Bichara's Heart: Chapter 6

So much for a family reunion, Rahman thought as he took in the multitude of people – familiar and strange – that filled Nana’s expansive ballroom. She must have invited the whole of Nigeria! He had spotted two Amiras already, dressed the part in royal heirlooms. He sighed. Usually, Nana would receive her guests at the door. She hadn’t done that this time. How was he supposed to find his own family in this crowd?

He stepped into the room, his wife’s palm gently grasping the crook of his elbow. He couldn’t wait for the baby to come. The pregnancy was wearing her down. If she wasn’t getting bigger, he would have thought the baby was draining her blood, it was definitely sapping her energy. She was getting more and more fragile by the day; he was scared to even touch her.

They had just arrived, and Rahman felt exhausted in advance from engaging in draining banter and smiling with people he’d rather not be in the same room with.

“Masoyina!” He caught a flash of silver, a stately turban, as she moved briskly toward them, his grandmother.

“Kaka,” he replied briefly before she pulled him into a full hug. She was too strong for her petite eighty-two-year-old figure. He hoped it meant she had long to live yet. He tried to move out of her grasp, but she held him in, scrutinizing his appearance. She seemed to be satisfied with his grey kaftan two-piece as she smiled up at him. He had ditched the hula even though it was supposed to be a formal event. Nana did not seem to mind.

“So…, it took a grand party to lure you from Rima…, that palace of yours, ba…!” She exclaimed loudly, pausing as she acknowledged Bichara who stood silently by his side. “Ah, kyaun gani! How are our babies?” Nana had this ridiculous notion that they were going to have twins.

Bichara chuckled nervously, walking into Nana’s open arms, and feeling enormously comforted in the kind matriarch’s embrace as she pecked both cheeks. She stepped back and noticed Rahman glancing around them, already itching to be in motion. He was a restless soul, he always needed to be doing something. She, on the other hand, valued precious peace and stillness. They were so different in some ways, and those differences seemed to be creating a hole between them every day. She knew exactly when he spotted a diversion, someone he knew maybe. Times like this, she could read him like a book, other times…

“Who invited him?” She followed his line of sight and was confused for a second until she realized his question was directed at Nana.

“Ahmad is family, Rahman. The Rufais are family. Ni da kaina na gayyace su.” Nana had a knowing look on her face, and Bichara was curious. She knew the Rufai and Bello families had been business partners for about two generations, and friends even longer. Obviously, Rahman and Ahmad did not share the feeling of brotherhood their fathers and grandfathers had. It made sense, Rahman never talked about them. Their names never so much as slipped during any of their conversations which, to be fair, weren’t that many.

“Babban labarai,” Rahman muttered, and Nana excused herself, giving them leave to enjoy the soirée, spotting other important guests stepping in to join the glittering assemblage. He felt Bichara shift uneasily against him and bent his head toward her.

“I need to use the restroom, Rahman,” she voiced softly in French, looking very pale and uncomfortable. He was more than a little concerned.

“Should I come with you?” She shook her head.

“No. Stay. I’ll be fine.” She assured him with a feeble smile. He gave her form a once-over and relented.

“You remember where it is?” She nodded and moved away from his side, eager to get away, expertly maneuvering herself through the crowd of guests. He watched her retreating figure, wondering if he should follow her anyway.

“ Jarababbe.” Rahman flinched. There was only one person in the world who called him that. It was a private joke, one he didn’t want his wife to hear. He glanced in the direction of the call, straight at his cousin. He hadn’t seen Siddiq Abubakar in eleven years and about a month. It felt like an old dream, seeing him in front of him after so long. He had two actual brothers, but Siddiq had been more of a brother to him than anyone in this world. They hugged as soon as he reached him.

“Siddiq…” Rahman trailed off as he grabbed a half-full champagne flute from a passing tray, trying to put himself, his emotions, under control, surprised his cousin did not take one glass for himself. He sincerely never thought he would see him again after he cut off all contact with the family, with him…, and literally vanished during a RuBel-sponsored tour of the Middle East.

A myriad of questions flitted through his mind, directed at the man he thought he knew more than anyone else in the world. He shoved them aside, for now, content with being happy for his return, hoping he hadn’t changed too much. Already, he saw a seriousness in his eyes that was not there before. Siddiq was always the laidback, breezy one who got them both in countless trouble back in the days.

“Cousin…I trust we have a lot to catch up on…” This time, Siddiq’s smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “Like…I heard you now have an exceptionally beautiful, exotic wife.”

