Bichara's Heart: Chapter 3

Waking up was slow and languid for Bichara the next morning. She knew exactly when she’d woken, exactly when she became aware of reality, but she didn’t open her eyes until several minutes after.

Even then, she did it slowly, cooing as she stretched her arms.

She heard his voice in whispers at first, then she opened her eyes to his calm pacing before the bed, his phone to his ear, one hand shoved down his kaftan pocket. She could almost believe he’d been on his phone the entire night.

Rahman was a tall, well-built man. She remembered the first time she saw him, overwhelmed by his physical perfection as she was. She didn’t know him at the time. She’d been at her Aunt's children's shelter close to the Nigerian border. Her Aunt Fatime, the only family she had. She used to volunteer at her centre every weekend—and some weekdays after her classes at the local college—to read to the children, some displaced from the Boko Haram attacks in Borno, giving them soup. Aunt Fatime had been talking with someone from RuBel for months, to include the shelter as one of the small organizations supported under their CSR.

They responded one week, and Rahman had chosen to visit the shelter in person and hold a press conference. She remembered the day Aunt Fatime received the news by physical mail. The home was animated with everyone’s shock and joy. Then the day came and it became apparent the whole thing was just a minute part of one big publicity strategy to cement Rahman's succession after his father died. She’d read about him and his family online.

Bichara had thought it was pathetic to do something great for all the wrong reasons, and she’d said as much to him on a rare bout of confidence fueled by her genuine distress. He surprised her by listening, agreeing, and expressed his own displeasure at the whole affair. She soon found out he was a very surprising person. In truth, she still could never predict what he was about.

“What do you mean it can’t? Why are you there?!”

She cringed as his voice increased in decibels. He had a quick temper. She hadn’t known that until the day after their wedding, the morning after the best night of her life. She didn’t want to remember that particular morning because it was by no means a sign of how their wedding vacation went on to be. Those two months were still the best days of her life…with the man she loved. Her perfect-looking, flawed man.

“Just move that through the Abuja office from now on, kun ji…? Yes, call him.” He cut the line and turned to her, calming himself before speaking. “You’re awake,” he mumbled, his face still contorted in anger, his head still faraway. She smiled a little.

“I need to tell you something,” she whispered, sitting up. He moved to her as soon as she’d finished, pushing throw pillows between her and the headboard to support her back. He stroked her face, his palm lingering for a while, his forehead creased as he concentrated on her. “Are you going to listen?” She looked up, meeting his eyes. The crease relaxed, and he dropped his hand, shoving them into his pockets again. She assessed him. He was fully dressed in a pristine white kaftan and pants, both snug to his beautiful body. He was about ready to leave for the office. The grandfather clock at one corner of the room said it was just after seven a.m.

“What is it?” He was getting impatient.

“We have a new gardener,” she said, losing her nerves. His blank expression said he found that little information insignificant, and he probably wasn’t even aware of the development. She looked down at her fingers twisting the sheets. “He has…some other artistic…skills…and I want to fund his work…, I would like to.” She glanced at him, scanning his face for any reaction.

She seemed excited about doing this. Who was this new gardener? His wife was a bleeding heart, and with her new status as his, she was susceptible to opportunists. He wanted to investigate the person, but he simply didn’t have the time to just then. Still, he’d get to the bottom of the situation.

“I’ll see to it,” he said, already walking away from her side of the large bed.

He didn’t ask for any details, the gardener’s name at least. He didn’t seem the least bit interested.

“I’d like to do this…myself.” He turned to her again. His phone started buzzing, but he ignored it.

“Why? He must be a leech.” Her cheeks warmed in anger at his uninformed statement.

“You have no right to judge someone whose name you don’t even know,” she said and flung her legs over the side of the bed, her thick long dark hair flying all over the place as she moved.

She was attractive to him when she was upset, she acquired an exciting energy she lacked when she was her default shy self. When he first met her, she’d been very angry with him…and he loved the associating passion with which she spoke to him, her dark eyes sparkling, it woke something within him he’d never understood. When he got to know her more, and discovered a simple, guileless soul, he was in awe. She was an enigma, what he needed in his life. He smiled.

