The phone rang. I closed the window, turned on the air-conditioning, drove back the hands draped with telephone cards, the dealer, schottete from me. The window whirred up and separated the heavy, lead-containing, herausgerotzten of the many motorbike taxis blue haze of the cool, clear air of the vehicle interior. A clean cut, like a cheese in order to free him from the rotten mold. With the haze more cacophonous mixture of the Formula One circus to advertise goods, music from car radios and the boxes of CD vendors, slowly, softly faded out until everyone and everything disappeared in an unnatural way in a dull room.
- "Hello!" - "Hello" - "Yes hello, who's there?" - "Hello" - "I hear who is speaking?" - "Hello!" Great call, I hung up. A short while later rang the phone again.
- "Hello, who is speaking?" - "Hello" - "With whom I have the honor? Say "-" Suleiman "
-" No, this is not ... "Hanging Up.. No "I've dialed the wrong number" or something like that, let alone an apology.
The reservoir of time in Benin seems endless. The smallest movements in restaurants or at the post office celebrated the tenth patient or unacceptable rejection in the office with a piety in which even the Lamb rebelled against his executioners would have long ago. What is even the time of a life in this world when it comes to eternity in the afterlife is, within, something has gone wrong, wait boiling blood flow to one.
it is a matter to work out at the traffic lights a time advantage of a few nano seconds, honking, jostle, jostled and fought. In the smallest rooms wind around the scooters and determination, like an ant trail, past the taxis, beggars and traders. At the end of the journey is the one who visited should not be, at home and the cost of gasoline is many times higher than the unit that a telephone call would have cost. The phone rang again, this time it fell silent for a ring. On m'a beep, you have me angeflashed, phoned, sent a signal with a request for a callback. I looked at the screen and saw the number of Segun, a friend from Lagos, who has lived eight years in Benin. I dialed his number, but got only an interference signal to hear the crash of the phone followed.
A news broadcast on Fon, the local language of southern Benin led me to a channel change. On Atlantique FM ran a quiz show. The presenter spoke in a deep, full voice effect in a characteristic style, as one usually talk to him all over the world in commercial radio broadcasts. A reverse played song should be guessed from the caller, he would get the chance to get through the introductory talk.
I could hear that he imagined, for the name but it was too quiet, even after several repetitions. The moderator did not seem to hear, hooked to impatient, asked for nothing but to speak, asked for distance to the radio. It did not help, it took only a few seconds and the listener was out, music. The conversations were always followed the same pattern, introduced themselves to the audience well-behaved, the radio announcer was getting impatient and threw out the caller, the music, danceable, groovy, was louder.
It often happens that the phone only one side gets access to what has been said of others, the possibility remained uncommented. It was business as usual. Music again, this time longer, a piece of Polyrithmo is played, salsa made with African rhythms I float through the city, past a cattle market on tin huts along the sea, the lagoon and raise the fishermen their nets from canoes.
The moderator reported to sweeping with a welcome back a caller knew the answer and could finally begin his talk. How are you, what's your name, by calling out to you, what's your favorite stations and so on. Apparently someone had noticed the mishap, the telephone network, as usual. What followed was a crack pipe and suspected in tinnitus frequencies, this time when the caller said. The moderator heard nothing and chatted merrily. Changing stations.