Rahman chuckled at his cousin’s not-too-far-off description. “Who told you that? Not back one week, and you’re already privy to rumor mills,” he drawled before taking a full sip of the sweet bubbly. He wondered why they weren’t jumping at each other, why they weren’t more excited to see each other. Maybe it just wasn’t the time and especially not the place to show real reactions.

“Hardly a rumor. Nana’s had me staring at photographs since I got here. I think she’s trying to give me some kind of message… Not back one week, and she’s already trying to get me married. Where is this wife of yours?” Siddiq scanned the faces around them as if he knew how she looked and just where to spot her.

“She’s here somewhere…,” Rahman muttered and looked over in the direction of the two large exits and then around the circular room, past several familiar faces – some nodding in acknowledgment – as he searched for his wife.

She should have been back by now. He found her finally, among a small group of women. He recognized two as his distant cousins, and…was that the Sultan's fourth wife? Bichara probably didn’t recognize any of them. If she was speaking with them, it was Nana’s doing. She was always trying to mix her up with that crowd, but his wife had never felt comfortable in social gatherings.

He watched her awkward movements, smiling nervously and constantly patting her loose white hijab over her ear, probably meaning to brush her lovely curls only he had the honor of seeing, behind her ear, like she always did. She looked stunning. The white gown she picked was his favorite choice too, complementing her pale skin, flattering her body perfectly. So perfect, he was beginning to wish it was for his eyes only. And, the sedate emerald-stone piece around her neck made her light eyes sparkle.

Those eyes met his at that moment as she turned her head, subconsciously responding to his thoughts. There and then, he wanted to pull her to him and take her lips in his.

He heard a throat-clearing sound and remembered who was still beside him. He returned his attention to his cousin, finding his step-sister and her fiancé beside them.

“Sannu dan uwa,” Baraka drawled, her permanent smirk irritating him already. She had her arm around Siddiq, and Rahman remembered being betrayed by his cousin when he started becoming rather too friendly with his overtly brazen half-sister…all those years ago. There seemed to be no love lost between the two now.

“Yar uwa,” he replied, a tad bit sardonic, nodding at Umar Dansuki who was a junior executive at PerSua, his sister’s third engagement in the last three years. Men could smell new inheritance. He wasn’t shocked they usually ran away after a few months though. He was already priming himself to leave their company. “…Siddiq…you’ll stop by Rima soon, ko?”

“I mana!” Siddiq said, pulling his sister closer and kissing her cheek. Umar looked on and Rahman looked away, gulping down the last remains of the sparkling wine. The light vanilla finish made him wish he had picked a sherry instead. “Of course, we’ll see.”

Rahman left their side then, dropping his empty glass on another waiter’s tray. He needed to search for his wife again, but before he could, he was detained by another pair of family members.

Rahman smiled and spread his arms wide to hug his brothers, well, one of them. Hassan and Aliu were the last of his siblings, Aliu, from the same mother as Baraka. His own mother had died shortly after having Hassan. The only thing he remembered of her was her curly long hair and her calm, quiet demeanor, her sweet voice singing Hassan to sleep in the afternoons. When he tried to imagine her now, all he saw was…Bichara.

We took a long break, but we're back now, and with some insight into Rahman's big family. What do you think of Rahman's relationship with his family? Does it tell you anything at all about the kind of person he is? Are you as excited as we are to find out what part Siddiq will play in this story?

Find out more in Chapter 7, coming your way Next Saturday! Make sure you invite a friend because Nana's party isn't over.

Bichara's Heart: Chapter 4

“John,” she said, assessing his plain grey work overall worn to the waist, his chest left bare. She didn’t blame him, today was a particularly hot, sunny day. She glanced at his coworkers spread across the expansive yard, trimming hedges, sculpting shrubs, doing their job tending the gardens. She still couldn't understand how they could have such vast greenery in an almost desert.

She turned back to John. He might've been lean-muscled, but his midriff was well toned, and his arms too. She looked down at the contents of his right hand – a brown envelope. He lifted it to her.

“I wanted to give you in person,” he said in French, instinctively like it was his first language. Her eyes shot up to his, and he had a satisfied look on his face. She took the parcel from him. “I stayed up all night.”

“This is a lot.” She scrutinized the thick package, without knowing what she was looking for. It was sealed.

“Four hundred and sixty-nine pages of musings.”

“Wow.” She glanced up at him again. “Let’s walk for a minute?” she said, popping her brows in question. He nodded, and they walked forward in no particular direction. “Tell me about them. Tell me one of your stories.” They wandered for a while, heading toward the orchards, through a large blossom-lined tunnel, as he told her about a girl, an orphan girl whose story mirrored her own life’s journey.

