It was one of those nights. The moon shone, a half crescent in its perl-esque beauty. The air was heavy with a cacophonous melody of laughter, spoken half promises, empty declarations and song. A soft wind blew through the dense night of Douala. Clear and unbroken like a ray of light beaming through a broken shutter illuminating dancing dust, he heard it. The sound of vibrating brass piercing through an urban symphony. He knew. He knew his mind spoke the truth when it told him he would die with a sax in his arm.