Chapter 748

The relentless heat of Malabo had always been a constant companion to Obiang, a heavy blanket draped over the city, but this day, a different kind of weight settled in his bones.

It was subtle at first, like a whisper just beyond the threshold of hearing, a melody threading its way into the fabric of existence.

At the bustling market, amongst the vibrant colours of fabrics and the hawkers' calls, a tune began to form, something faint, almost nonexistent, yet undeniably there.

Obiang paused his haggling over plantains, tilting his head slightly, trying to place the origin of the sound.

It was a simple rhythm, a repetitive loop of notes, unremarkable in itself, yet it possessed a strange quality that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

He dismissed it initially as background noise, the kind of sonic pollution that was commonplace in the city's vibrant heart.

But as he moved from stall to stall, the tune followed, clinging to him like the humid air. It wasn't loud, not intrusive, but it was persistent, worming its way into his consciousness.

He checked around, looking for musicians, for radios, for anything that could explain the music's source.

There were none. Just the usual market sounds, the chatter, the bartering, the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping vegetables, and under it all, the song.

Back in his small apartment, the tune remained. Obiang closed the shutters, attempting to block out the city and perhaps, the music.

He turned on his old radio, hoping to drown it out with news or local music. Static crackled from the speakers, then, through the white noise, the faint melody persisted, somehow intertwining with the radio's output.

He snapped the radio off, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach.

"What is this nonsense?" Obiang muttered to himself, pacing the cramped space of his living room.

He tried to focus on other sounds, the creak of the ceiling fan, the distant call of a bird, the rhythmic drip of a leaky tap, anything but the song. But the melody was like a phantom limb, felt but unseen, heard but without a discernible origin.

The next morning, the city was still humming. The song, if anything, seemed clearer, more defined. It wasn't just in the market; it was everywhere.

Walking to his job at the port, unloading cargo ships, the tune permeated the air. The shouts of the dockworkers, the clang of metal, the cries of seagulls, all layered over the ever-present, looping melody. He noticed others were acting strangely.

A group of men usually boisterous and laughing were subdued, their faces etched with a peculiar tension. One of them, a younger man named Adebayo, kept scratching his ear, his brow furrowed.

"Adebayo, what's wrong?" Obiang asked, concerned.

Adebayo jumped, startled, as if pulled from a trance. "Huh? Oh, nothing, Papa Obiang. Just… a headache, I think." He rubbed his temples again, his eyes darting around as if searching for something unseen.

Obiang pressed further, a growing sense of dread settling over him. "You seem… distracted. Is it the heat?"

Adebayo hesitated, then lowered his voice, glancing around conspiratorially. "It's… it's the music, Papa Obiang. Do you hear it?"

Relief washed over Obiang, mixed with a fresh wave of apprehension. He wasn't imagining it. "Yes, yes, I hear it. It started yesterday, for me. What music is it? Where is it coming from?"

Adebayo shook his head, a bewildered expression clouding his features. "I do not know. Everywhere, maybe? It started for me this morning. It's… it's in my head." He tapped his skull as if trying to dislodge something physically stuck there.

That day at the port was fraught with tension. The usual camaraderie amongst the workers was replaced by a nervous quiet. Mistakes were made, tools were dropped, and voices were raised in short bursts of irritation.

The song was an unseen thread, weaving itself into their collective mood, fraying nerves and unsettling minds. During their lunch break, under the shade of a large baobab tree, the workers gathered, the melody a shared, unspoken presence.

"Has anyone else… heard it?" Obiang ventured to ask, breaking the silence.

Heads nodded around the circle, some slowly, some with frantic urgency. A woman named Ngozi, usually cheerful and quick-witted, looked pale, her eyes ringed with fatigue.

"Since yesterday afternoon," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It never stops. I went home, tried to sleep, but it's still there. Inside my head."

Another man, Kwame, a burly, normally jovial man, slammed his fist on the ground, the usual jovial nature replaced by something brittle and close to panic. "It's driving me mad! I cannot think! I cannot hear myself think! This… this song!" His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands.

Panic rippled through the group. The shared acknowledgment of the song shifted it from a personal annoyance to a collective dread. It wasn't just Obiang, or Adebayo, or Ngozi. It was everyone. And no one knew where it came from, or why it was there, or how to make it stop.

Days bled into weeks, and the song became the new reality. It was impossible to escape. It was in the bustling streets and in the quiet corners of homes. It was in the waking hours and, most disturbingly, it seeped into dreams, twisting them into bizarre, musical nightmares. The city, once vibrant and full of life, began to fray at the edges.

Conversations became strained, punctuated by moments of distracted silence as people wrestled with the melody in their minds. Smiles were rare, replaced by haunted, weary expressions. The market lost its vibrancy, the hawkers' calls now muted and listless.

Obiang noticed the changes in himself too. His normally sharp focus was gone, replaced by a constant mental static, the song a relentless background track to his thoughts.

Sleep became a luxury, broken and shallow, offering no respite from the music. He felt constantly on edge, irritable, his patience wearing thin.

He snapped at Adebayo for a minor mistake at the port, something he would never normally do. Guilt gnawed at him afterwards, but the music was a barrier between him and his own better nature.

He started to see people reacting in increasingly erratic ways. Arguments erupted over trivial matters, escalating quickly into shouting matches.

He saw a woman in the market suddenly scream at the top of her lungs, collapsing to the ground, clutching her head.

He heard stories, whispered in hushed tones, of people locking themselves in their homes, refusing to come out, driven to the brink by the unending music.

