Love and Hiplife

by Nana Prah

  In an ideal world, she would’ve requested a new supervisor who showed more respect for her and her work. Heck, in a model world, Professor Ogah wouldn’t have died, and people would be calling her Dr. Imoro by then. She just had to endure for a short while longer.

  He slammed the draft he had insisted she print out each time she submitted her work on the desk. “Your dissertation lacks depth.”

  She gripped her notebook instead of grabbing the stack of papers and kept quiet. He would explain in his own time.

  “You mentioned an artist in the background of your work as influencing the topic of your research.” Professor Amartey rested his forearms against the surface of his desk. “Along with the interviews of music listeners, you need to add interviews from performers as an aspect of your research.”

  Standing and screaming at the top of her lungs while taking her work and beating his desk with it wouldn’t begin to satisfy her rage. Her nostrils flexed in ways she had no control over as she huffed in breaths to control her temper. She glanced down at her notebook to find it twisted.

  Interviews with artists meant having to undertake analysis that took up so much time and energy that it would leave her fatigued for a full week once she completed it. Her mind blanked out for a moment to stop from thinking about the amount of work the man had added to the pile already on her head, ready to compress and then break her spine.

  She flexed her fingers, hoping it would be enough to keep her from diving towards the man and placing her them around his neck. The university looked down on counts of assault and battery. It would better than letting the burning in her eyes give way to tears of frustration. Professor Amartey fed on weakness, so she sat with a stiff spine and kept her eyes dry.

  “It’s a great idea,” she said without enthusiasm or honesty. As she’d experienced previously, there would be no point in arguing with him. “I also think it will add another dimension to the research.”

  Which was true. Even though it would suck up her time and brain power when she was already running on fumes.

  “Bring the questions to me this week so I can review them, and you can get the interviews done as soon as possible.”

  Had he given a viable time-saving suggestion instead of grunting a goodbye? If she had heard the word e-mail in the sentence, she would’ve run out of the room screaming about an alien abduction.

  “Yes, Professor.”

  Now to find some way to get in contact with the artists. It wasn’t as if she ran in their circles.

  Her breath hiccupped as Blaise’s face grinning up at her just before their lips brushed hers sprang into her mind. Her heart pounded out his name in rapid succession.

  Lamisi’s brain whirled with the new development. Working tirelessly on a dissertation for so many years had made her a bit jaded. Just like that, her interest in her research had been rejuvenated.

  Or is it the chance to talk to Blaise again?

  She ignored the inner voice.

  Would he connect her with other artists and allow her to interview him after the way she’d blown him off? She sure hoped so because she had no contacts in the music business.

  Self-preservation had been a good-enough reason for her to stay away from Blaise. Completing her dissertation represented a greater incentive to call him.

  It didn’t mean anything would happen between them, though. For the sake of her doctorate and avoiding bias, nothing could.

  ***

  Blaise sat with his French tutor, bored out of his skull. He’d been deceiving himself when he’d presumed that the language would be easy to learn and incorporate into his music.

  The six weeks of these three-hour lessons four days a week had been a waste of time as his mind swirled with the differences in tenses. Why would they torture people by assigning a gender to each noun?

  The man he’d hired from Côte d’Ivoire to teach him the ins and outs of the language had been pleasant and patient. Mostly. At the end of their sessions, Blaise wasn’t the only one whose eyes had glazed over.

  Possessing a fluency in the language would be more ideal than having the words translated into his lyrics and singing them. He’d thought jacking into a few lessons with a French-speaking native, watching lots of French movies with subtitles, and listening exclusively to music from Francophone African countries would help him to understand the language within months.

  He’d been kidding himself. The vocabulary had been more difficult to pick up than any other language he’d learned, and he didn’t sound anywhere as authentic as his teacher when he spoke.

  Running barefoot under the scorching sun of his hometown while a pack of wild dogs chased him for hours on end appealed to him more than having the conversations that Armand forced him to speak in French. On a daily basis, he thought of hiding in his walk-in closet when the doorbell rang with Armand standing outside.

  Blaise put a stop to the repetition of the tenses of run. He rummaged through the vocabulary in his brain to find the French words he needed to send the man packing for the day. Nothing but au revoir came to him. He’d need to say more than goodbye to keep from sounding rude.

  “Let’s end the session early,” he said in English.

  Armand flipped his wrist over and glanced at his watch. “We still have an hour and a half remaining.”

  Blaise rubbed his short beard, ready to throw down a lie before he realized it wasn’t necessary. His tutor would still be getting paid for the whole session. “It’s been a long week, and I’d like to get some rest.”

  It didn’t take any more explanation as Armand bent his head and gathered his things. Was he grinning?

  Blaise pulled out his wallet and handed Armand the money due him. Quality French lessons weren’t cheap. And the way things were going with his inability to grasp onto it, they wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

  He limped a little from the slight throb still present in his ankle as he walked the man to the door.

  “I’ll see you next Lundi.” At least, he’d gotten the word Monday correct.

  Armand grimaced. “Oui, Lundi.”

