Stone and the Three Kings: Part 1

Don’t you hate it when you have to summon potentially dangerous spirits just to save your girlfriend’s life?

If you didn’t relate to the first line, then please bury this book. Or better yet, burn it.

The world isn’t ready for the secrets this journal holds. This is a short tale, but I promise it will shock you. It will mystify you. It might even horrify you!

It will cause you to question everything you’ve been told by your parents, teachers, and both religious and academic scholars!

Or it may not be your preferred reading.

It was our first official date. I say official because Sandra and I had been going out for almost four months at that point. We both have ultra-conservative parents – and my father wants to murder me. So when I finally moved out of the friend zone, it was with no real plan on how two fifteen-year-olds would maintain a relationship.

And don’t get me wrong, it’s fun to get together after school, sit together at break time, and pass the occasional badly spelled love letter across class. But then her parents signed her up for after school lessons, and we noticed that some of our classmates were intercepting the letters we were passing around (While I did appreciate the occasional punctuation check and grammar correction, it’s still impolite). We also read Romeo & Juliet in the library – or rather, the Romeo and Juliet Wikipedia page - and we decided the whole 'forbidden love' thing was overhyped.

So after much deliberation, we told our parents. And all things considered, my mother took it well. I don’t mean much better than I imagined. I mean, she was happy. Excited, even. I would have been suspicious if she didn’t already get along well with Sandra (who knew her obsession with telenovelas would actually be useful?). Of course, I never gave my mum any reason not to trust me, so all I had to do was promise not to do anything inappropriate with Sandra and we had her blessing.

Sandra’s father was the real problem.

See, Sandra’s mother was a darling. If she had any say in the matter, I doubt she would mind her daughter dating. Last last, she would prefer she start when she was older – maybe twenty-two, give or take a few years. But that was the thing, she had no say in it - or in much of anything as far as I observed.

Sandra’s dad was the absolute worst kind of person to know if you’re anything like me. An old-fashioned conservative bordering-on-fanatic Christian who treated all teenage boys the way he treated devil-worshippers and third-wave feminists, keeping them as far away from his daughter as possible.

He didn’t like it when boys sat close to his daughter in church. He frequently complained that Sandra had too many male friends in school (three to be precise). And he despised me. Apparently, he didn’t like that I called myself Stone (as opposed to my original name, Livingstone, which you should never address or even think of me by). He considered it a sign that I was disrespectful and not raised properly. To say I was offended on behalf of my mother was an understatement. Being a single mother isn’t easy; especially when your husband continually schemed to murder both you and your son.

I was against telling him from the beginning. I thought it was a bad idea, but she convinced me.

“The worst thing he can do is say no,” she said.

She was wrong. He set his dogs on me.

“You were lucky,” Sandra told me at the ticket line. “He was in a good mood.”

“Hmm,” I said, trying not to breath in. The fat man standing in front of me just farted. “How are Rory and Bolt, by the way? I didn’t see them when I came over.”

“Oh, they’re dead,” Sandra said, her voice turning grim. “I think they had ticks or something…”

It was a Saturday, so predictably, the cinema was filled with people. This meant the counters were packed to the brim with lines of people who had nothing better to do on a late weekend afternoon than watch the latest superhero flick or animated film. And I, a near omnipotent being with powers and responsibilities well beyond the comprehension of the regular thirteen-year-old, also had nothing better to do, and neither did my now official girlfriend (We’d planned to go to the arcade just across from the cinema, but apparently it had closed down to accommodate a Dominos branch, and we were just… It wasn’t worth it).

But I digress – I do that a lot, try to get used to it. I’m actually digressing a bit right now, as the story doesn’t really begin in the cinema, but in the street hours later. But I think all of this information is important to provide some kind of context (maybe it isn’t a diversion after all?)

Sandra and I stood in line, about five people away from the counter. She’d buried herself in the cinema’s film guide while I watched the people at the front of the line decide whether to take their hot dog with mustard or ketchup, trying to fathom how people eat non-popcorn foods during a movie. I made cursory glances at my watch in the midst of those philosophical musings.

