CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As they worked on the last song to be translated, Blaise’s body still hummed from the residual adrenaline from the motorcycle ride. He’d given Lamisi free reign to go where she wanted. She’d taken to the longest stretch of highway she could find. Being Sunday, the Tema Motorway had been free of the standard traffic found during the week. And then, she’d surprised him by taking the George W. Bush Highway straight to its end in Mallam.
The ride had been as exhilarating as if he’d driven the motorcycle. Her merger of speed and safety as they’d zipped along the road had set him on a natural high. Three hours of driving hadn’t seemed to be enough for her when they’d gotten back to his place and removed their helmets.
Her skin glowed, and she couldn’t seem to shake her smile. His own had been plastered on his face at having made her so happy.
The translating went smoother than planned. Their minds refreshed, they didn’t just complete the last two songs, but went over the ones from yesterday and improved them.
Blaise relaxed with his hands propped behind his head and legs crossed at the ankles.
“We work well together.”
“Yes. Well, I’m a language genius.”
He nodded. “And you have the flow. I told you.”
She hopped up, raised her arms above her head, and flexed her back with a groan.
He rotated to the left as the desire to nuzzle her exposed abdomen threatened to take over good sense.
The chair squeaked as she flopped into it. “It just hit me that I haven’t heard you sing the complete songs with the French. We’ve been doing it all piecemeal.”
His moment of embarrassment had come. “I told you that I’m not the best at pronouncing the words.”
“Not a problem. We’ll go through it line by line.”
The faith she had that he wouldn’t butcher the language bolstered him.
He pulled up the last song they’d worked on since it was fresh in his mind. For this piece, they’d decided that the chorus would be in French and would start the song. In English, the lyrics were gorgeous, and he did say so himself. He’d been thinking about the woman he’d one day fall in love with as he’d written it.
He looked into Lamisi’s dark eyes. Had he unknowingly written the song for her?
Don’t be ridiculous. He barely knew her. Although he liked everything he’d discovered so far. Mostly. Her stubbornness could be irritating, but then again, who liked everything about anyone? It would be unnatural.
Just like in his lyrics, her smile made his insides go wobbly.
Hanging out with her felt … right.
Your love sets me free, allowing me to grow
The light in your eyes brings me to my knees
I will love you forever because
with you is where I’m meant to be
I will love you forever because
with you is where I’m meant to be
Lamisi sang it in French to the tune he’d created. He repeated the stanza.
Even to his own ears, the words came out stilted.
The way she bit her bottom lip and grimaced as she listened sent a trickle of sweat gliding down his back.
“That was a nice try,” she said with the hesitancy of a teacher to a pupil who’d messed up the answer. “How about if I sing it once and you repeat it?”
She didn’t wait for a response. Her sweet, melodious voice did justice to the song, and he got lost in it.
“Now you.”
A repeat performance brought on that same disappointed expression.
“Okay.” She stretched out the word. “You really need to work on your French. It’s a soft language, and you’re using it more like a battering ram than a feather.”
Ouch. Didn’t he like her honest nature? Maybe not at this moment, but he’d learn from her harsh teaching style.
“Let’s take the first line and work from there.”
Fifteen minutes later, her hair was standing straight out from how often she’d run her hands through it.
She sprang to her feet. “Your lyrics have been translated. I think I’ve done all I can for you.”
“What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”
“Do you want my honest opinion?”
Would his ego survive more of her blatant candidness? “Always.”
“Your French is awful. Have you ever heard anyone sing one of your songs and they mess up the language completely, but they joyfully think they’ve gotten it right?”
He chuckled at her analogy even though he knew where she was going with it. “Many times. Especially when they don’t understand the language that it’s being sung in.”
She rotated her wrist once before presenting her hand palm up with fingers pointing at him. “That’s you when you sing in French.”
“Come on, I can’t be that bad.”
“Record yourself and see.”
Blaise accepted the challenge. When he played the verse back, he cringed. Horrible. If this had happened in any of the Ghanaian languages or even English, his career would’ve never gotten off the ground.
He rested his head against the back of the chair and scraped a hand down his face until it rested over his mouth. “What am I going to do?”
His transition into French shouldn’t be this difficult. He was a man of rhythm and languages. He’d finally found something that he truly stank at.
The hand she placed on his shoulder brought a comforting warmth.
“From what I can tell, you have three options.”
He waited for her to share.
She settled into her seat. “First of all, you could scrap the idea altogether. The songs would sound fabulous in English and the languages you’re loquacious in.”
Just as he was about to speak, she placed a finger against his lips. He willed himself not to suck it into his mouth and let his tongue sweep over it.
As if realizing what she’d done, she removed her touch and clasped her hands together on her lap.
“I’m spouting ideas. It doesn’t mean you have to take any of them.”
“Fine. I’m listening.”
“The second option is to collaborate with a Francophone singer.”
Not bad. It had occurred to him to do it with a couple of the songs, anyway. He’d feel like a fraud if he let someone else sing all of them. It wasn’t as if he was starting a boy band or anything. He was a solo artist and would continue to thrive as one.
“The last is that you practice until you speak French like it’s your first language. Or at least sing the lyrics as such.”
After what he’d just heard come out of his mouth, he wasn’t sure about that option, either. “Do you think it’s possible?”
She shrugged. “It depends on how much work you’re willing to put in.”
“Will you help me?”
She snapped her neck so far back that her chin became double. “Um. I’m busy with my dissertation, remember? Busy, busy, busy PhD woman here. No free time.”
“Please. I’m willing to put in the work. I really am. I just need a little of your time. Not all of it. Just some.”
The fact that it would keep him seeing her was secondary, yet worked out well. He didn’t doubt that the more she got to know him, she’d find him irresistible. Just as he found her.
Her twists shook with her vehement rejection. “You should be taught by someone from a Francophone country or get immersed in the language or something like that. That’s how I learned how to speak it. I studied French in senior high school and had a couple of classmates from Togo and Côte d’Ivoire who I used to harass into speaking with me. I even followed one of my friends home to Côte d’Ivoire during one of our long vacations. Such an amazing experience.”
He’d thought about taking a trip to Côte d’Ivoire, but the idea of going to a non-English speaking country by himself didn’t appeal. He grabbed her hand as an idea caught hold.
“I know you’re working on your dissertation, but I desperately need your help. Will you travel to Côte d’Ivoire with me?”
With her eyes wide and mouth gaping, he didn’t anticipate a favourable response.