Bichara's Heart: Chapter 6

So much for a family reunion, Rahman thought as he took in the multitude of people – familiar and strange – that filled Nana’s expansive ballroom. She must have invited the whole of Nigeria! He had spotted two Amiras already, dressed the part in royal heirlooms. He sighed. Usually, Nana would receive her guests at the door. She hadn’t done that this time. How was he supposed to find his own family in this crowd?

He stepped into the room, his wife’s palm gently grasping the crook of his elbow. He couldn’t wait for the baby to come. The pregnancy was wearing her down. If she wasn’t getting bigger, he would have thought the baby was draining her blood, it was definitely sapping her energy. She was getting more and more fragile by the day; he was scared to even touch her.

They had just arrived, and Rahman felt exhausted in advance from engaging in draining banter and smiling with people he’d rather not be in the same room with.

“Masoyina!” He caught a flash of silver, a stately turban, as she moved briskly toward them, his grandmother.

“Kaka,” he replied briefly before she pulled him into a full hug. She was too strong for her petite eighty-two-year-old figure. He hoped it meant she had long to live yet. He tried to move out of her grasp, but she held him in, scrutinizing his appearance. She seemed to be satisfied with his grey kaftan two-piece as she smiled up at him. He had ditched the hula even though it was supposed to be a formal event. Nana did not seem to mind.

“So…, it took a grand party to lure you from Rima…, that palace of yours, ba…!” She exclaimed loudly, pausing as she acknowledged Bichara who stood silently by his side. “Ah, kyaun gani! How are our babies?” Nana had this ridiculous notion that they were going to have twins.

Bichara chuckled nervously, walking into Nana’s open arms, and feeling enormously comforted in the kind matriarch’s embrace as she pecked both cheeks. She stepped back and noticed Rahman glancing around them, already itching to be in motion. He was a restless soul, he always needed to be doing something. She, on the other hand, valued precious peace and stillness. They were so different in some ways, and those differences seemed to be creating a hole between them every day. She knew exactly when he spotted a diversion, someone he knew maybe. Times like this, she could read him like a book, other times…

“Who invited him?” She followed his line of sight and was confused for a second until she realized his question was directed at Nana.

“Ahmad is family, Rahman. The Rufais are family. Ni da kaina na gayyace su.” Nana had a knowing look on her face, and Bichara was curious. She knew the Rufai and Bello families had been business partners for about two generations, and friends even longer. Obviously, Rahman and Ahmad did not share the feeling of brotherhood their fathers and grandfathers had. It made sense, Rahman never talked about them. Their names never so much as slipped during any of their conversations which, to be fair, weren’t that many.

“Babban labarai,” Rahman muttered, and Nana excused herself, giving them leave to enjoy the soirée, spotting other important guests stepping in to join the glittering assemblage. He felt Bichara shift uneasily against him and bent his head toward her.

“I need to use the restroom, Rahman,” she voiced softly in French, looking very pale and uncomfortable. He was more than a little concerned.

“Should I come with you?” She shook her head.

“No. Stay. I’ll be fine.” She assured him with a feeble smile. He gave her form a once-over and relented.

“You remember where it is?” She nodded and moved away from his side, eager to get away, expertly maneuvering herself through the crowd of guests. He watched her retreating figure, wondering if he should follow her anyway.

“ Jarababbe.” Rahman flinched. There was only one person in the world who called him that. It was a private joke, one he didn’t want his wife to hear. He glanced in the direction of the call, straight at his cousin. He hadn’t seen Siddiq Abubakar in eleven years and about a month. It felt like an old dream, seeing him in front of him after so long. He had two actual brothers, but Siddiq had been more of a brother to him than anyone in this world. They hugged as soon as he reached him.

“Siddiq…” Rahman trailed off as he grabbed a half-full champagne flute from a passing tray, trying to put himself, his emotions, under control, surprised his cousin did not take one glass for himself. He sincerely never thought he would see him again after he cut off all contact with the family, with him…, and literally vanished during a RuBel-sponsored tour of the Middle East.

