BackgroundEighteen years. That’s how long Adab had been gone from the WorldVision stage.
So how did it come to this?
At the end of WorldVision 71, the future seemed bright for the country’s continued participation in the contest. The Adab Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) was firmly under the control of the uncle-nephew duo Enki and Benji Akiya, Director-General of the ABC and president of the ABC’s WorldVision-WHF Committee, respectively. Uncle and nephew both enthusiastically supported Adab’s WorldVision efforts and would have kept the nation participating in the event forever if they could. Although the most recent results had been rather middling, the ABC overall was enthusiastic regarding Adab’s prospects on WorldVision, perhaps hanging on to the golden age of WorldVision 65-68, where the nation made the top 3 in three out of the four contests, including one victory. Nothing indicated that Adab’s participation in WorldVision would soon be so cruelly cut short. It was not the ABC’s or the Akiyas’ intention to pull Adab out of WorldVision; external factors forced them to.
A few months after the conclusion of WorldVision 71, the Adabian stock market crashed. It was only the beginning of a nationwide recession, the greatest the nation had faced since the Great Depression. The full extent of the crisis cannot be adequately explained here, but everyone knows the basics of the story: Over the next few years, the recession would deteriorate into a depression, countless businesses would fold, and millions would be driven out of work and into the streets. The Adabian government quickly reacted with an interventionist New Deal-style approach, giving financial assistance and providing projects for the unemployed. The outpouring of money into several sectors meant its withdrawal from others, and the ABC was included in the latter category. Sweeping budget cuts were enacted, and the government announced that Adab would not participate in WorldVision or the World Hit Festival for the time being. The FBC's WorldVision-WHF Committee was deactivated.
Enki and Benji Akiya tried to make the best of the situation, but the budget cuts forced the ABC to cut down on broadcasting time and eventually lay off employees. The ghosts of sins past came back to haunt them. Enki’s infamously mercurial temper and behavior had made him many enemies inside and outside the ABC. Now they came together, charging him with failing to improve the ABC’s financial situation or the quality of its programmes. When they went to the Imperial Palace to seek Enki’s removal as Director-General, the Palace happily obliged. Overnight, Enki Akiya found himself banished from the ABC, the organization which he had served for years as Deputy Director-General and then Director-General. His nephew, who had held no official position within the ABC since his committee was shut down, was now clearly unwelcome in the corporation either.
Friends and connections came to their rescue, securing lucrative directorships for uncle and nephew alike, but it was clear that their hearts lay with the ABC and that they hoped to one day, once the financial crisis was over, to reassume their rightful place in the corporation. But as the crisis receded and the economy slowly recovered, the Akiyas’ enemies retained a tight grip on the organization. There was no way back for them. Their other dream, to resume Adab’s participation in WorldVision and the WHF, seemed increasingly like a pipe dream; the government was focusing on economic recovery, defense, and infrastructure, and repeatedly denied the ABC the funds required for compete in those events. As year after year after year passed, the glory days of Adab’s participation in WorldVision and the WHF began to recede from memory.
Enki had been feeling poorly and exhausted for some time. One day, while walking alone at the Adab City Park, he suffered a stroke and collapsed. Bystanders called an ambulance, but he was already dead. He never did return to the ABC. The corporation sent no one to his funeral, not even a wreath.
Now it fell to Benji to preserve the glory of the Akiya name and return it to the ABC. Benji was actually much more well-liked than his uncle, even by their competitors for power in the organization; he was simply seen as a thorn on their side. Benji had an important ability: he made friends much easier than his uncle ever could, and friends he had in every corridor of power: in the Imperial Palace, the Privy Council, and the private sector where he now worked. His job was a comfortable and high-paying one, but he never gave up on his dream to return to the ABC. And one year ago, that dream came true: the ABC was rocked by a corruption scandal involving its board. The Imperial Palace was furious; only a few days after the scandal broke, the entire board was out. Replacements were needed, especially as Director-General, and who could be a better Director-General than Benji Akiya? Almost seventeen years after he was unceremoniously booted from the organization, he was now back as the top dog.
With Benji now back as Director-General, it was time to pick up from where the ABC left off all those years ago. Having secured a bigger budget from his friends in the Imperial Palace, Benji announced that Adab would be returning to WorldVision and the World Hit Festival. Mehmet Bahri – Adab’s last Head of Delegation to the WHF – was reappointed to head the country’s WHF and WorldVision delegations. The announcement was greeted with jubilation by music fans, especially those who were old enough to remember Adab’s WorldVision golden era.
