Bichara's Heart: Chapter 7

“Nana really pulled out all the stops getting all of you here,” Rahman said after withdrawing from his brother’s embrace and given Aliu a perfunctory smile, genuinely surprised to see them at the family gathering. The entire family hadn’t been together like this since his wedding, and even then, not so willingly.

Hassan was inherently aloof. It was possible not to hear anything from him for an entire year. Sometimes, Romano was scared something bad could happen to him and nobody would hear about it till it was too late…that was why he had some undercover agents on him. They reported all Hassan’s movements and actions to him. Actually, he had private agents on every member of his family...for their security and his.

“Baraka and I took the first flight from Kano the moment we heard Siddiq had returned…,” Aliu said with a satisfied smile on his face. The twenty-nine-year-old was a pushover for his officious sister. She had him in the palm of her hands. So much so, Rahman feared, anything that came out of Aliu’s mouth was most likely Baraka’s words. He hoped they hadn’t come with their mother. Then again, if Abba was here, everyone would already know it. “Where’s Nana?” Aliu asked.

“She’s with the Rufais," Rahman muttered, eyeing the large bar across the room. He needed another drink, preferably a strong one.

As he headed toward the bar, he spotted his wife. She was facing away from him, walking in the perpendicular direction with deliberate intent. Maybe she had seen someone she knew. He moved forward slowly and watched as she met somebody at the other end of the room, near the entrance. A man. A man he did not recognize. She was surprised to see him, and then she had the biggest smile on her face. She looked like she wanted to pull him to her, and the way he looked at her in return, Rahman wanted to tear the stranger’s eyes out. But, he hadn’t seen her smile like that in a long time. She’d been glum recently, he realized. Likely a consequence of his own foul mood of the last few weeks. He had tried to keep away from her so he wouldn’t her. She never talked about how she felt. In fact, unlike every other woman he’d known, she didn’t like talking. But she noticed everything.

“Who’s that person?” Rahman was stunned to find that Hassan was still by his side as he reached the bar. His brother could have made a perfect thief with his stealth movements. Or was he just too preoccupied to have felt him beside him?

“I have no idea.” Rahman ordered a dirty martini on ice. And on second thought, a bottle of Belvedere. He turned to find his brother gazing at his wife and her guest. He didn’t want to imagine what his brother was thinking of the scene as he threw back his cocktail.

“Kai!” Hassan said rather amused, and Rahman could feel his anger rise. He watched his brother collect two rocks glasses, filling them halfway from the bottle of vodka. He handed Rahman a glass and took a sip from his. “They seem very close, ehn?” He murmured, and Rahman came close to slamming his brother's head against the bar counter.

“Hassan. Stop talking,” he warned. His smug brother lifted his empty hand in surrender. Rahman groaned and took a healthy gulp of his drink. Soon, he was done with his serving, and Cristiano was refilling his glass.

---

Bichara was ecstatic the moment she spotted John looking lost and out of place at the entrance to Nana’s magnificent reception. She couldn’t believe he took a chance and came. She was surprised he was even allowed into Nana’s estate without an invitation, but she pushed that out of her mind as she moved toward him to make sure he was the one and she wasn’t mistaken. Her joy increased as she got closer and he finally saw her. She was so close to hugging him, right there, in the midst of Rahman’s family. Why did she feel like he was her own long-lost relative? She had only known him what, two days?

“I came,” he muttered as she got within hearing shot of him.

“You came.” She admired his appearance. He didn’t look like a common gardener tonight. He didn’t look as flush as the guests here, but he looked well-cleaned-up. He looked good. He wore a suit very well, his shoes were nice and shiny, and he even went as far as some silver cufflinks to secure the cuffs of his neat black kaftan. She continued her assessment until she reached his face, his eyes, those piercing browns. She shifted her gaze to his slightly stubbled jaw, smiling wide. She really was happy to see him.

“Si les avez-vous déjà lu?” It took a while for her to know what he was asking about, and she shifted from one foot to another. She was beginning to get uncomfortable in her low-heel shoes. She should have just gone with flats.