A myriad of questions flitted through his mind, directed at the man he thought he knew more than anyone else in the world. He shoved them aside, for now, content with being happy for his return, hoping he hadn’t changed too much. Already, he saw a seriousness in his eyes that was not there before. Siddiq was always the laidback, breezy one who got them both in countless trouble back in the days.

“Cousin…I trust we have a lot to catch up on…” This time, Siddiq’s smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “Like…I heard you now have an exceptionally beautiful, exotic wife.”

Rahman chuckled at his cousin’s not-too-far-off description. “Who told you that? Not back one week, and you’re already privy to rumor mills,” he drawled before taking a full sip of the sweet bubbly. He wondered why they weren’t jumping at each other, why they weren’t more excited to see each other. Maybe it just wasn’t the time and especially not the place to show real reactions.

“Hardly a rumor. Nana’s had me staring at photographs since I got here. I think she’s trying to give me some kind of message… Not back one week, and she’s already trying to get me married. Where is this wife of yours?” Siddiq scanned the faces around them as if he knew how she looked and just where to spot her.

“She’s here somewhere…,” Rahman muttered and looked over in the direction of the two large exits and then around the circular room, past several familiar faces – some nodding in acknowledgment – as he searched for his wife.

She should have been back by now. He found her finally, among a small group of women. He recognized two as his distant cousins, and…was that the Sultan's fourth wife? Bichara probably didn’t recognize any of them. If she was speaking with them, it was Nana’s doing. She was always trying to mix her up with that crowd, but his wife had never felt comfortable in social gatherings.

He watched her awkward movements, smiling nervously and constantly patting her loose white hijab over her ear, probably meaning to brush her lovely curls only he had the honor of seeing, behind her ear, like she always did. She looked stunning. The white gown she picked was his favorite choice too, complementing her pale skin, flattering her body perfectly. So perfect, he was beginning to wish it was for his eyes only. And, the sedate emerald-stone piece around her neck made her light eyes sparkle.

Those eyes met his at that moment as she turned her head, subconsciously responding to his thoughts. There and then, he wanted to pull her to him and take her lips in his.

He heard a throat-clearing sound and remembered who was still beside him. He returned his attention to his cousin, finding his step-sister and her fiancé beside them.

“Sannu dan uwa,” Baraka drawled, her permanent smirk irritating him already. She had her arm around Siddiq, and Rahman remembered being betrayed by his cousin when he started becoming rather too friendly with his overtly brazen half-sister…all those years ago. There seemed to be no love lost between the two now.

“Yar uwa,” he replied, a tad bit sardonic, nodding at Umar Dansuki who was a junior executive at PerSua, his sister’s third engagement in the last three years. Men could smell new inheritance. He wasn’t shocked they usually ran away after a few months though. He was already priming himself to leave their company. “…Siddiq…you’ll stop by Rima soon, ko?”

“I mana!” Siddiq said, pulling his sister closer and kissing her cheek. Umar looked on and Rahman looked away, gulping down the last remains of the sparkling wine. The light vanilla finish made him wish he had picked a sherry instead. “Of course, we’ll see.”

Rahman left their side then, dropping his empty glass on another waiter’s tray. He needed to search for his wife again, but before he could, he was detained by another pair of family members.

Rahman smiled and spread his arms wide to hug his brothers, well, one of them. Hassan and Aliu were the last of his siblings, Aliu, from the same mother as Baraka. His own mother had died shortly after having Hassan. The only thing he remembered of her was her curly long hair and her calm, quiet demeanor, her sweet voice singing Hassan to sleep in the afternoons. When he tried to imagine her now, all he saw was…Bichara.

We took a long break, but we're back now, and with some insight into Rahman's big family. What do you think of Rahman's relationship with his family? Does it tell you anything at all about the kind of person he is? Are you as excited as we are to find out what part Siddiq will play in this story?

Find out more in Chapter 7, coming your way Next Saturday! Make sure you invite a friend because Nana's party isn't over.