“My wife, the patron saint of the helpless. Go ahead and do what you want… I suppose we have nothing to lose.” He turned away from her, lifting his phone from his pocket as he moved, and this time, she let him leave. “I’m flying to Abuja this afternoon, but I will be back today. I’ll send your breakfast up.” He spoke as he walked through the archway that led to their room’s living area, not bothering even a backward glance at her. She heard him open and shut the main door leading in and out of their private rooms, leaving it too quiet for her sanity.

Why did talking to him feel like discussing business deals? Her husband treated her like one of his work colleagues. He was lacking an important emotional chip. The intimacy between them was gone too. Just out of the blues, like it never existed.

She let out a heavy breath, trying not to worry too much. He was under a lot of pressure, the company needed to be stabilized after a few major setbacks. He’ll fix it, and the strain on their young marriage will pass. She tried to convince herself. She had to. The other option was giving up, allowing their fragile union to break, allowing her child to be born into a broken family, and allowing her heart to be severed…because she loved Rahman. Even when he was as he was now, in Mr. Hyde mode. She loved him.

By mid-afternoon, she was strolling through the vast gardens again, taking in the bright Mediterranean sun from underneath her big floppy sun hat. It was the only escape she could manage without hassle; Rahman was big on security. Open air greenery reminded her of happy, simpler times, living with her grandfather on his yam farm. She missed Chad sometimes, other times she was glad she found a way out of there. She had mostly bad memories from home.

She glanced toward the stables, remembering her encounter with the mysterious John yesterday. He hadn’t sent her his work. Maybe he hadn’t had the chance to compile or type them out yet. She was so eager to see his writing, to read something fresh, something only she had read. She was eager to help him. She knew now she’d help him even if the poem ended up being a fluke and the rest of his work was basic, or downright awful. She also knew, somehow, that wouldn’t be the case.

Strands of sweat rolled down her back even though she was wearing an extra-light boubou, and decided she might head to the pool soon. If she was being honest, she wasn't getting used to the Sokoto sun’s schedule at all. She shouldn’t even be taking walks in that weather.

“Bichara.” She heard the confident voice and wasn’t too surprised to turn and see it was the unlikely gardener calling her.

John. He seemed to have accepted their first-name-basis situation. No other staff would accept to call her by name if she begged them till the end of this world.

What do you think of how Bichara and Rahman met? Tell us in the comments below. Of course, that is not the full story of the beginning of their relationship.

Chapter 4 will be posted, you guessed it! Next Saturday.

Bichara's Heart: Chapter 2

Isha was Bichara’s nanny, but her husband liked to refer to her as her secretary. She was a multilingual nurse with special administrative skills—rich people and their strange needs. She was one of those rich people now, she had to remind herself. Although, it was all Rahman’s money. Rahman and his formidable family.

“I’m so tired, and my legs…” She leaned against a tall polished stool with a large china urn on top, in the back lobby of her home. The plain-faced woman, about a decade older than her, walked straight toward Bichara, and tugged her forward with her hand were John’s was, toward the main hall. A maid passed by and the secretary ordered a basin of warm water as she led her madam to a private sitting room. “I think I should go to bed,” Bichara said in protest. Isha was great at French too. Part of her job was to teach her her husband's languages.

“You need to sit first, Mrs. Bello,” Isha said, leading her to one large armchair, and helping her onto it. “In an hour, you can lay down, and then you sleep.” She couldn’t argue with that order.

Constant exhaustion was just one of the symptoms she’d been suffering since the beginning of her second trimester. Her morning sickness never stopped, it seemed to be getting worse. She was bloating, and self-conscious about being naked in front of her husband. Worse still, the life in her tummy was extra active, and at all times of the day. It never slept. Was this a preview of what was to be expected when it came into the world? It was going to be a big baby, that much was obvious.

She didn’t know when she slept off after Isha carried the basin of tepid water back to the kitchen following a long soak, but as she opened her eyes, she knew she’d been sleeping for a long time.

She sensed a presence behind her and turned.