There was, however, a problem: with WorldVision 89 fast approaching, Benji needed to find an artist to represent the country, and find them quick. The announcement of Adab’s return came too close to the event itself to allow for any elaborate national final or selection system involving public voting. An internal selection was the only option. Several up-and-coming artists were proposed, but Benji were dissatisifed with all of them for a variety of reasons, ranging from “boring music” to “he literally beat his girlfriend”. Veteran singers were considered, but Benji worried that the WorldVision audience would find them boring, too.
A music legend was offered the job. He politely turned the offer down, saying he wanted nothing more to do with WorldVision, but nevertheless promised Benji that he would be available for “consultation” and would inform him if he found someone worthy.
Two years ago he felt rather tired, and he noticed that he had been urinating more often than usual. One night he found streaks of blood in his urine. That very night his chauffeur rushed him from his mansion to the hospital in Adab City. Tests were performed. Prostate cancer was diagnosed.
Surgery was quickly performed to remove the prostate gland. For a day following the surgery he appeared to be fine, if rather weak. Then he sank into unconsciousness. For three days and nights he lay between life and death as a worried nation held vigil. Envoys from the Imperial Palace quietly approached his closest relatives – he had never married and had no children – to discuss the possibility of a state funeral.
On the third night, however, he awakened, and afterwards he rallied.
He would not die after all. But Kinan al-Salaman emerged from the ordeal a changed man.
For many years he had been Adab’s most admired living musician. He was the country’s first and by far most famous representative on the WorldVision stage. Millions of his albums had been sold, and his influence on the generation of Adabian musicians who came after him were far-reaching. All the while he built Al-Salaman Group into a business empire which included Al-Salaman Records, the country’s largest record label from which several WorldVision and WHF contestants came.
Now he found himself facing his mortality. It was not the first time he had done that, but – now that he was in his sixties – it felt more real than ever. If he were to die, al-Salaman decided, than he would die the same man as he was when he was born: a Druze from Jabal al-Druze.
In a move which stunned the country, al-Salaman announced that he would be “taking a break from music” and sold three-fourths of his stake in the Al-Salaman Group to Robin Albarani,
who up to this point had been Adab’s last WorldVision contestant. Though al-Salaman would still draw a substantial income from his remaining shares, the sale ended his effective control over the group. He took his leave from Adab City and retired to his ancestral villa on the Jabal al-Druze. With family members there having died or moved away, al-Salaman was now the outright owner of the villa. For the next two years, accompanied by a secretary and a few servants, he contented himself with raising sheep, watching the scenery, donating to (and making the occasional public endorsement of) charitable causes, and studying the Druze faith. He raised no protest when Albarani renamed his group the Albarani Group. Offers to sing, feature in a concert, or record a collaboration album were all politely but firmly declined. Journalists were turned away at the gate. He still maintained his mansion near the city, the Alwalid, but visits there became sparse.
It is said that one of the greatest pains of old age is losing your friends, and this rang true in al-Salaman’s case. Alalngar Jalil was one of his oldest friends. He was the son of Inimabakesh Rahman Jalil, the folk and rock figure who had discovered al-Salaman all those years ago. He himself had made a career as an author and authority on the history of Adabian music, all the while remaining one of al-Salaman’s closest friends and supporters. Around the time of al-Salaman’s hospitalization, Jalil was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The prognosis was not good, but there was still a chance. Chemotherapy was begun. Al-Salaman made one of his increasingly rare forays from Jabal al-Druze to Adab City to visit his friend, faded and weakened but at peace with whatever was to come.
His next visit to Adab City would be to attend his friend’s funeral.
Like the country, the funeral was an almost-bizarre mix of the Islamic and the secular. After funeral prayers were performed and the body was committed to its earthly grave, mourners were led to a nearby convention hall for the memorial service. Family members delivered eulogies and shared memories. Al-Salaman sat quietly through it all, his fellow mourners – many of whom had not seen him for a long time – shocked by his deterioration. He wore glasses and appeared a much-diminished figure from the outspoken young man who once strode across the multiverse’s stages. His face was marked by deep, dark lines and his jet-black hair had turned completely white and disheveled at places.
