Fela. “Zombie. Perfect. First the racing bass line with the low hum of the drums and then the horns. She didn’t know how to move to it. She tried anyway, a stiff, forced jerking right then left. She rocked forward and backwards on her toes. Snapping her fingers was difficult with the beer in her hand, so she set it down. Can sweat left a wet print on the edge of the player. Job resisted the impulse to rush to the kitchen, find a coaster, and place it beneath the beer. At the garage sale, the man had said the record player was one of a kind. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. It’s got the real sound. Not that fake digital shit.
Not that fake digital shit. That’s what he had said to Ifi when he brought it home, when he moved the eight-track player, another find, to make room for it on the table. All the while Ifi had stood with her arms crossed in front of her chest. When the Fela record came, she gave in. He could hear her playing the record in the morning, in the evening while Victor wailed for hours. As soon as he woke, Victor began the wail with the horns. After a while, they couldn’t tell if he was crying or simply singing along.
No comments:
Post a Comment