Bichara's Heart: Chapter 5

Rahman was in their home gym when Bichara found him the next morning. She tried to wait up for him last night, but she must’ve slept off between reading a book and trying to rest her aching legs. Still, he must’ve come back very late because she didn’t feel him enter their room or get into bed at any point.

“Good morning,” she said, practicing her English as she approached him. He was on a barbell bench, lifting and lowering the heavy object at an unnatural pace – unnatural to her, anyway. She watched as his forearms strained, and his muscles perked, and strands of sweat trailed his face, patching his grey sports shirt. His legs were simultaneously pulling a metal lever at the other end of the bench.

She hated exercise, even watching other people do it. It was cruel and unusual punishment you put yourself through. She’d always been thick, and she didn’t plan on doing anything about it anytime soon. Although, she might have to rethink that decision considering how much weight she’d put on since she got pregnant. How was she going to lose it all? As it was, she was a dress-size twelve.

Rahman dropped the barbell in its place and sat up to look at his striking, curvy wife as she walked into the room, wiping his face and neck with a small towel. He’d never liked skinny girls. His wife was the perfect woman, and she’d started adding more flesh in all the right places too since she became pregnant with his child. He admired her body as she stood right there in front of him and regretted not returning early from his trip last night…and that glorious dark hair like a halo around her face and arms. He loved it when she hadn’t brushed it and packed it into a ponytail yet – taming the wild mane.

“Good morning, my love,” he said, panting from his exertions, and gestured for her to come to him. As she came forward with slow timid steps, he saw she had something in her hand. “What’s that?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the white envelope. She lifted it to him, but he didn’t move, recognizing Nana’s seal.

“Your family sent a letter yesterday.” His demeanor changed as she spoke. He loved his grandmother, but she only ever sent a letter when there was trouble, and in his family, trouble meant a disaster.

“What letter?” Bichara almost flinched at the harshness of his tone, regretting coming so close to him. Why would a letter from his family freeze him up this much? Maybe he disliked them as much as she did, but she knew that was only true about one side of his family, not Nana. His eyes were on her now, cold, dark. He didn’t want to see it, he wanted her to tell him what it said.

“They found a cousin of yours," she said, reverting back to her comfortable French. "Nana wants us to come for some…welcoming party…”

“Siddiq?”

She was confused by his question for a moment, then remembered that was the name, in the letter, of the returned cousin. “Yes.” His expression lightened, but only a little, only in his eyes. He stood, and she almost jumped back. He didn’t seem to notice her unease as he continued patting his face dry with his towel.

Suddenly, she recalled who Siddiq was. Rahman had let his name drop on occasion, when they talked about his childhood. They were close. Siddiq was a top RuBel executive, same as Rahman all those years ago. He took a trip to Saudi on an expansion assignment. Soon after, he went off the radar. His team members reported that he didn’t show up for one of their scheduled meetings, his phone lines went dead, and he never returned to his official accommodations. Rahman searched for him for years before giving up, he didn’t want to be found. That was about a decade ago.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, moving past her out of the room. He hadn’t touched her at all. Was he becoming appalled by her appearance? Bichara was stunned by that abrupt thought. She always assumed Rahman’s distant behavior was a product of work pressure, but she needed to consider that she was being naïve and in denial. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was him tired of her. She was losing her mind with paranoia.

She glanced around her at the different contraptions and equipment that made up the fitness room. What should she do?

She walked out of the room and out of the house, heading to the stables – a neat, well-run facility located at one extreme end of the estate, by the orchard. She could hear the horses as she neared the building, regretting not being able to ride in her condition. She would have appreciated the wind in her face, blowing through her hair, and the feeling of life and energy between her hips. She loved riding, it was the only thing she hated about living in N'djamena – not being able to ride.

She stepped through the large open doors and loved the sound of hay crunching under her soft flip-flops and the smell of animal essence. A man was in there, tending to the beautiful steeds, an equestrian expert Rahman had hired after meeting him at a jockey club in Canada. He turned toward her as she entered, scanning her. Bichara suddenly remembered she hadn’t changed out of her dressing gown.