A 17-year-old girl delivered one of the eulogies, the deceased’s granddaughter. Al-Salaman had encountered Ninki Jalil before, if only fleetingly. She aspired to be a singer and in fact had already released two EPs, which racked up respectable streaming numbers. He had never heard any of her music. Her eulogy was heartfelt, but al-Salaman’s attention increasingly turned towards the piano, with mic attached, that stood next to the lectern. No one had played it; clearly it was meant for her.
And sure enough, at the conclusion of the eulogy, she sat down before the piano and oriented the mic towards her. “I wrote this yesterday as a tribute to my grandfather,” she said, obviously rather unaccustomed to performing before such a buttoned-up audience, her eyes somewhat avoiding them. Her long, thin fingers danced delicately between the keys, her youthful voice carried across the hall. Al-Salaman listened to her, solemnly but soon realizing that he was spellbound by her voice. A woman sitting next to him slowly and quietly moved her head back and forth, tapping a finger or two. But al-Salaman was struck by her lyrics, which he realized showed a maturity, a sort of quiet strength not often seen in 17-year-olds, something he could understand:
And I know I’ll remember you for the rest of my life
I’ll see you in every corner and in every room
There’s always a place for you in my mind
And I know you’ll never leave me there
Following the memorial service, al-Salaman called Benji. “Mr. al-Salaman?”
“Benji, I know someone.”
The PerformanceNinki Jalil had never expected to make it to the WorldVision stage, and certainly not this soon. In a way, her appearance here was Kinan al-Salaman's payback to her family. The circle was now complete; Ninki's grandfather had discovered young al-Salaman and catapulted him to fame, and now al-Salaman would do the same for Ninki. This is not to say that her spot on the WorldVision stage was completely undeserved; her music had gained a following and was praised by critics for being well-crafted, especially for someone her age. Even if she never made it to the WorldVision stage, it wouldn't have been unreasonable to forecast a bright future for her in Adabian music. But now this golden opportunity had fallen on her, and - nerves be damned - she took it. She would be Adab's first contestant to grace this hallowed event in eighteen editions. An entire country was rooting for her; she would not disappoint them.
Long before she took off on that plane bound for Tödlichebujoku, she had been shown photos of Äuszer's Ametsuči Dome and the stage inside. The delegation had explained to her in length about the LCD screens and all the possible effects that she could use for her performance. The venue certainly had impressive amenities; now it was left for her to decide how to use them for her performance. She wanted to use those effects; she also did not want them to overwhelm the performance, and all the feeling that she put into it. Music is often a conduit through which its performers express their innermost feelings, touching their listeners in the process. Ninki was no exception. She would love to see the audience awed by the effects, but most of all she wanted them to listen to her words, and if her words touched their hearts then that would give her the happiness of a lifetime.
With the previous performers from Malta Comino Gozo having left the stage, the lights were dimmed and the audience found themselves faced with a vast, dark expanse of floor. Yet it was not total darkness; the LCD screens were bathed in strands of dark blue, somewhat faded but still recognizable to the naked eye and allowing the audience to see the stage and the tiers that flanked it. The sharp-eyed among them (and those in the front rows) could see some stagehands shifting back and forth across the stage, looking like thick stick men in the darkness, some of them carrying a black shape that was only barely illuminated by the LCD blue, though many in the audience quickly recognized it to be an electric piano. Then they disappeared backstage, not to return until the end of the performance.
Our own performer entered the stage with the same amount of fanfare that greeted the stagehands: none. The only reason many in the audience realized that she was the one they had been waiting for was that, unlike the stagehands, she entered completely alone, a lone shape whose features were barely exposed by the lights, and immediately made her way to the piano which had been set up at the center of the stage. She was
dressed in a blue gown, diamonds dotting the upper part and her skirt somewhat flowing out with every step she took. Her dark brown hair fell slightly beyond her shoulders; she had chosen not to tie it. Once she assumed her seat, the first thing she did was to see if the mic was working, issuing this simple statement in a somewhat nervous voice: "Hi everyone. Uh, I'm Ninki Jalil, I'm 17 years old. I wrote this song about my grandfather who passed away recently. It's called 'Running Through the Grass'."