“Is it that hard to pick a film?!” I asked when I noticed it was already five minutes past three. “Just pick a film so we can watch na!”

Sandra looked up from the film guide, giving me the look of disdain she tailored specifically for me. “I’m sorry, my accurate time keeper, I didn’t know we were rushing anywhere.” She glanced at the front of the line.

They had decided on both condiments, and were currently stuck between 7up and Mountain Dew. I immediately came up with a comeback, but she kept talking, making sure it never saw the light of day.

“Any way, I think we should watch the new Quentin movie.” She moved in closer to me, holding up the guide so we could both look. I was a bit distracted by her hair though, which brushed against my face – with how smooth it was. How she could get her hair so smooth and sweet smelling? Her father definitely didn’t buy her any hair products, and I wasn’t sure her mom bought anything without patriarchal permission. “See?” She pointed to the third movie on the roster. “There’s a screening in twenty minutes. And its Quentin, so it’ll definitely be good.”

I had to admit she had brought forward some very good points, but there was a problem. “It’s three hours na.” I said, shaking my head.

“So?”

“Your dad said you should be home by six.” After some masterful negotiation by me, I was able to talk him down from his original one p.m., which would have required time manipulation abilities I had yet to master.

“So?” she asked again, oblivious of my worries. I must have made a weird face, because she started to laugh. “Stone, stop worrying. They always go to service by five on Saturday.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“How do you not know?” she asked, an eyebrow raised. “Your own mother goes.”

I nearly hit myself in the head. Sandra shook her head and laughed.

“Anyway, they won’t be back till eight,” she said. “We have lots of time.”

I didn’t share her confidence, nor did I want to push my luck. “Sorry, Sandra. I don’t share your confidence, and I don’t want to push my luck.”

Sandra’s brow creased, and she raised her eyebrow again. She was no longer smiling, but I could tell she was still amused. “You are really afraid of my father, aren’t you?”

I thought back to an hour earlier when I sat in Sandra’s living room while she got ready. Alone with her father, who sat in an arm chair adjacent to the couch I was on. He explained to me with his mouth that he wanted his daughter home as early as possible, safe and sound; and with his eyes that he hated me and would do anything human and divine to make sure I wouldn’t so much as cross her mind without being run over by his heavy-duty truck of overprotectiveness. Anytime I assured him she would be fine with me, he glared at me like I confessed to spitting on the cross for a living.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” I said. Sandra hissed and checked the guide again.

“Stone, the movie starts at quarter to three.” She said, her tone a bit too patronizing. “It’s like two hours, forty minutes. It’s not even up to three hours. There’s no how we won’t be home by six.”

I sighed and conceded. A few minutes later, we bought our tickets and snacks, and were on our way to the screening room.

Four hours later, Sandra and I stepped out of the movie theatre, both at a loss as to how the cinema could not have a generator in place for an hour long power outage. Sandra recounted the entire thing like a funny anecdote. You could say I was thinking ahead. It was six thirty, and while Sandra was still confident her folks were still in service, I didn’t like our odds.

“Oh, Stone?” Sandra whined. “You’re no fun when you’re like this.”

“Well, I’m sorry…,” I said, sarcastically. “…but I’d feel much more comfortable if we were both home…” I checked my watch. “…thirty…four minutes ago.”

Sandra rolled her eyes and hissed. “Daddy would have called if he was home. If we leave now, we’ll be home in ten minutes.”

“You never know how extraordinarily plans can go wrong,” I said, as we left the mall. In hindsight, I was probably the one who’d jinxed it.

The second we walked into the street, I knew we were being followed. I turned, my eyes darting around. My sword – which I carried in my school bag at all times – started to tingle, further warning me of the danger.

I'll try to make this as brief as possible.

My name is Stone, my father wants to kill me, and an evil spirit has frozen my girlfriend.

I am dead serious.

I am not a regular teenager, and it was pretending to be one that got me into this mess.

Now, I have to enter the realm of dangerous and unpredictable spirits to fix my mess.

Will I succeed? I won't bet on it.

Part Two is Coming Soon. Tell us what you think of this story so far, in the comments section!

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...