At twenty-seven, Bichara’s life was one long cheerless tale, punctuated by a few happy moments…like her marriage…in the beginning. She was beginning to think she didn’t deserve happiness, but John’s fictional story had a happy ending, perhaps she had some hope yet.

“Gafara dai, Madam Bello.” She turned around, startled by the sudden interruption to John’s words, baffled at not having heard the footsteps of the man before them, a male servant.

“Eh, Mahmud,” she said. The young man stretched his hand forward with an envelope in it, bending over at the waist in a show of respect she found discomforting for this new century and millennium!

“Letter for you and oga…, from Minanata.” Minanata. The sultan's palace. The letter must be from Rahman’s grandmother. What could Nana possibly want? Why couldn’t it wait till she was back in the house, how urgent could it possibly be? She took the slim envelope from his hand to save the poor help from having to stay bent over for much longer – it was ridiculous, really. He wasted no time in returning in the direction of the house after he had done his job delivering the message.

“You have family in Minanata?” Her companion asked as they started walking again, Bichara aiming for the nearby trees. She wanted to sit on the soft grass under one of the large hardwood trees.

The estate was one huge money-making factory all by itself. Whoever owned the property before Rahman’s father, whoever created it, must’ve thought about everything so there was no chance they or their descendants would ever be poor. They were a low-density forest, so vast, you could get lost in it. According to Rahman, it wasn’t even possible to cross from one end to the other by foot, and it produced commercial timber. The adjacent vineyard produced a great quantity of wine, but mostly for private consumption. Bichara and John were just departing a sizable orchard. It produced several fruits and vegetables supplied to the farmer’s market in town.

The stables housed thirteen pure-bred horses, six of which were race horses that competed in high stakes’ competitions around the world. One of them was her Angel. Rahman had shipped her all the way from Chad the day after Bichara had told him how the only thing she missed about grandfather's farm was the beautiful strange white pony her grandfather had rescued and gifted her when she was nine. She remembered being blown away, seeing a full-grown silver horse in front of her apartment building, in the middle of downtown N'djamena.

“Rahman’s grandmother lives there,” she said when they reached the first of the giant trees. Why was she being so familiar with him? Rahman wouldn’t approve of it. She frowned as she concentrated on lowering herself to sit beside some stone benches. John jerked forward to support her back. She questioned herself for not sitting on the benches instead, and noticed he didn’t move to sit with her as she opened the crisp ivory envelope, unearthing an invitation. Her forehead crease deepened as she read the inscription.

“What is it?” She turned to him with one sharp motion. He was standing with the sun right behind him, glowing. She looked away again, blinking, wondering at her thoughts.

“Family news,” she muttered. “A long-lost cousin has returned home. There’s going to be a grand family reunion to celebrate it.” She knew she sounded dry. She hated Rahman’s family. It was obvious in the way she talked about them. It never occurred to her that it might’ve been important to know his family before agreeing to marry him. Would knowing them have changed her mind about their marriage? She was second guessing everything these days. Nana was an easy exception though, it was impossible not to love the kind old bean.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.” She covered her face with her palms, already nervous about what would be another opportunity for her to feel out of place, lonely…, ordinary.

“And, they send the invite now?” The abruptness of the whole affair didn’t bother her as much. Quite the opposite. She was happy to get it over with as soon as possible. It must’ve been sudden, the prodigal son reappearing out of the blues, Nana grabbing the opportunity to exercise her good social graces, clean out the massive receiving room of her country home, and have Nigerian elites over.

“You could come.” The idea popped up out of nowhere and was out of her mouth before she could make sense of it.

“Me?” He chuckled. He had a talent of asking and stating his words at the same time, as though the answer to his question was obvious and he wanted you to think straight. Maybe it came with being a skilled writer. “I’m a gardener, Bichara. Your servant.”

“You’re whatever you say you are.” She peeked up at him, feeling like there was something different about the man before her. “Not what other people say.” She ended her statement in a whisper and glanced back at the article in her hands. She pushed herself to get up, and John moved to brace her.

“Easy,” he said, helping her up. Bichara was comforted by his concern for her. She glanced at him again as she stood, and those gentle brown eyes captivated her in a way that gave her momentary peace. Something about this strange gardener made her realize she’d been lonely for a while.

It seems Bichara is drawn to John. But why? What is it about John? What are your thoughts on the build-up so far? Remember, we'd love to talk about it in the comments section below.

Chapter 5 is coming on another Saturday!

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.