Stone and the Three Kings: Part 2

But there was nothing. Only people going about their day, and a lone firefly buzzing about my field of vision.

“What’s wrong?” Sandra asked. She was concerned.

“Nothing,” I said, quickly relaxing myself so she would relax. The firefly buzzed around my face, so I swatted it away. “Let’s just go.”

While this wasn’t my first time being followed by something I couldn’t see following me, it was the first time it was happening with someone who didn’t know my secret. You can understand the intense pressure I was under - assuming you’re the kind of person who should be reading this. If not, I recommend you give this to your local akara or suya dealer; they’ll know what to do.

“You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” Sandra asked for what was probably the third time. At this point, we had turned into her street; deathly quiet in contrast to the bright boisterousness of the main road.

“Wrong?” I asked, looking behind me. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“I wonder for you, na,” she complained. “You keep looking back at every little sound. Are you expecting us to be robbed?”

I scoffed. “Of course not.” I was expecting us to be murdered in cold blood on this quiet, lonely street. My head and body taken as a trophy for the powers that be, her corpse left to rot as a warning to my friends. I felt no need to tell her that, of course.

Her house was farther down the street, and I was counting the seconds until we got there. My fear of my father was no longer driving me – although it was still at the back of my mind. The world was deathly quiet, and the night was pitch black, save for some lights in some houses. My sword continued to shiver in my bag, and I shivered along with it. Sandra shivered as well.

“Chai,” she whispered, hugging herself. “How did it get so cold suddenly?”

I made an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “Climate change, I guess.”

She laughed. I laughed too. My sword shook violently.

I gave a little backwards glance, but I saw no one behind us, save for a sliver of light buzzing about my face. Another firefly. I swatted it away, irritated.

There was a loud, derisive snort to my side. “You are jumpy tonight, aren’t you?” Sandra said.

I chuckled. “Streets are rough,” I said sheepishly.

“Not these streets…oww!” Sandra winced and slapped her neck. The firefly escaped, disappearing into the darkness.

“Sorry, eh,” I said. “Does it hurt?”

“It does.” Sandra moaned, rubbing the sore spot. She groaned and hissed. “I didn’t even know fireflies bit people.”

She collapsed faster than I could say, “They don’t.”

A movement to my left (I was now facing Sandra, who was unconscious on the road) drew my attention. A figure stood shrouded in the darkness. He looked like a regular human (who was naked or in skin tight clothing), but my instincts told me it wasn’t. I reached into my bag and pulled out my sword, holding it ready for the attack.

The world stood still, or at least, we did. The figure was unmoving in the darkness, and I was not going to move away from Sandra. The sword shook in my hand, but not from its power. I didn’t know what that thing was, and I had a policy against fighting things when I didn’t know how they could kill me. It’s a sage policy I wish more people would adopt.

After some time passed, I decided I would be proactive.

“What are you?!” I asked, putting down my sword. (What did you expect? I’d actually attack that thing? In the night? With no backup? Like an idiot?)

The thing said nothing, so I repeated the question, this time in the sacred tongue. It was still silent.

“Do you know who I am?” I cried. “I am Obagbagbare, the son of Obajobalai. How dare you stay silent when I command you?!” (Be not fooled by the authority in my words, I could not back them up. As I said before, my father wants me dead. Disowning me was no problem for him).

The figure moved. It put its hands to its stomach and made an odd, guttural, otherworldly sound that caught me off guard, so much so that I moved forward a step. It took me a while to realize it was laughter.

“You? The son of what? The son of who?” The thing said when it was done holding its sides. It spat before continuing. “Let me warn you: don’t you ever call my master’s name in vain again! Ever!”

“My father sent you?” I was not surprised, of course. “Then, why do you stand in the shadows like a coward. If you’re truly a son of spirits and not of man, come and fight me!" (What I’d meant to say was, 'Okay, how about you come over here and we can discuss this as rational individuals without resorting to violence,' but I guess I misplaced a few words here and there. The sacred tongue is complicated like that. We’ll let it be what it is.)

The thing laughed again. “And why would I fight an insect such as you?”

“You said my father sent you after me? I didn’t think he rewarded failure.”

“True. Your father does punish the failure of his own,” the figure replied. “But your father didn’t send me to kill you. Only to disgrace you.”

Disgrace me? That didn’t sound like old man Lai at all. Maybe he’s losing his touch. And disgrace me how? I asked the last question aloud. He replied with laughter that rattled my brain.

“They told me you were ignorant. But don’t worry. My work is already done.” He didn’t give me a chance to reel from being called ignorant (spirits put so much pressure on me for not knowing all the nuances of their world in the little time I’ve known of its existence. They’re like parents in a way) before continuing. “But if you insist on doing battle with your better, who am I to deny you your doom.”

The figure let out a quick laugh and bolted towards me at top speed. And this wasn’t human top speed. This was the top speed of the spirits, meaning he was upon me faster than I could cry “Arggh!”

“Arggh!” I cried. I shut my eyes and swung my sword blindly.

My sword exploded with a light so bright that it pierced through my eyelids. That’s how I knew I managed to hit it. (Fun fact: My sword is made from a steel sharper than steel, and can cut through reality like tissue paper).

I opened my eyes, and focused through the now dimming light. What I saw…would have horrified me months ago. At that point, I’d seen worse.

The thing looked pretty close to human, even with the four eyes and fangs sticking out its mouth. Its skin was golden brown, and it seemed to reflect the light from my sword. It was naked, and I saw a huge gash on its bare chest. Golden light, not blood, poured out of the wound, evaporating as it touched air.

The only thing I could note as odd was the smile on its face. Is it…happy? Proud, even? I told myself it was a trick of the light, but that was an obvious lie.