“Yes. You are good,” she replied in English. She looked away from him at the crowd of wandering high-profile invitees around them. She remembered a scene in Sleeping Beauty, the old cartoon she loved as a girl…royalty, nobility, the gentry…perhaps she and John were the rabble. She chuckled. It wasn’t too far from the truth. She felt like an imposter in this world. Dressed the part, trying to act the part, but she wasn’t, she wasn’t part of this world. She had known too much of the other life to ever fully be comfortable in this one. All the food and drinks for people who hardly ever ate, large houses that could inhabit ten families, twenty? Clothing allowances that could sponsor a full education. Private planes, yachts, where a terrible number of people were homeless, illiterate, barely struggling to eat something, anything. She tried not to be too cynical, after all, rich people could not possibly stop living because other people weren’t rich too, and most of them – including her husband – actively funded charities. She sighed. Continuing in French, she said, “I haven’t read it all though. I've been too busy sleeping…, and doing nothing, really.” She wondered where Rahman was at that moment. She remembered locking eyes with him earlier, while he was speaking with his cousin after Nana had shoved her into a circle of relatives who all seemed to behave like actual royalty – strangely polite and warm, but with this patronizing air she still couldn’t stand.

“Just take your time. I have nothing but time to wait anyway.” She faced him again, and he had that amused expression she was getting used to. Did she detect a hint of sarcasm? She felt the sides of her lips turn up. “I have had an idea for a full book for a while now. Your interest has encouraged me to start it.” She grinned.

“That’s great. You must tell me what it’s about.” He smiled too and didn’t hesitate a second before telling her the proposed plot. It was a dark, twisted one, but she was intrigued rather than appalled by it. She couldn’t wait to read how it would develop. She already liked the heroine. She noticed vaguely that he liked to write about women.

They had been talking for a long time: about his book idea, his short stories and poems she had read so far, other works of literature they both loved and hated. He liked to criticize, and he had new insights and censure on some of the greatest works of all time, plus his own skill to back his mouth. She was completely awed by him.

They talked over hors d’oeuvres, through a musical interlude by the Helen Parker-Jayne Isibor, and through Nana's small art exhibition to guests in her private gallery. John dabbled in art as well, sculpting mostly, but also oil paintings. He emphasized that he was awful at it, but she found that hard to believe. Especially since he hadn’t even realized his writing excellence until she came into the picture. Bichara concluded he was probably a down-and-out artist who needed some steady work to boost his income. Most West African artists were the same. Gardening was a form of art in itself anyway. He was too self-effacing for his own good…like her.

Bichara was more attuned to subtle things, shifts, change of tone, the subtlest movements since she became pregnant. She cringed and turned around without thinking, to find Rahman walking toward her. John was beside her by a doorway. They never got around to leaving Nana’s now-emptying art gallery after her show, and most of the guests were back in the ballroom.

“Let’s go,” Rahman ordered gruffly as he reached them, not acknowledging John’s presence. His rigid posture rang bells in her head.

“Q-quel…?” He reached out, pulling her forward by the hand, catching her completely by surprise. He dragged her as slowly as he could manage considering his apparent rage, all the way down Nana’s lobby, and she realized they weren’t going in the direction of the ballroom. They were going toward the side door, through Nana’s drawing room. “Won’t we say goodbye?” She called out to him, her feet struggling to keep up with his increasing pace. He didn’t react to her question. She wanted to snatch her hand away, but she didn’t have the energy. “Rahman…,” she called out. He ignored her still, pulling her all the way outside into the cold dark night.

Find out what happens next in Chapter 8, next Saturday! And tell us what you think of the whole Bichara-Rahman-John predicament down below. We'd love to gist about it.