The audience clapped and some cheered as she settled down before the piano, made herself comfortable, and adjusted the mic attached to the piano, particularly the few Adabians who had been allowed to travel to Tödlichebujoku. The spread of the Great Pestilence across the multiverse had caused the government to restrict the number of Adabians allowed to fly here to only fifty, not including the official WorldVision delegation, and those lucky fifty had to fly alongside Ninki and the delegation in a single Adabian military plane made available specially for this purpose (that plane was now sitting on Äuszer's airport, waiting to take them home). There was a minor uproar when the government refused to use interuniversal portals, fearing that the portals were too easy to steal, allowing ill-intentioned people or those infected with the Great Pestilence to too easily make their way from Adab to Tödlichebujoku and vice versa. The delegation and fans separated upon their arrival in Äuszer, Ninki and the delegation booking into the Grand Quetzal and the fans being accommodated at the Šinton Sunrise. Their movements were severely restricted; Ninki was to travel with the delegation and an Adabian military officer at all times (they enjoyed one foray to the downtown S E A restaurant, but otherwise stayed in the hotel), and the fans were ordered not to leave their hotel at all. Everyone had to wear electronic bracelets to keep track of their movements.
But all that did not matter now. No, not now. The Adabians were tightly packed in one section of the venue, not far from the stage itself; they were under express orders to travel in one group into, inside, and out of the venue. What they lacked in numbers they more than made up their voice, chants of "
Adab!" and "
Ninki!" traveling the width and length of Ametsuči Dome. Many small Adabian flags were waved as Ninki's nimble fingers gently pushed down on the piano keys, at first rather tentatively, but then she began to find her groove. Previously the stage was generally blue, but now the color began to change to wide rows of black and white on the floor and on the tiers, with subtle gradations allowing for the color to softly change from one row to another. This was done so that the floor and the tiers would fit in with the LCD screens in the background, upon which was imposed the black-and-white image of an old man. The lights above slowly increased in brightness, shining down on Ninki, the piano, and the stage in gold-tinged bands of light. And now the multiverse found itself facing the image of Alalngar Jalil, the singer's late grandfather who inspired this song.
And his granddaughter's voice softly echoed across the dome.
Dark grey hair, dusty skin
Old pictures, jet-black eyes
Your shadow lingering on over me
Some kind words, thoughtful advice
Don’t say too much, say what matters
I can see your eyes staring right back at mine
The large picture of Ninki's grandfather began to fade away, and with it the black and white of the stage and tiers gradually subsided and faded, washed away by shades of green traveling from the back of the stage to the front, the green at the back actually somewhat darker than on the front, but the gradation was very gradual and well-done so as to be effectively unnoticeable. The lights shone down still on Ninki and her piano in bands of gold, playing sunlight to the green's grass. Once the picture was completely gone,
a wide panorama of an idyllic grassland was gradually revealed across the LCD screens in the background and on the tiers. Ninki's eyes, which had hitherto been fixed on some point between the mic and the keys, now started to fly towards the audience, many of whom quietly mesmerized as they watched the performance.
Her eyes widened as she took in the audience. Obviously unaccustomed to performing before such a large audience, and no doubt thinking of the infinitely larger audience witnessing her performance on their TV screens and the Internet, she took the time to gauge - as best as she could from her position - the audience's reaction to her performance as her fingers continued moving on the keys. Later she would admit that she was scared to see he audience's faces, fearing that they were finding her boring. But it was a humanizing moment for her; for all her musical and songwriting ability, in the end she was a 17-year-old girl who found herself on a stage far greater than anything she had ever been on, with the eyes of untold billions across the multiverse bearing down on her. It was a position that many dreamed of attaining, but only few would ever achieve, and this girl now found herself in that position.
I still see you
Running through the grass
So light on your feet, I-I-I-I-I
I see you
Memories in technicolor
Your frame in every picture, I-I-I-I
Ninki's eyes now returned to the piano, which she clearly felt much more comfortable to look at than the audience, no matter how much she wanted their attention. The gold lights were still there, spanning the length of the stage from the left tiers to the right, aiding the audience in seeing her. As if she wasn't already visible enough, a narrow spotlight - more crystal-clear white than gold - now came down from the heavens to Ninki and the piano, reinforcing who the star here was, who everyone should be paying attention to. Those in the very front rows would later claim that they could tears beginning to stream from her eyes, and maybe that's why she turned away from the audience to her piano. She did not want to have to break down and overly expose her grief and vulnerability in front of the audience. If she had to weep, then she would weep to the piano, which wouldn't make any comments - especially negative and hurtful ones. Maybe some things are better left unseen.
The stage and the tiers were still green, but while the LCD screens on the tiers continued to show grassland, the background screens changed to show a picture of the old Jalil family house, a two-tier, decidedly suburban structure where Ninki's grandfather lived, loved, and raised a family. This was where many of Ninki's memories were made, happy and sad. This was an integral part of her life.
