Music in the third row was something different when the three of us swaggered into the third section. There was a team of entertainers who had gathered, and to my utter surprise, they were performing Fela's piece, Trouble Sleep Yanga Wake Am.
I had thought earlier that they play only French songs in the hotel, but now, my soul was gladdened at the sound of the fella's pretty piece of sweet music and wonderful choreography.
Well, if his panties were sampled in France, why then wouldn't they perform his music in the French colonial hotel? I stopped. There was no point going into my room while such a sweet performance was going on. The man who was the lead role, the one posing as Fela was as slim as the man is in pictures and old videos, and he was good in the trumpet and smoking a lot of cigars.
"This isn't French." Said David. I was already becoming a little tied to his lively demeanor, always ready to comment on anything and sound as vulgaris as one would not expect of a Westerner.
"It's Fela Kuti," I came in response, "He is Nigerian but he is known across the world for his unique style of music and activism, he is the father of Afro-beats."
That was too much of an explanation but I had to because they will have to explain to their music heroes if they want to speak of them when I'm in the room with them unless it's Micheal Jackson, that man made the world go wild and I was forever a fan.
"You mean the man performing there is the father of Afro-beats?" Alessandro asked. He seemed to know Afro-beats. You mean the other Grammy award winner, Burnaboy is under him?"
The grin on his face showed nothing less than dissatisfaction. He wasn't judging by the sound, I could tell, he was judging by the face.
"Fela is dead, he died long before Micheal Jackson joined his African ancestors," I said in response. "The man here is merely performing the hero's work the same way Chris Brown performs Micheal Jackson."
Alessandro nodded now in satisfaction. "Let's go to your room already, it's getting cold and noisy out here."
I didn't want to leave the wonderful performance and go inside, but I had to, because he wanted to, and when he and his friend would leave, I trusted what I could do when I heard good music.
"Okay," I led them to my door, and went low to pick up the key the very same way the other woman did the other time, "Sorry for keeping you out in the cold and the noise."
I opened the door and led them inside, then, I went on to fetch the bottle of wine I had reserved in the room, with two paper cups. I would let them drink to their feel, then, I would take what's left.
"Your room is very much better," Alessandro said.
"Is this a room?" I dropped the bottle of wine and the paper cups on the center table. "We should call it an apartment on a short lease."
Alessandro chuckled, and David laughed. I expected David to go first for the wine, but Alessandro did it first, and once again, I remembered he is Italian-American, at least, the Italian part of him came first before the American part followed.
I've been to America, those guys over there are good with beers and other strong alcoholics, but Italian meant wine first, right from the days of Rome.
"You know, Sita," came David's hoarse voice, "I was wondering if you were raised in Abidjan."
I smiled. "Why do you ask?"
"I asked because you are more of an Anglophone African than the Francophone." He said with interest.
I sat down and crossed my legs. The truth was, there is no need to cross my legs because I'm in trousers, but I did that because if I were to sit among native men, I would stretch my legs out, so, I better sit the French noble way of crossing legs.
"I started life with my granny because my parents were busy with a lot," I started, "Meanwhile, granny has lived both lives, Anglophone and Francophone, but do you know what granny said to me?"
I glanced at Alessandro; he was listening attentively like he had put me on an interview.
"She said living the life of the French man is sweet, but you live the English way if you want to be something, otherwise, I will end up a spoiled adult who is more eager to take a cup of beer at night and relax at the beach in daytime," I added.
They laughed. Who didn't know what the French wanted, to make white men out of Africans, that was inculcating their view of life in us, and in that way, making us the monkeys they called us.
"I'll say I chose to be tough, but I've lived and I'm still living both lives, just like my granny."
***