langston is excited to receive a gift from bloke. It's an African beadwork bracelet, and he keeps holding it aloft to admire it. He puts it on his wrist and walks around looking at it excitedly. He picks up the phone and calls bloke. The phone rings unanswered. He gets frustrated and decides to go back to his typewriter. He reads what he is writing.

LANGSTON: Dear Bloke, ole boy:

Our letters must have crossed in transit! I posted mine on the weekend and yours arrived on Monday morning. And your beautiful gift right after. Delighted to have both – as I’d gotten worried about you, not hearing from you for so long. So this is just to let you know I’m glad you are still living! I have a deadline to meet tomorrow (otherwise would write more) on Randy Weston's jazz salute to African freedom – so am playing the tapes right now. It's an LP in four tracks. The third movement is called BANTU – perhaps in honour of you. Anyhow, when it comes out, I’ll send you a disc.

More anon!

Sincerely,

LANGSTON: Langston speaking, hullo!

BLOKE: My American Bantu!

LANGSTON: Hey, Blokie! How are you, my favourite Bantu?

BLOKE: Man, I’m just overwhelmed by the things you do for me; what with the record, the books and others. I ought to send you something that will match your gifts.

LANGSTON: Don't worry about that, man. I’m sending these things to you because you deserve them – you are my favourite Bantu, remember? How is good old London?

BLOKE: Man, it gets awful lonely here, like screaming, screaming down a dream alley, screaming of blues like none can hear. But I know you can hear me clear and loud, like it's for you I scream.