Prologue

One thing I had never figured out what best to do with, so far had remained the reason why Pa Koffi woke the neighborhood every morning with his large amp, blaring odd songs in our ears every morning. One such song was the sad piece from the Everly Brothers; Take a Message to Mary, and for lord’s sake, that was big-time sound pollution to our neighborhood, but no one ever spoke of such because Pa Koffi was a pretty old man doing the things he spent his youthful days doing.

I would bet I forever remain one of those who hate the old big amp, and the songs that found their way off it, and sometimes, I’d swear by my cunt to stone that pan, or cut the wires if there were any, at least, that would keep the neighborhood at peace for a while before he would fetch someone to fix it, but something was different tonight.

He seemed to have timed the whole business, and he never let that amp do its job until Alessandro slipped his hand in mine and leaned in to brush his lips around mine. Those cute lips I would have sworn to snatch if they never came to me, those lips that attracted me to him, they met mine and brushed mine open so his tongue would find its way in my mouth, to meet my tongue and count my dentures, while his fingers tightened against mine like we were holding each other from falling from grace.

It was then that the amp gave up what it had been holding down in its thin belly, a song I knew well, from Shirley Bassey. That piece wasn’t a soft piece for a kissing moment, but it somehow found its way into our heads and made us switch from a calm romantic moment to something I must call silly.

First, it started with the rhythm of the song; Kiss Me, Honey, Honey, Kiss Me, then, it went deep into some wild exploration of both fingers, mine digging deep into the lining of his back and his gripping to every bumpy and robust part of my body, till they found their way under my skirt, and the rest of the night’s game was a story I wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

SITA

“I must confess, dear, we’ve been busy with just one thing, asking questions and torturing boys who seem to have nothing to do with what happened last week.”

I pretended not to have heard them from the other room where I was offered a seat by one of the handmaidens who had just a weak smile and the sweet scent of her heavily scented shirt.

“Do you care for a drink, ma’am?” she asked, the handmaiden was looking me in the face like she wanted to figure something out of the way I stared casually at the pendulum of the old grandfather clock in the massive hall.

“Um...” I faked a smile, the prettiest of the sort I have worn so far. “Maybe, a lemonade if you have one.”

“Lemonade?” she raised a brow. “We have cellars, no space for juice and lemonades.”

I chuckled, how brilliant she is to have summoned enough courage to remind me that the rich people in the society have no business keeping lemonade and juice in their homes, many don’t fancy beer, rather, they keep a reserved cellar full of really expensive wines for pretty special visitors like me.

“That damn writer called us bloody swindlers and a party of devils.” The honorable snarled from inside. “We have to find whoever was involved in dishing such silly writeups out in the public and deal with them.”

Maybe he had no idea I was around, and if he does, he is very much aware that as a fellow politician, the issue of scandals on public figures is a common phenomenon. It’s never a big thing to hide from the next victim in line.

“Ma'am,” Came the maid once more, “You seem carried away.”

Was she saying something? Indeed, she was, but I wasn’t listening, and if I did, who knows what horrible words must have left my lips.

I faked one more smile. I do that a lot these days, “Do you have brandy?”

“German brandy, brewed during the Second World War by the best brewers Hitler himself could ever boast of” The maid came in response, causing me to giggle a little.

What a brilliant sweet tooth, she barely knew Hitler—to begin with, and if she did, I don’t think she knew what he boasted of in those days, aside from the army he presented to his role model, Mussolini of Italy, the day the very legend of his life visited Germany.

“Very well” I merely wanted to dismiss her and keep her little warm conversation at pause for a while, “Get me a glass if your master has any.”

She moved her lips, Who knows what she could have said if not that she simply had to scurry off and do her job. I watched her leave the hall, but before I could position myself to listen to the conversation in the other room, I heard someone clear his throat behind me.

I spurned; it was the honorable I had come to meet. A noble fellow, looking just his best in the best suit the weavers of Paris could ever weave, and the tailors could ever put together.