“Mrs. Bello? Good morning.” His French was almost too perfect. Like a different dialect from the one she knew so well. He was obviously surprised to see her there so early in the morning, and her cheeks were warm from self-consciousness.

“Good morning. I didn’t mean to disturb…”

“Of course not. I’m here at your pleasure… I’ll give you the room if you want.” There was something slightly patronizing about him, and she didn’t quite like it.

She shifted her attention to the horse stalls, glancing through in search of her old mare. She found her at her usual position in the third stall from the door, next to the other old horses. Her baby was almost twenty-five now. A few years from now and she would be gone, a last emblem of where Bichara had come from, gone. She tried not to think about something so disheartening, she tried hard.

The horse groomer moved out the door soon after, and she felt she could breathe easier as she moved toward Angel and brushed her fingers through her silky mane, remembering her grandfather. She couldn’t remember how he looked like, his face, his voice. She had no photographs of him, a man who was both her father and her mother for a long time.

“Mrs. Bello. I've found you.” She turned, startled to find Isha, in her dressing gown too, looking like she’d been searching for her everywhere. “Ma, what are you doing here?”

Bichara turned back to Angel whose head was perked up now, staring right at her with those knowing pale brown eyes. "I just…” She shook her head, looking back at her nanny. “I just needed some air. What is it?”

“Oga sent his secretary with new clothes for you.” Isha walked straight at her, ready to grab her hand and drag her all the way to her room. “He wants you to try them on for the family tonight.”

Bichara frowned. Rahman was ordering her about from afar. She had enough clothes to choose from for his family’s little charade. When did he get the chance to order and have new clothes delivered anyway? Complete with underwear and accessories for sure, knowing Rahman.

“Are you feeling okay, Ma? You need more rest?” Isha was probably surprised she wasn’t pleased at the prospect of playing dress-up.

“I am fine…Where is my husband now?” She asked even though she already knew the answer to that question.

“He has gone for a meeting. He said he will be back in time to leave, Ma.” Of course, he was at the office, or the port, or the factory, or the airport, another continent, anywhere but at home with her. She was tired of it. Wasn’t he lonely too? Where was he getting his own companionship?

Bichara pursed her lips and stormed out of the suddenly stifling stables, ignoring her ignorant secretary.

Chapter 6 will be here Next Saturday, and we'll meet Rahman's family! Tell us down below what you think of the story so far. Don't forget to like and share.

Bichara's Heart: Chapter 4

“John,” she said, assessing his plain grey work overall worn to the waist, his chest left bare. She didn’t blame him, today was a particularly hot, sunny day. She glanced at his coworkers spread across the expansive yard, trimming hedges, sculpting shrubs, doing their job tending the gardens. She still couldn't understand how they could have such vast greenery in an almost desert.

She turned back to John. He might've been lean-muscled, but his midriff was well toned, and his arms too. She looked down at the contents of his right hand – a brown envelope. He lifted it to her.

“I wanted to give you in person,” he said in French, instinctively like it was his first language. Her eyes shot up to his, and he had a satisfied look on his face. She took the parcel from him. “I stayed up all night.”

“This is a lot.” She scrutinized the thick package, without knowing what she was looking for. It was sealed.

“Four hundred and sixty-nine pages of musings.”

“Wow.” She glanced up at him again. “Let’s walk for a minute?” she said, popping her brows in question. He nodded, and they walked forward in no particular direction. “Tell me about them. Tell me one of your stories.” They wandered for a while, heading toward the orchards, through a large blossom-lined tunnel, as he told her about a girl, an orphan girl whose story mirrored her own life’s journey.

At twenty-seven, Bichara’s life was one long cheerless tale, punctuated by a few happy moments…like her marriage…in the beginning. She was beginning to think she didn’t deserve happiness, but John’s fictional story had a happy ending, perhaps she had some hope yet.

“Gafara dai, Madam Bello.” She turned around, startled by the sudden interruption to John’s words, baffled at not having heard the footsteps of the man before them, a male servant.

