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.

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.