“I Guess the scent of your suit is warmer than your smile, honorable.” I rose to my feet to meet him, but he made for me instead, his lips curled into the best smile I had so far seen on his handsome face.

“Sita.” He came soft. “You are here, wearing your very usual black cloth that gives you this look of a widow, is that the little secret of all you philanthropists?”

He closed in on me and crossed his hand over me as I bent a little to have him greet me the way Africans do. On a normal day, he would ask for my hand, and when I offered him the right one, he would kiss it like a gentleman.

“How come my little girl left you here without something to sweeten your tongue?” he asked.

“She is on her way to do the pretty bidding she’s being paid for,” I replied, “And she would soon be back with the German brandy I asked for.”

He laughed and made for a seat without asking me to do the same. Of course, I’m meant to feel very much at home at a colleague’s place, even if he is rather a competitor.

“Pardon the delay at my corner, Sita.” He sighed amidst his words. “It’s a big deal to chest the weight of politics this season.”

I smiled, Big deal indeed. Well, I focused more on admiring his choice of words, and following the rhythm his fingers made as they drummed on the arm of the seat he chose in the hall. That should be his favorite, old and costly, something from the pretty shops of Paris, I guess, something that must have been there before the long war of those days.

His name, by the way, is Hon. Yapi, one of the prettiest the ruling party would ever boast of. I like the fact that he is tall, and he is such a gentleman, a lovely one.

“You owe me no apology, honorable, your maid was rather too entertaining to keep me bored.” I said in response.

“Very good” He crossed his legs and cracked his fingers. “I summoned you here because my party wishes…”

The maid walked in with a tray, on which was balanced a glass of brandy, the one I chose myself, while she was bugging me with all the questions on her list.

“Sorry lady, we are into business already, I wouldn’t take brandy while an honorable member of the…”

“You don’t need to worry, Sita.” Yapi did not let me finish, “I understand you want to keep your head clear, but it’s no big deal if you take at least a sip.”

I smiled, but with that drink, I knew I shouldn’t even drag a sip. “Sorry, honorable, I’m not that good with brandy.”

He made faces, maybe that was his way of getting people to do what he wished they would do, even if they weren’t willing, but I ignored that face.

“Return it to the kitchen,” I ordered the maid. “I treat business like a business.”

“And you must have heard the shit that was published about me in the papers going round the street by some anonymous author who has eyes that see so clearly and fingers that scribbles lies and hate speech.” He snapped.

I turned to him with a pitiful look, who didn't know he was done dirty by a licensed newspaper with too many anonymous columnists. How those papers manage to get to the public, and how the stuff finds their way online, satisfying both those who have a thing for the online space and those who dwell offline, is just an awe of a thing.

“I was called a political swindler, a liar, a thief” He continued, “And there was this dirty clip they shared online; did you see it?”

I looked at the maid who was still waiting with the platter of brandy. She was probably waiting to grab her cut of the gossip, so I knew I had to choose my words carefully.

“Is this why you asked me to come meet you here?” I asked, “Scandals are a thing of the game.”

He relaxed on his seat and bid the maid off with his fingers. “Sita, we want you to decamp from that weak party of yours and join us.”

That was clean and clear. It didn't sound like he summoned me to make a plea, rather, it seemed he was ready to make me an offer I wouldn’t refuse.

One of such offers I learned was made to a big brother who was asked to sign a contract that demanded he promote a certain political party. I learned he was told that it was either his signature braces on the paper or his brain was spilled on it.

“I’ve been so messed up that I fear setting out to the public.” He continued. “So, a friend of mine suggested we ask you to decamp to our side. At least, your influence as a philanthropist and your experience as a politician will help.”

I swallowed. He already made his point, my influence as a philanthropist would help promote their selfish party interest.

“You called me to ask for my help,” I said; my eyes staring into his eyes as I spoke. “Because they’ve done your name dirty.”

“Excuse me.” He snapped.