The next item on everybody’s mind was about his upcoming work: was he through with it or not? And if not, when? What was on it? How beautiful was it? Did he intend on selling it, or sending it to one of those profitable Art houses in the city, or was he keeping it for himself? Or if indeed he was going to sell it, then how much would it cost … and could either of them afford it?
Abstract guesses and rough estimates were made but before that, the final question was asked: had anybody actually seen the painting? Few stood up and bragged that they had but neither one’s description tallied with the other, thus it was hard to know whom to believe. But still at night, they all secretly dreamed of possessing it.

The fishermen down by the harbour all day thought about how much quantity of fish they would have to catch for it. At night the market women dreamed about how many yards of wrappers, clothes, or quantities of food stuffs they could sell for the upcoming weeks to afford it; others began cajoling their husbands with sweet words and sultry promises about purchasing it while the young ladies desperately pleaded with their boyfriends and older lovers about wanting it as a special gift for their upcoming birthday present. Some of the men began cutting down on their late afternoon drinks and other regular frivolities just to save money for it with the silly excuse that they were trying to cut down for their children’s sake. House rents suddenly doubled; debtors began hiding themselves away. Relationships, which were once ripe, all of sudden grew sour and fights and quarrels occurred almost every week.

It was sometime in the early evening on the second week of May that the artist finally dropped his brushes, palette and paints, changed his clothes and walked out his gate. A heavy rain had fallen the night before and the streets still bore much evidence of it. People walking along the street immediately stopped and stared at him with awe. He looked just as young and handsome and vibrant as the last time they saw him – like he had all the while sneaked off to a lush Caribbean island for a little fun and sun. He said a few hellos and waved at them before heading for his destination; some of them who weren’t busy doing anything decided to follow him.

He walked over past the small fishing harbour to Aliwu’s bar/restaurant, which overlooked the sand field area. Everyone, including the proprietor, Aliwu, was just as happy and surprised to see him, and he and his workmen welcomed him as if he were a crowned prince. He immediately set up a table for him at the end of the room and served him himself. The artist ate his meal in silence after which he relaxed himself and ordered for some palm-wine while several of the people whom were in the restaurant and others standing outside by the windows watched him. After paying for his meal, the painter shook hands with Aliwu and walked past the large crowd and headed for the park where he boarded a taxi heading for the city.

The rest of the day was ripe with talk and gossip. First off much of the people were upset and angry at how the artist had treated them. They had yelled his name, slapped his shoulders and smiled at him, but rather than acknowledge them he had simply shrugged off their embrace and stared at them as if they weren’t there while he walked away, leaving them standing there on the road like lonesome beggars.

Even Aliwu had added his own share into the brewing pot. He spoke with a grumpy look on his face (and a glowing touch of hidden pride and self-esteem in his heart since he was for the moment being the main focus of attention in the midst of a growing gossip mob) about how the artist had refused to tip his bill as he often did on numerous occasions but had instead complained to him that his fish hadn’t been well prepared.

This was all a total lie but neither of the village folks knew and they eagerly accepted it. Though some of them did have their doubts about everything but they were too few and weak-mouthed to speak out. By sundown the news had spread to the other end of the village and the old folks all folded their arms, shook their heads and wondered.

By the time he came back from his journey, much of the village was dead quiet already asleep, or just about to fall asleep so nobody saw him return … but I did.

I was walking my little Shepard dog, Whiskey, around the back of our grass-filled compound for him to defecate. I was still feeling sleepy standing with my arm on his collar belt when suddenly he raised his head up and gave a loud bark that roused me completely. I blinked my eyes and turned to look at the direction his barking was aimed at.

It was the artist’s Cheshire cat, Thom, staring lazily at us from the top of our over-filled garbage bin. She hissed at him, jumped down in a flash and sprinted off into the night. Before I knew it, Whiskey jerked off my hand and gave chase, barking out furiously. Slightly dazed, I ran after him, cursing and yelling his name to stop but he didn’t.

By the time I got to the artist’s compound I was already out of breath as I stood next to an orange tree, watching Whiskey growl and bark up at Thom who stood looking down from an opened window in the artist’s kitchen. It hissed down at Whiskey, which further infuriated him to bark more. I was trying to quell his anger and drag him away when I felt a bright light on my face that made me flinch. Behind the light, a gruff voice asked: “Who goes there?”

I was deeply afraid, knowing fully well I had just trespassed into someone’s compound in the middle of the night. In my mind I thought of a hundred punishments I planned on meting out to Whiskey – whom had suddenly become calm and meek – when I got out of this while I thought out a reply.