“And if you’re satisfied now, my prince,” it said, a mocking emphasis on the words 'prince' and 'satisfied'. “My work here is done.” And then, it vanished with the light into thin air, leaving me alone in darkness with my confusion...and Sandra.

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

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.

One Eighty: Part 3

Day One of One Eighty

I try to remind myself that my heart will grow fonder with his absence

An hour later and I am still on the rock-hard bed rolling around

Why don't I have the will to do anything

I move slowly to sit up pushing my legs down the side of the bed facing our one large window

I stare out to the long stretch of green that's dull in comparison with the first day I saw it

Little animals roam free all around the field and I cannot help feeling imprisoned

Suffocating in my self-made prison

I shiver

I am alone again

This time I truly am alone

We came to the village to be alone together

Now I am alone alone

I wince

Chance walks past the window, heavy looking logs of wood in hand

I hear the soft creak of footsteps on our loose front stairs

I hear him enter through our front door

We had just finished erecting our cabin house

We needed logs for the fireplace because it felt like winter was here

It felt like snow was supposed to be falling already

We had finished our home just in time

Or we would have needed to lodge at an inn we didn't have money for

The location was perfect

It allowed us the illusion of being apart from the world

It was what we needed

We were young

We were in love

He sat next to me on the bed and pulled me to his lap

He rested his forehead to mine and we stared into each other's eyes for a long time as the heat of the fire he had just stoked in the fireplace and in my heart enveloped us

And then he proceeded to tell me why I am the one

I am different from him

In culture and thinking

He will never understand how and why I think and act the way I do

And so it's going to be a great adventure spending his entire life trying to understand me, he said

In looks

He is so white and I am so dark

My tough and curly hair that never obeys

My dark eyes the shape of almonds that remind him of hot cocoa

My pudgy nose he loves to pull

My soft, swollen lips are too kissable and reminds him of honey or caramel

My round stubborn chin

My fresh ebony skin that makes him think of melted chocolate.

There was a time blurred up in my past, I used to think myself ugly in the face of those pale faced golden girls in school

But I can't even remember why I would think that

In truth, there weren't many people who looked like me

I am special!

The way you carry yourself, he continued

Like you were worshipped in your past life

Like you have everything under control

Like you don't need any protection

My queen

I looked into his soft hazel eyes that looked grey from a distance

Or under the sun

Hot breathe from his nose fanned my face

You are mine, I said to him

I chose him again as he chose me

The window blurs out of view and I realize I am crying

My eyes burn and I shut it tightly

I don't understand myself anymore

This is ridiculous

Teardrops fall to my fat thighs

And I feel insecure again

Am I fat again?

Am I ugly again?

I look vaguely toward the dresser mirror but I don't move to stand before it

I can't

If I look, I will become that girl again

I look at my stubby dark hands, my dark skin

Ebony, he called it

Chance's are as pale as milk

We really are different

Day Fifteen of One Eighty

I make it my mission to be up and out of the house by dawn

The house is a trap

A house of mirrors haunted with too many shadows

Nights have become torturous

I haven't had a wink of sleep in perhaps a week

I am barely conscious

Barely sane.

Art is the only answer

Yet all I paint is doom

I look at today's creation half smeared with my tears

There is fire in the sky and a body lies on the floor in the midst of several people running around in obvious panic

The body is intricately detailed, two bullets to the head.

But it has no face

In fact none of the people have faces

My tears have smeared them all out

Suddenly, there are shadows hanging over my paper

Dark inverted figures, getting bigger and bigger

I look up to see heavily suited men approach me

I take a few minutes to look at their faces

And immediately I know why they are here

I don't know when I start to run but I see approaching landscape flash past me as I move thoughtlessly away

Far away from the evil people

I mustn't hear what they have to say

I just know I mustn't hear it

A pair of arms grab me from behind and suddenly I am back in the departmental store five years ago

When I open my eyes it is not Chance standing in front of me

I put my hands over my ear and scream loudly

I cannot hear my scream but I feel my throat aching, piercing

When I open my eyes again, I am in a strange place

At first my vision is blurred

Smeared grey and dark figures moving into each other

I hear loud voices but I cannot make out their words

I need to know where I am

Suddenly, I feel panicked, restive

I move and realize I am lying down

I attempt to lift myself but something pins me down

I shut my eyes as a series of sharp pains explode in my head

I hear myself groan

And suddenly everything goes dark, oblivion

I open my eyes

I remember the last time I opened my eyes but I don't remember anything beyond then

I stare straight ahead of me where a blurred man is standing, his back to me,

He seems to be talking to someone out of view, outside the door

As my vision comes into focus, I notice the room looks vaguely familiar

The walls are muralled with blue daisies

I blink

A lady rushes in through the door and pushes a cup with a straw sticking out of it, towards my mouth

And I realize I am, in fact, thirsty

A barrage of people breeze in as I drink the water longingly

Who are all these people?

I count eight of them

The man at the door is now facing me, he is wearing an all black ensemble, suit, shirt, tie

Angel of death

His eyes lock with mine

I look away nervously

The lady with the cup now has a hot towel over my fore head

She tucks the thick blanket over me more tightly and then I realize how cold I am

I feel like I am back from the dead

And yet I can't remember what could have happened to me

I can feel these people's stare on me, wanting to talk

Wanting to tell me some grave bad news

But the lady has given them a stern look effectively shutting them up.

And now she plants a warm, flower kiss where she the towel used to me

She whispers for me to go back to sleep

My subconscious immediately obeys her as I feel myself already drifting

I must truly be exhausted

My last vision is of the lady leading everyone out and closing the door behind her.

Part 4 is COMING SOON. What do you think of the story so far? Tell us in the comments section!