Tick. Tick.
The clock says three.
The silence around me coincides with the one in my head. It is an intense kind of silence. The kind that engulfs you while searching for inspiration, like calm before a storm. Save for the tick-ticking of my keyboard keys and my incessant breathe-in-breathe-out, noise is scarce, almost deserting.
The street outside though, bustles with activity. I hear an ambulance past, followed by the honk of a truck, the opening of the shutters to a store somewhere, a bike kick-starting and a man speaking in a tongue I do not understand.
I sit cross-legged on the sofa, the coffee table inches away from my knees. The cable wires of the laptop dangles aimlessly off its edge, ending at a hotchpotch of wires sucking on sockets way towards the wall. An ash tray sits by my right side, locking a lit cigarette in its hooks. Beside it, a lighter and a packet sit piled. On my left, a bunch of keys are strewn about. And at a short distance is a pretty looking champagne glass, only supporting a pink, irresistible liquid in it that smells of guava. There is nothing else around. Facing me, on the other side of the coffee table are two independent sofas, identical to the one I sit on. They are red-checked and look comfortable. I shuffle in my seat, sinking into its springs.
[pause]
The clock now says seven fifteen.
Nothing much has changed since the first description, except that I have now pulled out a fresh cigarette from the packet that lies half open and the cigarette suspends off the fingers on my left hand. And I now have company to write about.
There is a handsome-looking man walking about. His hair is short, his eyes piercing and he carries a smart beard on his face. He unzips his grey sweatshirt to reveal a plain black T-shirt with Megadeth inscribes in styled lettering. He insists on music, scowling that I keep him around for inspiration and plonks promptly on the sofa in front of me. I hand him a remote to the television. He lifts a leg onto the table and switches it on. Grouch.
The television flickers as he scans through channels till he sees something he likes. I shift to the balcony.
[pause]
Nine ‘o’ clock.
It smells of pigeon and dust. I sit on the floor of my lanai, laptop on my lap, looking out onto the road below. My glass of pink juice is refilled and placed beside me. A tree stands quiet, sheltering two bikes and a cardboard box. Three girls and one guy walk by, laughing and chattering about some incident involving the guy. The guy pauses with one of the girls to justify the incident as it had actually occurred and resumes his pace, catching up with the two girls ahead. There is wind and the crackling sound of a truck, fast approaching. I wait for it to turn into the bend from the left and see a pair of headlights in the distance. It crackles past, the driver wiping his nose as it fades from my purple vision. I turn back to the bend on the left. Past the road and the tree-tops at its end I can barely see the Agumbe hills, towering and grey in the night light. I ask if we can take a ride.
[pause]
It is now eleven forty. There are two boys on my left, a couple to my right and that previously described handsome man standing in front of me, growling as I pierce the privacy of the meeting with work. Three bikes stand parked at a distance in front of us and behind us, the whole city glimmers with light as we sit high up looking out to it. A large tower stands guard defiantly as we sit about. Old remains of glass bottles and plastic cups lay strewn about and I point them out. The boys move to gathering them into a pile to be picked up later.
There is that silence again. Only this time, it is a pleasant, nostalgic kind of silence. The only sound is the music that plays off a cell phone to my right and the shuffling of feet. The city lies low as if responsible. More cigarettes are lit. Smiles are exchanged. And there is talk of old days. There is a beautiful feeling in the wind, one that tells of friendships and time, augmented by the scenario that displayed itself before us.
I have to pause to take it in.
One ‘o’ clock.
The night has just begun.