  He’d pronounced the word in a one-eighty degree different way than Blaise had.

  “Lundi,” he corrected himself.

  It didn’t drive away the sour pucker of the man’s lips. “Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir.” He frowned at how unalike his own version had sounded to Armand’s before he closed the door.

  If he were any type of quitter, he’d tell his tutor to never return because he was giving up on making French the base for some of his songs with English thrown in to accentuate. Unlike other hiplife artists from Ghana, he wanted to take the Francophone countries by storm with a fresh, unique style.

  The lyrics were ready; he just needed to jam the new language into them in a way that didn’t make him sound like an idiot.

  Blaise stumbled to the couch and flopped into it, resting this arm over his forehead. There had to be an easier way to learn. Fatigued from the mental exertion, he’d started to drift off to sleep when his cell rang.

  He grunted after a quick glance at the screen. Deola. She’d been clingy over the past few weeks, her new habit of daily calls annoying. The hints she kept dropping about them taking their friendship further had thrown him off. The woman’s vindictive nature wouldn’t allow him to decline in a direct manner, so he’d found ways to change the subject.

  There had been rumours of her shutting down a popular photography studio in Lagos when the owner decided to break up with her. He had no idea how true it was, but he wasn’t willing to risk everything he’d worked so hard for by allotting her an outright rejection. He’d just have to ease her out of liking him. In the meantime, he’d continue to ignore her advances.

  Other than friendship, he felt nothing for Deola. Where the woman he felt nothing for wasn’t afraid to show it, the one he was drawn to her like rivers to the ocean had refused to contact him. He’d contemplated stopping by the only university in Accra that offered a doctorate p
rogram to make enquiries in the language department about his mountain woman.

  Reason had kept him from making a fool of himself. Maybe she wasn’t a student in the language section. Didn’t she say that her dissertation had been inspired by his multilingual songs? Was she a music major?

  Rather than tease himself about the possibility of stalking her, he answered the call.

  “Good morning, Deola.”

  “Hi, Bizzy.” She let out a sigh. “It took you long enough to answer. Why do you sound tired?”

  He’d asked her to call him Blaise on several occasions, but she never did. “I just had a French lesson.”

  “I don’t understand why you insist on forcing yourself to learn that language.” As always, the poutiness in her tone pervaded. “If people don’t speak English, that’s not your fault. Besides, what do places like Benin and Côte d’Ivoire know about good music? If they had any kind of clue, your songs would be skyrocketing on their music charts.” She giggled. “That’s even if they have them there.”

  For an educated, wealthy woman who’d travelled to many countries throughout the world, she still held a limited viewpoint about, well, everything. For her, no country was as good as Nigeria. Considering they treated her as royalty there, he could somehow understand her reasoning.

  He often wondered why she communicated with him. If he didn’t speak Hausa like her, would she have any interest?

  “For years, Côte d’Ivoire was considered to be one of the leading countries of West Africa with its advanced infrastructure and economy.”

  “Oh, darling.” Her condescension came through loud and clear. “That was forever ago and no longer worth mentioning. Aiming to impress those people with your music is a waste of your talents. Focus on writing in English and maybe Hausa so you can catch the eye of an American artist who will be willing to collaborate with you. That’s when the huge sales will come.”

  He definitely wouldn’t shun an international collaboration. His gut told him that French lyrics would help get him there.

  He ignored her unsolicited advice. “What’s going on?”

  “Sweetheart, does something have to be happening for us to speak? I’ve gotten rather addicted to our daily calls and look forward to them. You could do better by picking up the phone and ringing me every once in a while.”

  Her habit of manipulation infuriated him. Yet another reason they wouldn’t make a functional couple. Deola needed someone she could control. He wasn’t the one.

  At his lack of response, she continued. “Anyway, what are you wearing to the VGMAs? It’s only three weeks away. I’d like to choose a gown that matches you.”

  Blaise sat up straight. Had he forgotten that he’d asked her to escort him to the biggest music awards ceremony in Ghana? He raked through his memory only to come up with a no. She was continuing with their prior arrangement. If he ever wanted a real relationship to blossom with a woman he liked, he’d have to cut Deola off. Gently. Which meant with a lie.

  “I hadn’t planned on going.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice rose an octave. Quite the feat considering how high-pitched it already was. “You’re up for four awards, one being Artiste of the Year. I’d like to adorn the arm of a winner. Which I know you will be.”

  He thought about how the tabloids would continue to splash false information about their platonic relationship. “I don’t think—”

  “It’s okay. It’s not necessary for me to know your colour. I’ll wear black. It goes with everything, and I look fabulous in it. I’ll be staying at Rema Resort. Same bungalow as always. Pick me up at seven. We want to make a splash with our entrance. I wouldn’t be averse to you renting an upscale car. A Bentley or Jaguar will do. Get a driver, though.”

  She took a breath that wasn’t long enough for him to get a word in.