When I needed shelter you took me in without questions, with no pretensions
Your heart was so kind, I was afraid of breaking it
I still remember so clearly
The dust in your hair, the sun in your eyes
Your image in every frame of my memory
Now it was green's turn to give way on the floor and on the tiers to a new color: gold, which would fit in more with the gold that was already shining down from above. The transformation did not happen suddenly; rather it occurred gradually from the front of the stage to the back, green slowly losing every inch of the stage to the gold. The change in color was done to emphasize the gold and, again, to fit in with the background. The picture of the Jalil family house faded away, replaced by two pictures; the LCD screens on the left showed a picture of Alalngar Jalil atop his bicycle on a dirt track that cut across an open field; he was a keen rider, especially in his younger days. The screens to the right showed another picture, that of a toddler Ninki on her own, smaller, bike, with Alalngar watching in the background. The dividing line between the two pictures was right down the middle of the centermost screen. A common theme of the pictures was the abundance of sunlight, the pictures having been taken at midday, hence the change to gold which is often associated with the sun.
I still see you
Downtown on your bike
The sun on your head, I-I-I-I-I
I see you
Giving me the silver coin
With the old man’s picture, I-I-I-I
When I needed shelter you took me in without questions, with no pretensions
Your heart was so kind, I was afraid of breaking it
The performance had not been a cheerful one to begin with, and now there were hints that it would soon turn even darker. As Ninki's fingers danced away on the piano, the gold began to disappear from the stage floor and the tiers, slowly replaced by shades of dark blue, though the gold lights from above remained there so that the audience could still see Ninki. Both pictures - of Alalngar alone and of Ninki and her grandfather - dissipated into black. For a few seconds there were absolutely nothing on the background LCD screens, before another picture came into a view - that of an orangish evening sky, with the sun about to slip into the gold-tinged clouds. Once the sun had disappeared behind the clouds, the sky turned dark blue, almost blending in with the color of the stage floor and the tiers. The clouds remained, but turned darker and became harder to see, making way for the image of the moon rising against a dark, shadowed mountain, with the dark clouds ominously hanging on in the background.
To watch the sunset and the moonrise
Over the hill
And you were there with me always
But then you're gone
The Tödlichebujoki organizers had had the foresight of installing weather effects for the benefit of performers, and this happened to fit in well with Ninki's idea of her performance. The dark clouds began to increase in number, eventually overwhelming the upper part of the night sky and causing the moon to disappear behind it. Viewers now saw a moonless night, with clouds that were seemingly becoming darker with every passing second and a dark mountain below it. Any lingering sense of joy and happiness that might have been produced by the preceding pictures would surely have gone away by now. That happy, idyllic childhood of hers, the days spent with her grandfather, were gone. As she reached the climax of the song, she began pushing her fingers down on the piano keys with more force. Her eyes narrowed, her teeth were clenched, and she was looking squarely at the piano, seemingly ready to just pound away. Her voice rose in power and loudness, but at the same time betrayed a sense of desperation.
And if the audience thought that they were watching drops of water fall onto the stage floor, then they were correct. Those drops became increasingly rapid, their intensity reflecting the intensity of Ninki's feelings, until the audience heard the noise of thunder blasted out of the sound system and a full-blown rain was hitting the stage (though not in a radius of a few meters around Ninki and the piano, in order to avoid damaging the piano). From time to time, the water would bounce against the floor and onto those who stood closest to the stage, leading to some in the very front rows retreating backwards. As the words came out of her mouth, Ninki would glance again at the audience, though by now she wasn't very concerned about their reaction. She just needed to get her words out.
And I see you
Trying to stay so strong
‘Cause that’s in your nature, I-I-I-I
I see you
Saying everything’s alright
Whatever comes of this, I-I-I-I
I see you
Fading but never yielding
Dwindling but still trying, I-I
And your eyes still have that little spark inside
The stage was now drenched in water, and Ninki couldn't care less. By now she was just banging away on the piano, putting her heart and soul into it, partly because she wanted the whole thing to be over and done with as quickly as possible, partly because the painful memories of her grandfather's battle with cancer were flooding back in and she was trying to block them. Every word she said was the truth, every verse and every syllable. She would never admit it, but she was starting to have second thoughts about performing on WorldVision. Why did she even agree to this? And of all the songs that she had written, why this one? At this point she was just racing to the end of the song, hoping that after all this was over she could just run away to some place where she wouldn't have to show her face, where she could cry as much as she wanted to.
