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.

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!