“Eh, Mahmud,” she said. The young man stretched his hand forward with an envelope in it, bending over at the waist in a show of respect she found discomforting for this new century and millennium!

“Letter for you and oga…, from Minanata.” Minanata. The sultan's palace. The letter must be from Rahman’s grandmother. What could Nana possibly want? Why couldn’t it wait till she was back in the house, how urgent could it possibly be? She took the slim envelope from his hand to save the poor help from having to stay bent over for much longer – it was ridiculous, really. He wasted no time in returning in the direction of the house after he had done his job delivering the message.

“You have family in Minanata?” Her companion asked as they started walking again, Bichara aiming for the nearby trees. She wanted to sit on the soft grass under one of the large hardwood trees.

The estate was one huge money-making factory all by itself. Whoever owned the property before Rahman’s father, whoever created it, must’ve thought about everything so there was no chance they or their descendants would ever be poor. They were a low-density forest, so vast, you could get lost in it. According to Rahman, it wasn’t even possible to cross from one end to the other by foot, and it produced commercial timber. The adjacent vineyard produced a great quantity of wine, but mostly for private consumption. Bichara and John were just departing a sizable orchard. It produced several fruits and vegetables supplied to the farmer’s market in town.

The stables housed thirteen pure-bred horses, six of which were race horses that competed in high stakes’ competitions around the world. One of them was her Angel. Rahman had shipped her all the way from Chad the day after Bichara had told him how the only thing she missed about grandfather's farm was the beautiful strange white pony her grandfather had rescued and gifted her when she was nine. She remembered being blown away, seeing a full-grown silver horse in front of her apartment building, in the middle of downtown N'djamena.

“Rahman’s grandmother lives there,” she said when they reached the first of the giant trees. Why was she being so familiar with him? Rahman wouldn’t approve of it. She frowned as she concentrated on lowering herself to sit beside some stone benches. John jerked forward to support her back. She questioned herself for not sitting on the benches instead, and noticed he didn’t move to sit with her as she opened the crisp ivory envelope, unearthing an invitation. Her forehead crease deepened as she read the inscription.

“What is it?” She turned to him with one sharp motion. He was standing with the sun right behind him, glowing. She looked away again, blinking, wondering at her thoughts.

“Family news,” she muttered. “A long-lost cousin has returned home. There’s going to be a grand family reunion to celebrate it.” She knew she sounded dry. She hated Rahman’s family. It was obvious in the way she talked about them. It never occurred to her that it might’ve been important to know his family before agreeing to marry him. Would knowing them have changed her mind about their marriage? She was second guessing everything these days. Nana was an easy exception though, it was impossible not to love the kind old bean.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.” She covered her face with her palms, already nervous about what would be another opportunity for her to feel out of place, lonely…, ordinary.

“And, they send the invite now?” The abruptness of the whole affair didn’t bother her as much. Quite the opposite. She was happy to get it over with as soon as possible. It must’ve been sudden, the prodigal son reappearing out of the blues, Nana grabbing the opportunity to exercise her good social graces, clean out the massive receiving room of her country home, and have Nigerian elites over.

“You could come.” The idea popped up out of nowhere and was out of her mouth before she could make sense of it.

“Me?” He chuckled. He had a talent of asking and stating his words at the same time, as though the answer to his question was obvious and he wanted you to think straight. Maybe it came with being a skilled writer. “I’m a gardener, Bichara. Your servant.”

“You’re whatever you say you are.” She peeked up at him, feeling like there was something different about the man before her. “Not what other people say.” She ended her statement in a whisper and glanced back at the article in her hands. She pushed herself to get up, and John moved to brace her.

“Easy,” he said, helping her up. Bichara was comforted by his concern for her. She glanced at him again as she stood, and those gentle brown eyes captivated her in a way that gave her momentary peace. Something about this strange gardener made her realize she’d been lonely for a while.

It seems Bichara is drawn to John. But why? What is it about John? What are your thoughts on the build-up so far? Remember, we'd love to talk about it in the comments section below.

Chapter 5 is coming on another Saturday!