“Kun farka. Did you sleep well?” Rahman was standing at the arched doorway, his voice quiet. She tried to stifle a yawn but didn’t succeed. “I told them not to wake you.” She stretched out a bit, glancing away from him, surprised he was home. His work schedule was very irregular, and when he was home, she wasn’t sure what mood he was in.

“Yes…when did you…?” They always spoke French when it was just the two of them.

“About an hour ago,” he said, shoving his hands into his pants' pockets. He walked out of the airy room without further comment, and she rested back into the chair, letting out a deep calming breath, closing her eyes.

She felt the baby move and remembered a time when she was excited to feel its kick. Now, she was just tired and desperate for a restful sleep at night. She stood to her feet wondering if Rahman would want to feel their baby’s movement. She walked through the same path he’d just taken, up to their rooms. She found him sitting on the bed, his trusty smart phone in hand. He’d already taken off most of his clothes, left with his briefs on.

“The baby just kicked,” she mumbled just loud enough to carry to his side of the room, as she walked in through the archway.

“Good,” he grunted out in English, not shifting his attention even for a second from his phone. “That's good,” he muttered in Hausa, absentminded. He looked strained as he pressed away on his mobile’s touch screen, all but ignoring her.

She sighed, walked in fully, making a bee line for their bathroom.

She would ask about his work, if the company was doing well, but she’d been rebuffed on so many occasions for her to get the message—things were rocky on that front, and he was touchy about it. He was so obsessed with maintaining his father’s legacy, even building a greater one for himself, and for some reason, he’d been receiving a lot more opposition to his success than he’d anticipated. Even she was surprised at how much fire he was under from all sides. She didn’t know enough about the business world, but she was sure there was some kind of vendetta against him, a backlash of some dealings his father was involved in before he died. She didn’t know for sure because Rahman never talked about it to her. She’d had to get most of her information off the internet, it was embarrassing.

She returned after a long warm bath, to find him in the same position she left him several minutes ago. This time, on a call—a loud conversation in sharp Hausa. She couldn’t understand anything he was saying, more because he was talking so fast she found it hard to pick the words out than anything else. He was always so tense and involved, she wished she knew some way of relieving his stress when he was here at least. He didn’t give her any opportunities…and frankly, she was scared of him when he was that way. She didn’t know him as much as she wished she did.

Rahman Bello, at thirty-eight, was at the helm of affairs of the RuBel Conglomerate created by his cattle herder grandfather, and expanded by his industrialist father whose unexpected death two years ago left Rahman in control of his 61% of the company. Now, he struggled to manage a strange friction with the Rufai family—the second half of the partnership—headed by his father’s childhood friend. Aliu Bello had called Muhammed Rufai into the business when he needed extra resources to expand beyond West Africa. Muhammed's son, Ahmad, bore a deep personal grudge with Rahman and had decided to take it out on the company at its peak, and Rahman had a feeling Muhammed was more involved in his son’s actions than he let on.

Rahman's struggles were beyond that though; the stocks were responding negatively to the uncertainty of a shift in company leadership to an inheritor rather than the next in corporate hierarchy. Investors were dancing to the tune of the stocks of course, and everything seemed to be on standstill. Except for the bills. Those were running into hundreds of millions of naira by the day, cutting deep into company coffers.

Running a company was hard work, running a multinational was a whole different matter. He knew that, everyone knew that. But not his family. His step mother took her monthly allowances, and then some, caring less how it was coming in, her children were no better. RuBel was not in trouble, far from it, but he had to get these first few years right if he was to keep it that way. The market, investors, shareholders, had to be convinced he knew what he was doing. He had to make the right commercial decisions at every turn, he couldn’t make any mistakes. They had to respect him, fear him, and he was going to make that happen. His father had taught him that.

He sat there now, on his bed, talking with his men at the field, the men in charge of the shipping ports in Lagos, discussing last quarter’s figures which had dropped since the quarter before, marginally, but even so, he wanted to know why. He wanted to discuss cargo details now, so he could have his assistant rearrange his agenda for tomorrow so he could have a video conference with the financial directors.

