One Eighty: Part 2

Utopia

It has been a thousand years since the Great War

A thousand years of perfect peace and harmony

A thousand years since the only world we know was physically separated from the ‘outside’

The outside never recovered from the Great War

Thousands of smaller wars have erupted since then

They say a lot of things, the scholars, historians, keepers of the past,

They say we, Utopians, have been fortunate

That it’s not humanly possible for so many different looking and thinking people, black, white, red, to live so peacefully together in an enclosed world

They say our world is too good to be true

They say our world is not real

They come from the outside and they distort everything we know, we believe

They say a war is coming

Either from the outside or within ourselves

They say human nature would corrupt Utopia just as it has corrupted the rest of the world

I don’t know if they are right and I don’t want to think about it, about discord

But it was all Chance could think about

He needed to do something about it

If Utopia had to be involved in the war then he would play his part

Last week, Chance volunteered to serve in the Utopian Peacekeepers Delegation

A division conceived by the council to keep the crisis out of Utopia

He received his conscription almost immediately

Yesterday, he followed his fellow recruits and new superiors aboard a frightfully large jet

I think at that moment he had never looked happier

It was impossible for him to hide his teeth as he moved excitedly with palpable energy

Completely oblivious to my pain

He seemed so happy to leave me

I had never felt heavier seeing him completely overcome with glee

He would be gone six months

One eighty days

I was alone when I met Chance

My parents were alive and I had five siblings

But I was so alone

I was working in a departmental store when I first saw him

He was beautiful and kind looking but I decided to ignore

Five minutes later, an entire heap of canned fish was falling from underneath me and a pair of hands were pulling me out of the line of fire

I dread to imagine all those cans landing on my feet

I felt heavy breathing at the back of my neck and realized I was still held prisoner by two solid arms

I moved out of the shield of flesh so quickly that I fell to my hands and feet

Someone pulled me up again and I felt my embarrassment grow with each breath I took

I heard his voice for the first time from behind me as I moved quickly towards the storeroom

He was calling for me to hold on, to slow down

I couldn’t get out of the room quicker

God alone knew why I was behaving like a fish out of water

But for some reason I was nervous

Ok, well, I was a klutz any given day and it was completely expected for me to tip over a pile of produce

I wondered why I was weirdly shaken by that encounter

By the next week, I had forgotten about the little incident

I was sitting on a bench in the only park in the city

The only place that you could get some peace and quiet, just

It was the only one hour in the day I had to myself after office work and before house work

I was facing the clear glassy duck pond but I had my eyes on the amazingly colorful sunset

This one was special and I had to capture it on paper

The purple, yellow, blue, white and grey colors that all flowed into each other in harmony, ushering away the burnt orange sun

And then the way it all reflected in the tiny pond beneath it

Bending forward over my work, some of my thick brown hair over my face, with the quacking of ducks for background music,

I was awed by the fast strokes of my paint brush as I hurried to capture the scene perfectly

For most artists it was a slow and painstaking process

But for me it was a spiritual happening

Something took over me when I got the inspiration

At one moment, a shadow fell over my easel

I trembled slightly to see the dark silhouette on my paper

I bit my lower lip a little too hard

But I couldn’t stop painting, I couldn’t break transmission

The human outline did not shift, even slightly, it waited patiently till the end

My brush fell to the ground at the last stroke

And as I looked at the picture, I knew nothing needed to be added, it was perfect!

The sky view was in my paper.

And still the shadow hadn’t moved

And then I heard his voice

He told me what I already knew

That the painting was a miracle

I looked at him and registered the same awe I knew was written on my face too

I smiled at him

He walked me home that night because he wouldn’t hear of me walking back alone in the dark

That feels like a lifetime ago

Chance wanted to help people, to save people, to protect them

He wanted his life to have some deep meaning

He dreamed of it

At heart, he was a fighter, a defender

He loved the take-care-of role

With the talk of coming chaos in Utopia taking flight, it didn’t take long for his protect-the-people instinct to kick in

To him, he had to have an active part in the cause

That was the only way he could truly help,

Join the army

The entire idea, logic, theory made no sense to me

All of this “peacekeeping” would not bring peace!

They will not really protect the people

Utopia has never experienced war and I don’t know what it will be like but I know it would destroy everything

Sometimes, in the dead of the night, when all is silent, loud explosions could only just be heard and gentle vibrations felt from whatever ominous thing was occurring on the outside

And sometimes, I could just make out human screams

or maybe I just imagined them

I think about how life is out there, how people live there,

Why they couldn’t join us and live here where it is safe and peaceful

But now we join them in dispute and discord

Every single citizen of Utopia would be dragged into this dreadful event, consciously or unconsciously

I can feel our lives changing irrevocably

We would never know this peace again, I know

And I am afraid

Soldiers die

They are always the first to go

They fought and sacrificed their lives for the “greater good”,

For the country

For the vague nation of Utopia which somehow never really included the singular people

And after war, there is never peace, there is just destruction

I think I am a pacifist

I do not NO cannot understand why the world hasn’t learnt from the patterns of the past

And now everything I know and love has been plunged into this meaningless protracted war that might never end

Nobody remembers why it started.

As I watched the enormous craft lift into the sky, I couldn’t help feeling sick to my stomach

I could have stopped him

I knew I had the power to

I could have asked him, told him how I felt about him leaving

About the whole idea of the peace keeping mission

How all my “excitement” was fake

I could have told him

He would have changed his mind

But how could I have?

