40 - MELODY
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came Freya’s loud voice. The day was almost off from duty, and the night was ready to set in, and so were the guests, they were now back in the hall and just like it was in the morning, tables were laid out and pyramids were made with wine glasses.
“I present to you the choir of the night, and the great instrumentalist and lead role of the night’s sound entertainment, Eddie Kwansa of West Africa!"
No one clapped. An African name was the last they thought would be possible at the moment, because, how could she bring an African artist to a pre-wedding party that was planned in a couple of hours and executed in a couple of hours?
“You should at least give the great man a big hand.” She suggested.
Everyone clapped as the choir marched into the hall with their instruments. They were sure that if an African, not just an African, but a West African, should perform, then, it would be something entirely different from what Mozart has in his piece of work.
The applause stopped when the choir settled and no one else walked in, but when they settled to jeer at her for deceit, the solid sound of the thick soul of an Italian shoe filled the hall. They turned to the entrance and saw him emerge.
They watched in silence as he mounted the podium that was set for him in the hall. On the podium was a large piano, the sort that Mozart and every other great composer must have used in their time.
“Good evening…ladies and…gentlemen,” the fellow was quite old, like the classics. “My name is Eddie Kwansa of West Africa!”
Everyone cheered and clapped for him.
“This is completely off the box,” Morgan whispered. She was right next to Freya whose eyes watched with a bit of pride and joy.
“Yes, because I know how to think outside the box, sweetheart,” Freya answered.
They watched the old man, Eddie Kwansa, sit on his stool and put his fingers on the piano. His choir waited for a while for him to finish with his strokes before they joined and the room was lit.
“They didn’t bring this man the night they stroked my prewedding event,” said Mary. She was pitched next to her mother in the hall. “Such idiots they are.”
Her mother turned to her and made faces. On normal days, she would side with her, but at the moment, she was busy with the great piece the old man had in stock. It was classical like the piece by Wolfgang Mozart.
“Don’t give me that look, mother,” Mary snapped.
“The young man I spoke to you of,” her mother gestured at the young man, Dickson with her chin, “he is yet to pick a dancer, and no one is set to dance yet. They are still puzzled by what an old West Africa turned the hall to with his music.”
Mary nodded with a smile. She, too, was puzzled at the old fellow’s performance. West Africans were known for several other unique sounds but what the man had his hands on were different and marketable to people their sort.
“I didn’t ask you to smile, dumbass, go grab his hand and open the dance floor,” the old lady snarled.
Mary chuckled and folded her arms. The normal her would not do much, but her mother was behind her, set to play the games without the rules set by Freya and her daughters, and her bride-to-be.
“This is the last time there will be a ball like this, you know,” the old lady whispered, “get your ass over there and make the fuss.”
She gave Mary a slight push and she strolled out. everyone’s attention turned to her. no one knew the crazy thing she had signed to, so, they were curious.
She edged to the young nobleman, Dickson and smiled at him.
“Don’t you want to dance, or do you hate to live like you are a Londoner in America’s land?” she asked.
The young man smiled. “Who doesn’t know that everything white in this great land is from the breeds of Saxons and Norsemen?”
Mary laughed. She wished she could look back and see Morgan. The man she had so far had her eyes on, and had been nice to, is almost in the arms of her brother’s ex-wife.
“Does that mean you will dance with me, not the way Norsemen and the Saxons of history did, but the way our refined fathers did in their days of great perfection.” Said Mary.
“The perfection we carry on in the broad bright lands of America,” he offered her his open palm, and she placed her hand in his.
He took her to the open space of the hall and they both bowed before the noble dance commenced. Everyone watched, and it was all smiles, except for the camp of Freya and her daughters.
Lola, by the way, was with Auralia, so, she wasn’t part of the audience, because she was rather busy with a chat with Auralia.
“What’s up with that dude?” Morgan asked. “Why the heck will it be Mary?”
Freya said nothing in response. She could see Mary’s mother. The old lady's gaze was on them. She swallowed and remained quiet, while her mind searched for a solution.
“I thought that man belongs to you,” Peniel said.
“Sure, he is mine, but we haven’t determined what exactly we do with each other,” came Morgan’s response. “But he should at least show some respect.”
Mary’s mother left her spot and walked over to the Greys with her two daughters. Her face was all smiles, and her eyes had a mocking audacity.
“Hello, Freya, you don’t look so glad in your ball,” said the old lady.
“Eliza, no one asked your daughter to dance to the classic piece of a Kwansa,” Freya retorted.
“You fail to say why exactly you are pieced,” she leaned in such that her breath met Freya’s face. “Next time there will be a ball, it will be at my place, and my daughter and her newly found love will be the talk of the day.”