Beginnings

I have begun a romance. It is with the saxophone sounds from outside my balcony. The player plays tunes out loud from what I believe is their bedroom. I first hear this tune after waking up from a shallow nap. This sound is distinct. Not something I have heard in my few days of being here. Not the sound of cars honking, the children playing on the street, or the rams in the next compound making noise with the scraps and their feet. In this place, the sound of this pipe instrument is odd and it is because it is odd, that I find it soothing.

I stand up from my bed determined to find the source of this sound. I stand on my tiny balcony, turning my head all ways, trying to find where the sound is coming from, is calling me from. I turn left and I turn right, I look down and then I look up. It is then that I see the silhouette of a saxophone through a window. This divine sound is coming from the block of flats adjacent mine. It is one of the buildings I just randomly look at, wondering about the kind of people who live in it and how long they have lived here. I look straight at the window and smile as the player continues to play. I do not see the face of the player, I am unsure of their physique. All I see is that shiny gold colour of the saxophone. The player make a few odd notes here and there, but they still manage to play beautifully. It reminds me of that scene in Caleb Azumah Nelson's Small Worlds.

"…As we were playing, my fingers slipped, an odd note coming from my horn. The mistake didn’t go unnoticed, but we continued on. It made me grateful for the freedom to be in that space, to make a mistake; and how that mistake might be beautiful to the right ear; how Del heard that odd note and followed with her own, adjusting her thrum; how the rest of us followed that twist and shift, surrendering to whatever unknown we were going towards. It was there that I noticed I only really knew myself in song. In the quiet, in the freedom, in the surrender."

The saxophonist continues and my gaze remains fixed on them...on that silhouette. They play this pop song that I dislike and cannot stand the sound of in reality, but something about how they're playing theirs, leaves me unoffended. Pleased, even. I continue to stare and even smile for the next few minutes. Suddenly, the sound stops. It appears that they are now facing me. I see that the silhouette looks differently than it did earlier. I can no longer see the side view as I previously could, but I can still see that they are there. They remain in that position and I remain in mine. I am waiting for them to continue, but they don't. It seems like they are still staring at me. I wonder what the reason for our current stance is, if they think that I have come out with a stern warning for them to stop. If this woman in her bright orange bonnet and funny-looking shorts, has come out to warn them to stop that noise like other neighbours might have in the past. I think of how to communicate that they should continue, that I am not like the others. I want them to know that I appreciate them and their instrument, that what they’re doing is special, that it has made my otherwise dreary day, bloom. In my head, I run through hand gesticulations that could astutely describe these sentences. My ineptitude makes a mockery of me and my failure to learn any of the Sign Languages for such an important time as this. And so I do nothing. We both stand at our ends and wait. The saxophonist, the sound, and I. No one moves. We just stand in our own small world.

I imagine that if we were in close proximity, this seeming silence would not exist. I imagine that we'd exchange words;

"I'm sorry, am I disturbing you? I can play a little quieter."

"Oh no, no. At all. I enjoy hearing you play. Are you preparing for an event?"

"Aw, thank you. Yes, I am. I play at..."

We'd talk about the other songs on their setlist, and I'd ask them if they look up to Masego for inspiration. I’d ask them of their history with the instrument, if they feel the same way that I feel now every time their lips touched the mouthpiece, if they’ve ever cried while they played. They’d answer my questions. They’d tell me of their first audience reaction, how they knew they’d want to play this instrument forever, how they couldn’t live in a world where they could the instrument in their precious, precious hands. They’d probably ask questions of me as well. Questions that I’d answer honestly, purely. How I hate that I still can’t play the ukulele, how I shiver every single time I hear this song, how I worry that just like Lauryn Hill said, someone had peeked into my journal and strummed my pain with his fingers. We’d laugh. Maybe we’d cry. We’d then go back to our respective homes. One person leaving with their gratitude tank full, and the other, with the promise of future eargasms.

But none of us move for those few minutes of my day dreaming. It eventually starts to feel awkward and so I go back into my house to try to continue my nap. My head hits the pillow, gently, as I am teaching myself to do these days. It is then that they start to play again. Softly at first, and then boldly like they did before. They continue with that same song. The tune leaves the room of that brown building, crosses its fence, comes to my balcony, and into my house, finds me in my room and sits with me. There is no interruption. Just a steady flow of softness, of calm, of fulfilled promises and of good tidings. I just lay there and smile, happy that my new beginnings here will be tapestried with serenades. I am pleased. My romance in this place has now begun.