One Eighty: Finale

Day Twenty of One Eighty

I don't remember

I close my eyes tight trying to make something of the void between my head

Flashes

That's all I see

The lady had returned with a mouthful of empty information

He is dead

That particular one leaves me with a sick feeling each time I think about it

And yet...I don't know why

The lady is my mother

And I am home with my family, she said

Yet, I know she's wrong

I only remember being alone

Alone alone

And I remember one eighty days

In one eighty days, everything would be fine

I can be happy again

Happy

Day Forty of One Eighty

I joined the Utopian Peace Corps

He would be proud of me

I see him in my dreams smiling at me

His eyes, sometimes grey sometimes greenish brownish, calling to me

I know him and yet I don't know him

I don't want to think too deeply about it

I can't trust what I think, sometimes I think my mind is lying to me

I don't know if what I know is what I know

I don't know what is a memory and what is just a dream

I can't make sense of anything

So I'm just going to keep myself busy helping people out there

Outside Utopia

Utopia

Day Sixty of One Eighty

I am passing through the underground tunnel again with my group

We need to get food and medical supplies to the inner city of the outside

But the outside government do not want us to help the 'rebels'

Only, at this point, every citizen of the outside is a rebel

The government is fighting its own people!

What we are doing is dangerous, I know

But it must be done

There are children there and they will starve

A water disease is breaking out too

We make our way through the dark, humid subway amid the sound of each other's groaning

The air is stagnant and breathing is hard labor

A single but large flashlight illuminates our path, further heating up the atmosphere

A sudden but slight breeze is a well-received sign of the end of the tunnel

Soon after, the ladder to the surface is finally visible

Just above, moonlight is streaming through an opening

I am standing in the middle of the woods looking up at the moon above my head through the branches of giant trees

And I am painting what I see

Painting with such speed that I can no longer see my hands' movement

Someone packs my hair into a ponytail behind me and wipes my face dry with a soft silk piece of cloth

I am sweating in streams

My eyeballs. They've rolled out of focus

When I finish, I collapse and he's there to catch me

He kisses my forehead and lays me down somewhere

Day Hundred of One Eighty

I no longer want to stay 'home' with strangers

I know they call themselves my family

But I don't know them

I have boarded with the Corps in their housing unit close to the fringes of Utopia

Every day, my group journeys through hidden tunnels, risking discovery by the outside government, to feed and treat victims of the chaos

Some of the victims, soldiers

When I meet the soldiers I find myself searching their faces

I think I am looking for the face in my dreams

His face

In fact, I think something inside me needs to find it desperately

I want to know why I feel this way

But I can't

Day One Fifty of One Eighty

He is dead

He is dead

She said

The lady that calls herself my mother

Stop looking for him, she said

I know what you're doing, she said

But how can she know what I am doing

When I myself do not

He is gone

You need to let go

Chance is gone

My eyes scorch as tears stream down unbridled

What does she mean

What is she saying

And yet it seems my heart knew

I don't know what you are talking about

The tears are gone as soon as they came

Chance simply went on a trip, I told her

He'll be back very soon

And I can leave this house and be with him

A tight smile slips up my lips

And suddenly I feel so sure of what I said

His name is Chance?

His name is Chance

I remember why I had to leave that house

Now, I can think clearly

And not feel nervous, anxious

Alone, I know everything will be fine

When I am not surrounded by worried, gloomy faces, I can be sure everything will be fine

And I can keep myself busy helping those who have the right to be gloomy

Today, I volunteered to go to the more dangerous part of the outside

They call it the Eastern Center

And I know immediately I hear about it that I need to be there

We will stay there for thirty days

This time our mission is to soldiers particularly

Day One Seventy of One Eighty

My dreams are becoming clearer

I dream of Chance every time I close my eyes

I see him

I touch his thick, curly, raven black hair

I feel his thin, pink lips

His strong arms around me

I long so much to hear his voice

But he doesn't speak in my dreams

And it drives me insane with need

Take me with you, I want to say

Take me to where you are

But I don't want to speak and ruin the moment

Or maybe I too cannot speak in my dreams

I feel joyful by day after I have seen my heart by night

I feel the time coming when I will finally see my heart in the light of day

One eighty days

And then I can be at peace

I remember something and go in search of our Corps Zonal Inspector to ask about it

A large warehouse I noticed a far distance from the wounded soldiers' camp we visited daily

It seemed all but abandoned but I couldn't stop watching it

And for days, I have watched it

For what? I don't know

Today, I noticed men enter and not retreat until a full hour after

Then, I see them leave one man less, through a dirt road across the sparse field surrounding the terrain

The ZI warns me against venturing towards the vicinity of the warehouse

And I know that I must go there

According to him, it is a pseudo detention camp kept by rebels and the prisoners there are beyond our helping capacity, it is too guarded

And yet I saw no guards nor any restrictions whatsoever in all my days surveying the area around the structure

If there are soldiers held there, they need help just as much as any other soldier they've helped

Why help some and not help others?