He almost forgot his wife was there in their room with him until he felt the bed move under him, felt her struggle to get under the covers, his beautiful, pliant, foreign wife. He turned around to find her back to him and the comforter covering her entire body, and sighed. She was always tired these days. If only he had the luxury to sleep whenever he wanted. He went back to his phone, sending emails.

Minutes later, he stood to call for his dinner to be brought up, and stepped into the bathroom for a long, deserved shower.

So you've met Rahman. How intimidating is he, or is Bichara overreacting? What do you think of their relationship? Is Rahman being unnecessarily distant considering all he has to deal with? Should Bichara be more vocal? Tell us in the comments below. We'd love to talk about it.

Chapter 3 will be posted next Saturday...

Bichara's Heart: Chapter 1

The golden Sahel, a sub-saharan palace, her fairytale storybook home was a vast estate of villa, garden, desert, lake, mosque, ranch, stable and farm, vineyard and orchard; a reflection of the Caliphate of old, ancient folklore, a sharp contrast to the unassuming Chadian life she was raised in. Rima Villa. Her home. Her new home. Hers by marriage. Yet she couldn’t explore the entire perimeter at a go, nor was she at home in it.

Marriage was the most complex of human pursuits. Every day, a new battle. Every day, she had to decide if it was worth fighting for. And she’d been married just under a year. She touched her large protruding belly, stroking it through her floral cotton sundress.

Bichara Bello was six-months pregnant. Maybe the raging hormones everyone talked about were to blame for her feelings, she hoped it was just that. As she walked, she was oblivious of her surroundings yet conscious of the little things. The wet velvety grass-leaves beneath her bare feet. The light arid air breezing around her every so often. It was too late in the afternoon for the bright sunshine. She was only getting used to the Sokoto sun’s schedule.

She reached a garden bench under a shade overlooking the stables just as the incessant back ache became too hard to ignore. There wasn’t much life around her except a few staff rounding up for the day.

“Ina kwana, madam!”

Her Hausa was still wishy washy but she understood that simple greeting. She wasn’t one of those fast language learners she wished she was. Not knowing enough of her husband’s language left her feeling handicapped where he was fluent in hers.

“Ina kwana ehn...yaya kake?” She said to the stable boys who had one after the other offered a greeting, and lowered herself onto the hardwood bench. Her eyes caught the sheets of paper abandoned beside her, a small rock holding them down. She put the rock aside and snatched them up without thinking, reading the handwritten words before she could caution herself. They could’ve been private.

It was a poem. A good one. She should know, she’d spent most of her life reading.

She was still wondering who could’ve left such a valuable piece behind when a shadow fell over her.

“Good afternoon, Missus Bello.” The soft voice was male, and it didn’t sound Hausa. The face she looked up to wasn’t a familiar one either. She couldn’t boast she knew everyone who worked on her husband’s estate by name, but at the very least, she remembered the faces. She was confident she’d never seen this one before. She would’ve remembered; those eyes were the purest and lightest brown.

“Mrs Bello?” and she realized she hadn’t answered him.

“Ah… Bichara. S’il te plait.” She shifted her gaze away from his face, down to her laps, considering the cord lace trimmings of her long dress. She wished Nigerians weren’t so big on formalities.

“Pardon?”

“Bichara…, not that Mrs. Bello rubbish,” she said, feeling more than a little bit self-conscious. She was most conscious when she had to speak English. It was either that or Arabic here and she was terrible at both. Hausa was out of the question. A big smile spread across his face as she looked up again, giving the impression that he meant to laugh.

“Well Bichara, I’m John, your new gardener.” As an afterthought, he added “…well a new member of your gardening army.” He did a visual sweep of the vast grounds before his eyes rested on her again. She wished they hadn’t; she couldn’t hold them, her impulsive shyness.

“John? You’re not Hau…”

“I’m Fulani, but only half so… I’ve lived with my Sudanese mother most of my life and alone in Kano the remainder of the time.” She nodded, her gaze returning to the poem in her hand. John was her grandfather’s name. “I see you have my writing.”

