Long ago, deep in the outskirts of Nigeria was a small town named Ovim. In that town lived a man named Tunde Ayomide. Tunde lived with his wife Chidera, they had no children in the four years of their marriage, but that's not what this story is about.
Tunde had lived for music his whole life, ever since he first understood sound.
His father, the town's carpenter, used to say, "Tunde, there are so many better things you could be doing, don't waste your life chasing false dreams," but Tunde would only strum the broomstick he called his guitar, louder in defiance.
He, however, grew up and secured a house, a wife, and a name among his peers. The problem was that, after fifteen years of practice, he couldn't grasp the music itself. Try as he might, he could never produce the sound he wanted.
"You are not cursed," his wife, Chidera, said as she made breakfast that morning. "Your father would never do something like that to you."
"You never knew the man, but I know he never liked music for me," Tunde said as he tuned his guitar. "A good thing he died before we got married. Your parents encouraged your dream. Don't you want me to make music like you?"
Chidera did not answer. Tunde knew she liked to avoid this particular conversation.
After breakfast, they set out for work together.
The streets of Ovim were alive with art and food: Painters, jugglers, musicians and merchants lined the sidewalks, eager to catch the eyes of passersby. Tunde looked at them and thought how they all stunk of mediocrity.
"Good luck today, honey," Chidera said. She waved him goodbye and scurried off to the nearby pub that she owned and where she performed her music. Tunde didn't like escorting her inside, he carried a lingering trauma from there. Still, there was little to fear in these streets, aside from the overwhelming bad taste the regular folk had in his art.
As Tunde walked down the street, he wondered if anybody recognized him, his trauma from what was now Chidera's bar, consumed his thoughts.
It was six years ago; the day Tunde met Chidera.
***
He went to the local bar one day. She was a bartender, talking with the several people who had gathered around the bar, arguing about something that didn't really make sense to him.
She had full afro hair and shiny dark skin. She was beautiful, but Tunde was not struck immediately. He was a man with a mission. He ordered a small drink and waited while he watched the man on stage play his guitar softly.
"You can't seriously believe that using a capo isn't cheating," Young Chidera said to her fellow debaters.
"It's not cheating," one man said. "it's a tool. Like a chisel for a sculptor."
"A real guitarist doesn't need a crutch to find the right key," Young Chidera said. "Move your fingers like the rest of us."
The crowd cheered for her as she poured drinks for the people. Moments later, four men walked into the pub. Among them, their leader in the middle was the man Tunde had come to see. They locked eyes. The customers with Chidera and the others, rushed to meet the man in the middle. He pulled out a pen and began signing whatever the customers handed to him.
The man in the middle faced Tunde. "Kai! look at him there," he said, he was wearing a Kaftan. The kind only the rich folk of Ovim could afford. "What's a carpenter doing in my house of music? Shouldn't you be out polishing tables?"
His companions burst into uncontrollable laughter at the presumed joke for about three minutes before stopping.
"I'm not a carpenter; I'm a musician – it's deep in my veins," Tunde argued. "My father was the carpenter, I'm a music man."
"Bashir, If he says he's a musician, then that's what he is," Chidera said. "Stop harassing the customer."
"Chidera," Bashir said. Bashir had a worn-out face that lit up. "Just like you to support the talentless folk into my pub. I told you if you married me, I could teach you things in music you never even dreamed of."
"Igbali, you have tried, more responsibility dumped on me, while your life remains questionably in place," Chidera said as she poured two drinks. "Thank you but, I'm not interested in that sort of thing."
Bashir frowned and then he smiled and flashed his white teeth. Tunde could not stop the great rush of envy that overwhelmed him at that time. As repulsive and rotten as Bashir looked on the surface, he was a brilliant musician, exactly the kind Tunde wanted to be.
"So, take your band and excuse us talentless folks," Chidera said.
Bashir faced Tunde. "The last table you sent to me was… less shiny than usual, seems the you and your father are getting lazy."
"Wait," Chidera said to Tunde. "You're an Ayomide, your family's work is amazing."
The crowd murmured together in agreement. Tunde had wanted to tell her that it was actually he alone that made the tables but he had not come here for such tomfoolery. "I'm not here to talk about wood, Bashir," Tunde said, though his thoughts were momentarily and positively consumed by Chidera's compliment of his craftsmanship.
"No?" Bashir said.
"Yes," Tunde said. "You continue to call me a carpenter and that's a false description of my person. I want to show you that I'm better than that."
Bashir smiled.
"Ovim has never settled any dispute with mere words in over a century, and I won't start today," Tunde declared.
Bashir laughed so hard he started to cough, soon the cough became so coarse that he had to drink water.
"Shut the door," Bashir commanded one of his goons, after he took a drink. "In two years, no one has been able to beat me in any competition, hope you came ready carpenter?"
More people entered the pub, sensing what was about to happen, Tunde sucked in a nervous breath, but a wave of confidence overtook him as soon as he borrowed the guitar from the previous player.
Bashir brought out his special guitar from the case one of his goons lodged on his back. He played first. His tune started normally but quickly morphed into something beautiful and soulful. The audience swayed, heads bobbing to Bashir's melodic masterpiece. When he finished, the customers applauded loudly.
Bashir stared at Tunde with condescending eyes when he was done. Chidera cheered Tunde on as he climbed onto the low stage. Tunde braced his guitar, only now realizing how many people were watching. His breathing quickened until his eyes locked on Chidera's - she was smiling brightly at him, and suddenly she was the only one he needed to please.
"Has the carpenter lost his edge?" Bashir mocked.
Tunde swallowed hard and strummed the guitar once. He chose his favorite song - the one he had practiced vigorously for months for this very moment.
Tunde played a few notes. Heads in the crowd began bumping slightly to the tune, and for a moment he felt pure happiness. This was why he played music: to make people smile and feel good to the music he had made and worked hard on. To cap it all off, Chidera looked positively pleased.
Tunde glanced at Bashir, eager to see his enraged face. Instead Bashir was being jokingly strangled by one of his own companions who pointed and laughed at Tunde. The humiliation struck hard. Tunde's breathing became shallow. Bashir was not taking the battle seriously. Tunde had practiced for months. His music was supposed to blow Bashir away to silence. Tunde fumbled a string and his melody collapsed. The guitar slipped from his hands and crashed on the floor. The crowd gasped. The owner of the guitar squealed in despair.
"Well, well," Bashir sneered. "Please stick to carving wood." He poked Tunde in the forehead and laughed alone. He started to cough again. Upon close examination. Bashir didn't look good. "As long as I live, you are banned from the hog!" Bashir declared.
"What?" Chidera protested.
Before she could say any more, Tunde picked himself up from the floor and ran out of the pub, not daring to look back.
***