept echoing in his mind: ‘If you receive this letter, keep it a secret.’ Although he felt very sad, he also felt relief knowing that she was alive. And now all he had to do to secure her release was learn to sing again. He became filled with a sense of urgency and hope. He realised that if he learned to sing again he could stir the world’s memory with his voice and they would remember all that they had forgotten about him. And then he would praise the President with his music and secure the release of the woman he loved!
‘I have to learn to sing again,’ he said, when Aroli visited him that morning. He was upbeat, but his eyes were tired.
‘I think we should secure Lela’s release before you turn your attention to reviving your career,’ Aroli said, studying his face. ‘Get some sleep. You look tired.’
He ignored Aroli’s concern. ‘Look, my voice is as good as a croak at the moment. There’s no way I can convince the regime I’m their man with that kind of voice. I must learn to sing again to secure Lela’s release. Don’t you see?’
Aroli gave a slow nod of understanding.
Taduno continued. ‘If I learn to sing again I will be able to convince the regime I’m their man. And then I can praise the government with my music and get them to release Lela.’ He was excited. Although he felt the strong urge to tell Aroli about the letter, he remembered Lela’s warning.
‘In which case you’ll be supporting an evil regime,’ Aroli said quietly.
‘It’s the only way to secure Lela’s release.’
Aroli gritted his teeth. He saw no other way.
*
They went out to buy a guitar from a second-hand shop, and then they got something to eat. Returning to Taduno’s house, they spent the rest of the day in the upper room where he used to rehearse his songs. For over thirty minutes he strummed the guitar. The music it produced was melodious, dreamy; and it transported Aroli back to a time and place he struggled unsuccessfully to recall.
A smile lingered on Taduno’s face as he played his guitar. He played it in very simple tones, eyes closed. Carried away by the moment, he opened his mouth to sing a song from another time, a love song about a beautiful woman. But the sound of his voice caused everything to fall apart. He shook his head, struggling to hold back his tears.
His voice sounded terrible. He flung the guitar aside, and for a long time he simply stared at the wall.
*
‘Do you want to try again?’ Aroli asked later.
Taduno responded by picking up his guitar, and he began to stroke the strings with feathery fingers. His music poured forth, slowly, patiently. He played for hours, eyes closed, making no attempt to sing this time. Sweat beads stood out on his face like golden dew. His shirt became soaked. His music transported them away from that room to another world. It was a unique experience for Aroli – music without words – yet, he understood the meaning of his song. He knew it was the song of a man broken and rejected by a society very dear to his heart, an adagio of pain, played so beautifully even time became still.
They both opened their eyes when the song came to an end.
‘Your music is out of this world,’ Aroli complimented.
‘Thank you.’
‘It was good you did not attempt to sing. If you keep playing with that kind of passion you will discover your voice again.’
Taduno nodded. ‘I need the right inspiration,’ he said, as if talking to himself.
‘How did you use to get inspiration?’ Aroli asked.
‘From the street, from the suffering on the street, from seeing so much injustice, from every little act of love shown by one person to another, from the struggles of every day, from the collective joys we share.’
‘You must find that inspiration again.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. And then he told Aroli about TK, the music producer who gave him his break when he first came to pursue his dream in the city as a teenager. ‘He was a very good man, very passionate about music,’ he concluded.
‘Oh yes, everyone knows TK, the music producer who got on the wrong side of government. One of his artists got him into trouble with the government. And going by all you have told me, you must be that artist. It makes more sense to me now. So it is true that we are the ones who forgot you, the ones who lost our minds . . .’
A short silence followed.
‘I’m tempted to pay him a visit,’ Taduno spoke his thought aloud, ‘but I’m afraid he wouldn’t remember me, just like everyone else.’
‘It may be worth trying. You never can tell.’
*
Time became so slow that every tick was an agonising reminder of Lela’s plight. The letter he had written to her remained in the mailbox and all he could do was focus on practice. Other than playing his guitar – without making any attempt to sing – he had nothing else to do. So he allowed Aroli to drag him to Mama Iyabo’s restaurant every now and then for a meal. ‘So you don’t starve yourself to death,’ Aroli would say. And they would eat among people who gave him polite smiles reserved for strangers. And he would listen as Aroli shared jokes with them. And he would wonder about them, how they could be so different when they did not realise that you knew so many secrets about them.
He understood that Aroli was attempting to connect him back to society, to his chief source of inspiration. He did not resist, but he did not encourage him either. He simply enjoyed whatever intimacies his interaction brought. And by so doing, he discovered that he could smile and laugh again, even though the underlying fear in the depth of his soul remained.
On a Friday night, exhausted from playing his guitar, Aroli dragged him to the bar along the slow-rushing canal. The place was so packed the open air was bursting. It was packed with all classes of people – the upper class, the middle class, the lower class, and the classless class.
They were all drinking and murmuring against the government. It was mostly in bars that people found the courage to speak openly. So they poured out their venom. And they drank their beer and ate roasted fish with pepper and onions and soggy chips.
Even though the music was loud in that garden bar, the voices of the people drowned the music. Arguments rose and fell. Everyone wanted to be heard, no one wanted to be quiet. Everyone
