Soon.

Very soon.

The conductor stands about 15 feet away from her. The baton in his hand moves frantically, slowly, gesturing to them to play their parts in groups, and then altogether. Ndidi’s fingers hold each note on the finger board of the violin, as she moves the bow to play the notes in the learned sequence. Her eyes follow the conductor’s baton keenly, watching his every direction. Ndidi is careful and carefree, all at once. This song is her own. This place is hers. This dome, her home. The air is thick, the music intense, evoking all the right and wrong emotions in the audience. Left to right, the strings, percussion, brass and woodwinds have enchanted the seated distinguished folk. The music holds their hands, their necks, and their hearts. Not one dry eye is in the room, as the 100 instrumentalists play their angelic instruments.

The music reaches its crescendo, and then the conductor waves his hand swiftly to command a halt. The music ceases and the room is silent until it roars in applause. The standing ovation is loud as the conductor turns to the audience and bows. The instrumentalists are seated, gorging on their praise while maintaining their regal stances. On the left, with the other violinists, Ndidi is beaming. A kind of joy swallows her heart, it could almost burst. The sound of their applause are in her ears, loud and unbridled. She turns to her left and to her right, looking at this large group that she has come to love as her family. All of them different in backgrounds, ages, and even skin hues. Yet, the love and the music is palpable, almost tangible. She turns towards the audience again. The applause has not stopped. It will never stop.

“Madam, you get change abi you no get change?”

Ndidi looks around and she is in a bus. An angry man is in front of her. He seems to be staring at her, impatiently expectant for her response. She gains meaning of the situation and immediately answers.

“I get, I get.”

The angry man hisses and turns away from her, moving to accost another passenger. She turns to the window beside her and stares out of it. She attempts to compose a melody from the chants of the hawkers and the car honks from impatient drivers, until the tasks of her day run through her mind. She thinks of the exam scripts she needs to mark for her JSS1 and JSS3 music students, and the meeting with the principal concerning the leakage in the ceiling of the music room, and the need for new drum set. She sighs, reaches for her bottle of water in her bag, and sips from it.

Her thirst almost quenched, she picks the miniature violin attached to her keyholder, and continues to fiddle with it like she was before. Her mind goes back to the applause, the sound in her head that won’t stop. The smile on her face grows slowly until she is unaware of the grin on her face. She is too engrossed in that dream. She’s tweaked it a few times. In one, the conductor recommends her for the Leonard Bernstein Fellowship in the following year, in another, she becomes a conductor herself at the Carnegie Hall. Sometimes, out of boredom, she includes a whirlwind romance with a shy Austrian clarinetist, where they become the power couple of the classical music world. These bits change, but some things remain the same, integral to the scene - the violin in her left hand, the feel of the vibration on her chin as she plays the music from the deep recesses of her soul, and the deafening applause at the end of the performance. She hears that all the time already, the applause. She hears it when it rains, she hears it from her students after their guitar classes, and she hears it from the clapping mp3 audio that she has made her ringtone.

The baritone voice of the conductor interrupts her daydream again, as he shouts at another passenger. She jerks, her head turning to find the conductor and his new combatant. She sighs and she picks up the miniature violin again, hoping to continue from where she left off. She hears the applause again, but this time around, she feels a vibration on her laps. She reaches for her phone in her bag and looks at the caller ID. This ring usually serves as the prompt for her to pick the call and answer the caller. But to Ndidi, the sound of this applause, is more than the headmistress calling about her lateness to school that day. It is a beckoning to her real life. She will pick both calls. One now, and the other, soon. Very soon.