He thinks this is his destiny!

I love him and I don’t want him having regrets because of me

How could I ask him not to do this if he believed this was his life's mission?!

He might have agreed to stay because of me

But he would have grown bitter hanging around in the country when the idea of fighting for the safety of the people had already stoked a fire in him

I would be quenching that fire

And he would never thank me for it

He would eventually blame me for keeping him from what could have been

I can't handle him hating me

And he would

Not at first

It would be a slow and painful process

And I would never be able to live with myself

Still, now he's gone and I cannot imagine how I will live with myself

Last night, I couldn't sleep

The night before that, I couldn't sleep

But at least the bed was soft and warm

And our quaint, square, wood logged room was not quiet

Chance couldn't sleep too

But for a completely different reason from mine

He was bubbling with uninhibited mirth

He was sitting up on the bed, his back resting on the headboard

Outlining the itinerary for the six months he will spend with the delegation

It occurred to me that Utopia has never had an army, how can they know what they are doing?

I had not noticed that tears had started streaming unchecked down my cheeks until he asked me why I was crying

I looked at him, he was truly confused

That was my first show of anything besides happiness and approval

I didn't wipe the tears from my face, no

I let them fall freely

Because what I wanted so desperately to say, I couldn't

I stared at him and his gentle, kind eyes filled with concern for me, called out to me

I leaned up to pull his face to mine

His lips to mine

The gentle kiss was reassuring

I felt like I could absorb his strength and make it mine

We didn't talk more that night but we said everything we needed to say to each other

And the next morning I escorted him to his fate

Watch out for Part 3 next Sunday.

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...

The Ivory Rules: Excerpt 1

2008

RULE ONE

Family is the original secret society

Tell anyone and die

The bystander

March

Saluchi Itamuno was in the middle of it. In the middle of her parents’ cocktail hall. In the middle of the gathering of Lagos society all dressed in their Sunday best to eat and drink in her parents’ Ikoyi home. She drifted around the room, past ivory paneling, and chattering people. The soles of her nude Saint Laurent Bianca shoes touched subtle waterjet patterns on the marble floor, heading in no particular direction, ignoring the conversation around her, and the music, some new singer doing her best Fela impression.

All day yesterday, her mother had overseen the decorating to make sure it was done to her grandmother’s tastes. Lilies, peonies, and hydrangeas on every surface, filtered through the room to clash with the spicy food. Ivory, navy, wine and sky streamers, hung down light holders and Doric pillars. Ivory blackout curtains hid the daylight, chandeliers hid the difference.

The walls had carvings of the family shield and tribal soldiers. Gilded statues stood around the open space, eleven of them, her mother hated those. Saluchi scrunched her face at the strange figures, agreeing with her. They were a little tacky.

The ceiling was high above them all, a giant dome with a giant chandelier right in the middle. It dropped, plummeting, rattling its noisy chains and bulbs. She jerked her head up to watch it evaporate right over her, letting out a sharp breath. She always saw the particular chandelier crashing down on her.

Something about white walls reminded Saluchi of home. But when she opened her eyes for the first time that morning, the walls weren’t white. It was a normal day—once she ignored the things that weren’t normal about it—the last day of March, a cloudy Sunday. They were at the Lugard house. Her whole family was present at the same time—rare—and they were hosting the Lagos Brunch for the first time since she was six.

Her brother, TJ, stood with his friends by the buffet table across the room. She couldn’t spot the rest of her family in the almost crowded space, but she knew they were there, and their distant presence tethered her. She wanted to leave, to walk down the street till she reached Alfred Rewane, the wind in her face. Maybe she would run, so the wind could hit her hard, make her struggle to breathe.

Her own friends surrounded her, giggling, sipping apple juice when they’d rather have cocktails, talking about how nice her taffeta dress and platinum jewelry were when she wasn’t better dressed than any of them. But it was Sunday brunch, and she’d dressed better than usual. Last night, at the Governor’s daughter’s wedding dinner, she’d worn a denim dress and slip-ons. She hated drawing attention to herself. Her tangerine skin sought enough of it.

Ikena walked to her from across the room. They’d been together a month. She forced the widest smile. He reached her, took her hand in his, and leaned close to whisper in her ear. He didn’t need to. The playing jazz wasn’t loud enough to drown words.

“My parents want to talk to you,” he said. The rasp of his deepening voice should’ve excited her. It didn’t. He nudged her toward the north of the room. She sighed, allowing herself to be led while she looked around. Space and countless strangers buzzing like bees, fluttering like butterflies, and vast space between and around them all.

They walked past Tara standing with their father and men like him. In her little Ankara dress she’d brought with her from New York, she was a vision, something to stare at and wish upon. Time stood still for a moment, and Saluchi watched her sister talk, tipping her head back when she laughed, her deep laughter echoing, her hair extensions bouncing around her face. She wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but Tara looked like she was speaking with her peers. Saluchi saw herself in her sister’s place, shaking, stammering when someone asked about the global political climate, or how the stocks of major companies were doing this week, or even the weather today. Tara turned, and their eyes met. Tara puckered her lips, air-kissing Saluchi from afar.

Just say whatever pops in your head, one of Tara’s famous sayings. She smiled at Tara and faced forward again. The problem was nothing ever popped in her head in those situations.

Saluchi is one of my most favorite characters I have ever made up. What do you think of her so far?

Read the next post for Excerpt 2. Subscribe to my mailing list to receive a longer preview.