One evening, Obiang sat with Adebayo outside a small bar, the looping melody a constant companion. They drank their palm wine in silence, the usual easy conversation replaced by a heavy, shared unease.

"Papa Obiang," Adebayo said finally, his voice low, "do you think… do you think it will ever stop?"

Obiang looked at the younger man, seeing his own fear reflected in Adebayo's eyes. He wanted to offer reassurance, to say something hopeful, but the truth was a cold weight in his chest. "I… I do not know, Adebayo. I truly do not know."

Adebayo took a long draught of his wine, his gaze fixed on the dusty street. "My brother… my brother says it is a curse. That the old gods are angry."

Obiang sighed. Superstition was rife, especially in times of stress. "Curses are stories, Adebayo. This… this is something else. Something we do not understand." Though, a small, unsettling part of him wondered if Adebayo might be right. The song felt… unnatural. Unearthly.

The bar owner, a stout woman named Ime, joined them at their table, her face drawn and tired.

She usually had a booming laugh and a welcoming smile, but now, her expression was sombre. "Business is terrible," she said, her voice flat. "People are not coming out. They just… stay in their homes, listening to… this." She gestured vaguely upwards, as if indicating the unseen source of the music.

"Have you heard anything?" Obiang inquired. "Any news about it? Anyone know what is happening?"

Ime shook her head wearily. "Nothing. The radio… the television… they say nothing. It is as if… as if they do not hear it." Her statement hung in the air, heavy with implication.

If the authorities were silent, if the media was oblivious, then were they alone in this aural torment? Was it only them, the ordinary people of Malabo, who were being driven mad by the endless song?

The thought was terrifying. Were they the only ones afflicted? Or was there a deliberate silence, a denial of the unfolding crisis?

The government, often opaque and unresponsive, was unlikely to offer any explanation, even if they had one. Fear began to morph into something darker, a sense of isolation, of abandonment.

The following weeks saw a further descent. The city became a ghost of its former self. Streets were empty, shops were shuttered, the market was deserted.

The only sound was the incessant song, amplified by the unnatural quiet. Obiang went to the port, but most of the workers had stopped showing up. Cargo ships sat idle, their schedules disrupted, the city's lifeline slowly strangling itself.

He found Adebayo one morning, sitting on the docks, staring out at the ocean, his eyes vacant. "Adebayo?" Obiang called out, his voice strained.

Adebayo turned, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, quickly replaced by a hollow emptiness. "Papa Obiang… it won't stop. Will it?" His voice was devoid of emotion, like a puppet reciting lines he did not understand.

Obiang sat down beside him, the heat of the sun beating down on their backs, the song a relentless presence. "We have to be strong, Adebayo. We have to… to find a way." But the words sounded empty, even to his own ears. He felt hope slipping away, replaced by a profound sense of despair.

That night, Obiang couldn't sleep at all. The song was louder than ever, throbbing in his skull, a physical ache. He got up and walked out into the empty streets. The city was silent, save for the music. He walked for hours, aimlessly, drawn by a morbid curiosity to see what had become of Malabo.

He passed homes with closed shutters, their silence heavy and foreboding. He saw shadows moving within some, but no lights, no sounds of life, other than the pervasive song.

He reached the market square, usually a vibrant hub, now deserted and eerily still under the moonlight. The silence, broken only by the incessant melody, was more terrifying than any noise.

Then, he saw it. In the center of the square, a small group had gathered, illuminated by flickering lamplight. He approached cautiously, his heart pounding with a mixture of dread and a flicker of hope. Perhaps they had found something, some answer, some respite from the song.

As he got closer, he realized what they were doing. They were dancing. Slowly, swaying rhythmically, their eyes glazed over, their movements mechanical and lifeless.

They were moving to the music, not in celebration, but in surrender. They had given in to the song, let it consume them completely. Adebayo was among them, his face blank, his body swaying mindlessly to the endless tune.

Obiang watched, frozen, a cold wave of horror washing over him. This was their fate. To be consumed, to be hollowed out, to become puppets dancing to a song that would never end. He understood then.

The music wasn't meant to be understood. It wasn't meant to be stopped. It was meant to break them. To unravel their minds, to strip them of their will, to leave them as empty shells.

He turned and ran, away from the square, away from the dancing figures, away from the city that had become a tomb. He ran until he reached the beach, the black sand cool under his bare feet, the vast ocean stretching out before him, a dark, empty expanse.

He stood at the edge of the water, the waves whispering a different kind of rhythm, a rhythm of despair, of finality.

The song was still there, of course, in his head, in the world, everywhere. But here, by the ocean, it felt… less dominant. Drowned out, perhaps, by the immensity of the sea, by the ancient, timeless roar of the waves.

He waded into the water, the cold shock a welcome sensation against his fevered skin. He kept walking, deeper and deeper, the water rising around him, cooling his body, numbing his senses.

The song was still there, but it was fading now, becoming distant, muffled by the water in his ears.

He looked back at the city, the lights dim and scattered, the skyline blurred and indistinct. It was a city lost, a city consumed, a city dancing to its own demise. And he was leaving it behind. Not escaping, not finding a cure, but simply… leaving. Surrendering in his own way.

The water closed over his head, the ocean embracing him, the sound of the waves replacing the endless song. Darkness enveloped him, a final, silent peace.

The music, he knew, would continue. It would play on, endlessly, for the empty city, for the dancing ghosts, for a world that had lost its way, but for him, finally, it stopped.