  “This is going to be so much fun. According to social media, everyone is going to be there. I’ll arrange for the photographer because my posts have to be on point. My fans will expect nothing but the most glamorous pictures of us. Do you have your acceptance speech written? Don’t go up there unprepared. Stumbling over your words would be beyond embarrassing. I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

  If he were going to get out of the date, he’d better do it now. “Listen, Deola. I appreciate the—”

  “No need to thank me, babe. You’re welcome. We complement each other. Beauty and talent mix perfectly together. I’ll be flying into Ghana on that day because you know I don’t like spending too much time in other African countries. Except for SA. I love the beachfront hotel I stay at in Cape Town. See the comfort I’m willing to sacrifice for you? By the way, in a week, I’m traveling with Daddy for two weeks onto an oil rig. He insists that I learn at least a little bit about the business. I want you to know because he told me the phone reception would be bad.”

  She heaved out a sigh. “Can you imagine two weeks without speaking to me? I know it will be difficult, but you’ll manage. As for myself, I have no idea how I’ll survive without social media. How will people be able to adore and copy my amazing fashion and style sense if they can’t see me? Anyway, I’ll figure it out. I always do. The stressors of my life. Not everyone would be able to handle it. Bye, honey.”

  The phone went dead. His breath had been stolen with it. How did he always allow her to outtalk him? Wasn’t he the master of words? He had half a mind to call her back and tell her they wouldn’t be attending together.

  But then, who would he go with that would be comfortable with him and the paparazzi? Lamisi came to mind. The woman had been respectful, but hadn’t appeared awestruck.

  Time to man up. Snatching his phone from where he’d tossed it across the couch, he tapped Deola’s contact.

  It rang several times, and just when he was about to give up, she answered.

  “Miss me already, dear?”

  “Deola, I can’t go with you to the VGMAs.” Just like she’d done to him moments ago, he didn’t give her a chance to speak. “I’m looking for a relationship, and as wonderful as you are, we aren’t well-suited. I can’t find someone if I’m always seen in public with you and newspapers are throwing around the rumour of us being a couple when we aren’t.”

  He paused then to let the words sink in. “I hope you understand.”

  What was going through her mind? Was she planning some sort of revenge? He rolled his eyes. What could she do to his career even with her social media influence? He’d risen to the top because of his talent, not because of anything she’d done for him. When they’d met, he’d already been well-known. That’s why she’d clung to him.

  She was a woman who could sense potential, and he had it in eighteen-wheeler tankards.

  After the longest time, she spoke.

  “You’ve made your feelings clear.” Where was the inflection in her tone? “I thought we were going as friends. Nothing more. I understand your point. Are you seeing someone?”

  “Not right now, but it’s good to keep our options open just in case the right one drops into our lives.”

  Speaking multiple languages and being beautiful even though she doesn’t have any makeup on and is sweating like three grown men.

  “Are you sure? You hesitated for a moment.”

  There it was, the harshness in her voice that he’d anticipated.

  “I’m positive. I’m flying solo these days. Working on my French and my career.”

  Her heavy sigh seeped into him. “I understand. Thank you for your honesty.”

  Did she? This wasn’t the way he’d expected the conversation to go down. He’d anticipated bleeding from the ear with her screeching and yelling. Lucky for him she was being civilized.

  “Good. I hope you have a safe journey on the oil rig.” What else could he say? Have a great life?

  “Thank you, I’ll talk to you another time. Take care.”

  The phone went dead. Blaise stared at it for a minute before getting up and doing part of the choreographed dances for o
ne of his songs.

  He’d dodged a bullet. From what he’d heard, no one told her no, but he’d gotten away with it.

  More dancing.

  Now, to find that special woman who sparked his soul. Someone he’d want to spend the rest of his life with. Had he already met her and let her go without even trying?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lamisi procrastinated calling Blaise after the meeting with her horror of a supervisor by completing the interview questions he’d requested. Then she’d researched and compiled a list of Ghanaian hiplife artists who would suit her project if they were available. Her hips were loose and flexible from all the dancing she’d done while listening to their music.

  When that task had been completed, her parent’s house, where she would continue to live until she received her doctorate or got married—whichever came first—absolutely had to be cleaned from top to bottom. It didn’t matter that they had a cleaner come in once a week to do that task.

  Exhausted, she showered and lay on her bed. Maybe seven at night was too late to call him.

  She scoffed at her own state of ridiculousness.

  What if he refused to help her? Even worse, hung up?

  Nerves rattling enough to make her stomach squeamish and her mouth so dry that she didn’t think she’d be able to speak if he did answer, she stared at his number for the billionth time. Good things never came to those who didn’t try, so she squeezed her eyes shut and touched an index finger to where the blue phone icon should be.

  The phone flew away from her ear when a voice said, “Hello,” on the third ring.

  She caught her cell with the opposite hand before it could slam onto the floor, breaking yet another protective glass cover.

  “Hello?” Definitely Blaise’s entrancing voice.

  “Um, hi. This is …” She placed a hand on her chest in an attempt to calm her palpitating heart and took a quick breath. Professionalism was the key. She was calling him for help with her dissertation, not to ask him out. If he said no, she’d find someone else. Simple as that. “Hello Blaise, this is Lamisi Imoro.”