“It(sic) yours?” She glanced at him once more.

He nodded. “It wasn’t exactly ready for public consumption.” Her brows furrowed, struggling to understand his words. “Oh…You only speak French?” He said in fluent French that reminded her of her husband. Her lips formed a tiny smile, a little embarrassed. She should’ve paid more attention to English in uni.

“I’m trying to learn…English and Hausa,” she replied in French, a weight coming off her. She looked at the papers in her hand again and realized the words were French. That’s why she could read them right away.

“I wasn’t ready for anyone to read this,” he murmured. His French was a little accented but it was perfect.

“Really? This is good…very good. You’re a writer?”

“Me? No no no!” He scoffed. “I just maybe…muse on paper some times.”

He snatched the paper from her hand. Caught off guard, she lowered her hand to her belly. Her back ache had disappeared.

“Well, I think it’s good enough to sell…or publish.” A big yawn escaped her lips as she spoke. She’d lost track of time, walking the estate. She was so exhausted she could fall asleep right there on the bench.

“Let me walk you back to the house?”

“Please.” She held onto his outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet. They walked with slow steps, his hand at the small of her back. He was a lot more presumptuous than most of the workers were, than he should be, than she should allow him to be, but she couldn’t help the strange comfort from the minuscule show of unpretentious care. She couldn’t let herself think about the source of her neediness.

“I’ve thought about it…selling this stuff.”

“And?” They were halfway across the field separating the stables from the house, and she couldn’t wait to collapse in bed. Was it normal to be so tired? She was going to soak her feet in salts the moment she reached the house.

“It’s impossible, here in the North, without a sponsor.” She turned her face to look at him, to find him staring straight ahead as they walked. His hand had left her back and she could breathe freely again.

“Why is that?” She said, and he turned to her at that moment, making her wish she hadn’t been staring at his profile. He chuckled. Was her question amusing?

“Well, I don’t know exactly. There’s not much money in our economy right now to be thrown around, I suppose,” He said in an offhand manner that reminded Bichara of her husband when he wanted to evade questioning, and an idea came to her.

“You have more of these poems?”

“Yes?” Where was she going with this? “…and some short stories.” She smiled up at him.

“Ok. Send a typed compilation to me as soon as you can… I’m willing to consider sponsoring you.”

“Hardcopy? I could email you the…”

“I prefer to read physical print…” She was surprised he wasn’t more excited she’d just offered to publish him. She was surprised at herself for offering out-of-nowhere. He seemed to have taken it in his stride. How could someone so talented be so complacent about such an opportunity? “When you’re ready, give it to Mrs. Ali…the housekeeper?”

She was doing it more for herself than for him. She’d always loved the idea of sponsoring art. She’d never had any real talent, or skill, beyond teaching and caring for children, so she was perpetually amazed when she met people who had one. She’d never even dreamed of an extravagant life in her future, the one she was now living. All she’d wanted was to teach at a good children’s school for as long as she was able to, then use whatever savings she had in retirement to tour the rest of Africa, and…well, she hadn’t thought much beyond that. She hadn’t even thought about marriage, or a family…until he’d proposed, her husband.

“Thank you, Bichara.” His belated reply surprised her, hearing her name from his lips even though she’d given him permission.

“Don’t thank me yet. I still need to read your work.”

“Well…thank you for giving it a chance then. That’s more than I’ve gotten from most people.”

They reached the patio, and John came to a halt just as the cobblestones met the pavement. She stepped onto it and turned to him, assessing his appearance closely. He looked a lot less muscular for a grounds man. The gardening overall seemed out of place on his lightweight body. He was probably gardening due to some unseen circumstance. Since she had the means to help him, she decided she should.

“You’re welcome. Thank you too…for helping me here.” She smiled and turned away from him, not waiting to hear anything else. She had to find Isha at once. As she entered the villa through its rear glass doors, she saw the exact person she wanted to see.

What do you think of Bichara? Is she too trusting? Isn't John a little too presumptuous? What do you think of the language barrier situation? Tell us in the comments below. We'd love to talk about it.

Chapter 2 will be posted next Saturday...