The Ivory Rules: Blurb

An ambitious PR executive in the commercial city of Lagos finds herself in an oppressive traditionalist society after her mother encourages her to agree to an arranged marriage. Lara spends the next two decades struggling to escape the Ekon Trust her family has belonged to for generations, and when it looks like she’s found a way out, her teenage daughter, Saluchi, is named head of the youth sect. To leave, she must abandon Saluchi.

This family saga spans seventy years, uncovering an uncanny pattern in the lives of five generations of Nigerian women. It is an escape into the conservative world of Nigerian high society, exploring social rules, traditions, alliances, and dynasties, all against a backdrop of Nigeria’s political history.

Read the next post for Excerpt 1. Subscribe to my mailing list to receive a longer preview.

One Eighty: Part 1

"The human mind has a primitive defense mechanism that negates all realities that produce too much stress for the brain to handle. It is called 'denial'."

Empty

Alone

Vast void in my heart

Know how I feel

Feel how I feel

Then maybe I would not feel so alone

I want to forget, yet I desperately want to remember

If I forget, you’ll be deader than you already are

Then I will be dead

I need to keep remembering you

I need others to know you

April

April makes art

That’s all she does

Something comes upon her

A spirit, and she makes art

That’s all she knows

And grief

April knows grief too

For a long time grief is all April has known

And now,

Grief is all she feels

It is the air she breaths

It flows through her being

Like oxygen, it pumps in her heart, in her blood

It feeds her brain

It emits with her carbon dioxide to form and mold her consciousness, her aura

It forms her spirit

Everything about her speaks of true, deep grief

Disconnected from what is real, her heart and soul have drifted away to find whatever it is that she has lost

They will not give up on their search, they maybe never will

I was April

I was April but now I am lost.

That time very long ago, I was very very happy

I had love

My eyes flip open.

It is daytime

The stream of blinding light in my face is not a surprise

It has been day time for a long time

Only, I did not want to admit it until the last possible minute when I cannot evade

the inevitability of being alive any longer

Lying in bed motionless is becoming impossible

The sheet is too rumpled from my incessant tossing and turning

The new mattress is hard

I have thrown out the old one because it had his smell all over it and thinking of

him was too hard

Irrational, I know

He is coming back.

It isn’t like he is gone forever!

But somehow, six months feels like a long time

I don’t want to spend it all thinking about him

And so I need to minimize my contact with anything that reminds me of him

Which is impossible anyway, since this entire house is stamped with his essence

His smell

His sound

I look around the room, and I see him move about, a towel wrapped around his lower body,

He is getting his clothes from the polished wooden dresser, his handwork, while swabbing another towel through his dark black hair

I can see distinctly the water escape in droplets from the ringlets of hair to fall to his slim, pronounced nose

I watch the drip drop trickle down to the floor from the tip of his nose as he listens attentively to me talking

Only, I am not talking anymore, I have stopped to watch him

I watch him as he moves

His presence, his being, commanding the space as he moves around in long, confident strides from one spot to another

My protector, my soldier

I feel strength in him

He turns abruptly to look at me

He has noticed I am not talking anymore

And he has stopped to watch me too

He moves his lips perhaps to ask why I had stopped or to tell me to continue

But no words come out

Or perhaps I just cannot hear as I am now lost in the depth of his pale, bottomless grey eyes

And then he is gone

Or I have woken up from a dream I am not aware I am dreaming

I blink

And I feel a fleeting need to wail

I look up to the ceiling, the wood panel stripes

He is gone

Chance

I jerk, opening my eyes suddenly, and sit up

It felt like an electric shock had just jolted me awake

Or like I was falling fast and suddenly wasn't falling anymore

Did I sleep without knowing and have just woken up again

Or did I dream what seems like the last few minutes

I rub my eyes roughly with the back of my palms

I am not looking forward to today.

Watch out for Part 2 next Sunday.

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...