Why help only when it's safe or easy?

Day One Eighty - D-day

I'm ready

Today, I visit that warehouse

I planned a course of action, as much as I can manage

The ZI disapproves, so I am not going with my group to the house

Nobody can know I am going at all

They'll want to stop me

They'll try

But it's OK, I have everything well planned

I have mini food and drug packs for thirty people stuffed in a Peace Corps goodwill carryall

Detached hard work has its benefits, I am group leader

I will give my members instructions about today's campaign and head off immediately for a 'special assignment'

Everything has worked out perfectly

And now, with the warehouse door towering in front of me, I break into a sweat

I shiver with a sudden bout of anxiety and I hold on desperately to the handle of the heavy carryall

I gingerly open the great door and I am swiftly bathed with the smell of death and decay

My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness of the interior of the warehouse, a sharp contrast to the bright, sunny outside

There are no windows here

Or the windows are all shut

There are bodies on the floor tied to poles

The bodies start to move

And moan

Before I am conscious of it, I'm on the floor leaning towards the man in front of me

The big gaping wound on his leg looks infected

This man would die soon, why would anyone bother to tie him up, what harm can he do?

I lift his head to look at his face

I need to make sure his eyes aren't grey, greenish brown

I move to the next then the next

Searching their faces

I don't find what I am looking for

The men are not all wounded but they are all hanging on to life by a thread

I reach the last man, he lifts his head to look at me before I have to do it for him

And confirms my unconscious fear

He is not here

I collapse to the ground

He is dead

He is dead

And again I feel completely disconnected from my mind and my body

I am weeping and yet I don't know why

He is dead

I don't understand my mind's pattern

He is dead

I feel myself convulse with the intensity of my tears

I pull at my hair in desperation and anxiety

And then I hear it

Heavy footsteps from just outside the building

Like boots crushing dry leaves on the ground

I hear voices, angry voices

I left the door open

I tremble with sudden fear

I should have left while I had the time

And then all thought drains from me as I relax into a comfortable resignation

I sit on the floor and wait for the worst

The men walk in and one shines a torch in my direction

They throw angry questions at me

Who am I?

Where did I come from?

Who sent me?

Who am I?

Someone shouts a loud and precise 'STOP'

And my head is up instantly because I know that voice

I have longed for that voice in my dreams for a long time

He walks towards me and I want to scream

He looks straight at me, stands right in front of me

I can touch him if I want to, yet I can't

I don't remember him

The only thing I know of him is what I see in my dreams

His eyes lock with mine

Greenish Brownish

Am I really looking into the eyes of my heart?

And I am up away from the ground and in his arms

April

April

He repeats over and over again

I want to disappear into him as he is crushing me with the strength of his embrace

They lied to us the council, the government everyone

Everything we thought we knew is all a lie, he is saying

But I don't care about any of that

The one thing I care about has returned to me!

I am laughing and crying and wailing and convulsing

I lift my hands into his hair to feel the silky strands again

I am overwhelmed with a barrage of emotion and I can make no sense of it

I don't want to

I was right

In One Eighty days, everything would be fine!

Am I really in his arms?

Can I really finally hear his voice whispering words of love and other deep emotions only our hearts would ever comprehend?

My face is safely buried just below his shoulder and I am content

Happy

I hear scampering and shuffling around but I don't want to move an inch from where I am

Suddenly I feel a sharp, piercing metal-like thing graze the top of my head just as His hand tightens more around me

I lift up my head as a dizzy spell washes over me and see blood on his shoulder

I am just about to check if he is okay

When I feel another hard substance hit me squarely at the back of my head and pierce through faster than I can conceive my next thought

Light flashes before my eyes for a split second before I blackout

My last vision is of grey eyes under the sun.

END

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.