And I know I’ll remember you for the rest of my life
I’ll see you in every corner and in every room
There’s always a place for you in my mind
And I know you’ll never leave me there
I hope to see you if only for one last time
In this life or the one after
I’d say sorry for every mistake I made
And I’d just fall into your comforting hug
And I’d never want to leave
I’d never want to leave
And I’d never want to leave
And I’d never leave
Now the rain was receding, and Ninki's fingers slowed. Through the rain she looked again at the audience, wondering if they were captivated or disgusted by her performance, but ultimately deciding that she didn't care. In the background, the dark clouds started to disappear, and the dark blue of the night sky gave way to a lighter shade of blue, with hints of orange on the lower parts of the screens. Sunrise. Maybe there was something to salvage out of all this.
When I needed shelter you took me in without questions, with no pretensions
Your heart was so kind, I was afraid of breaking it
The end of the song was rather sudden, actually; once she had gotten the last word out, she stopped playing the piano, leaving only a faint echo of the last note to travel across the dome before that, too, faded away. The rain had stopped, and now she rose from her seat, turning towards the audience. For a split-second they stared at each other in silence. That silence was soon broken, however, as one by one people started slowly clapping. Then the claps grew faster, and faster, and people started cheering, and then they were hollering, and of course the Adabians - paltry as they were in numbers - leapt to their feet clapping and cheering, waving their flags, chanting their contestant's name, soon to be followed by many others from various nations.
And Ninki reacted to all this with stunned silence. Her performance had not been a complete failure, and while she hated exposing her grief to the entire multiverse, the audience here took her performance very well. As the clapping and cheering grew louder, encompassing the whole venue, she tentatively took a few steps towards the walkway. First step, second step, third step, she took them slowly. Then she gradually picked up speed, until she was almost running to the end of the walkway. At the very end she stopped, then cautiously climbed down to the crowd. But she mostly ignored them as they eagerly tried to touch her, shake her hand, get their hands on her. Slowly she proceeded to a particular section of the crowd. Some in the crowd realized where she was heading and stepped aside for her. She walked ahead gingerly, until in front of her was a flood of Adabian flags. A man with wily white hair and mustache emerged from the crowd of Adabians and stood directly facing Ninki: Mehmet Bahri, Adab's Head of Delegation to WorldVision and the WHF. "Ninki-"
"Mr. Bahri," she said simply before launching herself on him, putting her arms around his shoulders and her jaw squarely on his left shoulder, closing her eyes. And as the audience cheered for her, she sobbed.
EpilogueAdab City Cemetery, about half an hour after the performanceThey stood there, alone. The older man was clad entirely in black that barely served to distinguish him from the night. The younger man - Benji Akiya, Director-General of the ABC - was in a business suit, also mostly black but a little more polished, that did no better in preventing him from disappearing into the dark. He did not know why the older man invited him to a cemetery, of all places, but he went nevertheless.
The only light, dim as it was, came from the nearby street lamps. The wind wheezed softly. They were standing before two gravestones, which the older man pointed at.
“Inimabakesh Rahman Jalil was the one who discovered me. I was performing in bars, and he saw me and took me to talent shows, and from there to the WorldVision stage and beyond,” said Kinan al-Salaman, shifting his finger between the graves. “His son Alalngar was one of my closest friends and supporters. If it weren’t for these men, I wouldn’t be here and we would have never met. Now Alalngar is gone, but his granddaughter is still here, and it’s only right that I repay my debt to the family.”
Benji nodded in understanding. “Everyone is saying she did great. My social media is blowing up right now.”
“I watched it on my phone on my way here,” said al-Salaman, smiling, glancing over his shoulder at Benji. “She did great. You got your money’s worth. You and I knew she would do great.”
“Yeah.”
“And Benji, I’ll tell you this,” al-Salaman continued, his head slightly bowed towards the graves, his smile a bit fainter. “Don’t make me go up on that stage ever again. No, I won’t even write songs for the contestants. I like you, Benji, but you’re good enough on your own. My time has gone. Now is the time for the younger generation to take the reins.”
Al-Salaman then turned around and started towards the exit. “But Benji,” he stopped midway, turning to the other man who was still standing by the grave, staring at him, “feel free to call me whenever you need my opinion. I’m a musician, but more than that I’m a fan, and I’ll always remain a fan.”
He continued towards the exit. And Benji Akiya stood there still in the darkness, the wind gently blowing past him.