One Eighty: Part 3

Day One of One Eighty

I try to remind myself that my heart will grow fonder with his absence

An hour later and I am still on the rock-hard bed rolling around

Why don't I have the will to do anything

I move slowly to sit up pushing my legs down the side of the bed facing our one large window

I stare out to the long stretch of green that's dull in comparison with the first day I saw it

Little animals roam free all around the field and I cannot help feeling imprisoned

Suffocating in my self-made prison

I shiver

I am alone again

This time I truly am alone

We came to the village to be alone together

Now I am alone alone

I wince

Chance walks past the window, heavy looking logs of wood in hand

I hear the soft creak of footsteps on our loose front stairs

I hear him enter through our front door

We had just finished erecting our cabin house

We needed logs for the fireplace because it felt like winter was here

It felt like snow was supposed to be falling already

We had finished our home just in time

Or we would have needed to lodge at an inn we didn't have money for

The location was perfect

It allowed us the illusion of being apart from the world

It was what we needed

We were young

We were in love

He sat next to me on the bed and pulled me to his lap

He rested his forehead to mine and we stared into each other's eyes for a long time as the heat of the fire he had just stoked in the fireplace and in my heart enveloped us

And then he proceeded to tell me why I am the one

I am different from him

In culture and thinking

He will never understand how and why I think and act the way I do

And so it's going to be a great adventure spending his entire life trying to understand me, he said

In looks

He is so white and I am so dark

My tough and curly hair that never obeys

My dark eyes the shape of almonds that remind him of hot cocoa

My pudgy nose he loves to pull

My soft, swollen lips are too kissable and reminds him of honey or caramel

My round stubborn chin

My fresh ebony skin that makes him think of melted chocolate.

There was a time blurred up in my past, I used to think myself ugly in the face of those pale faced golden girls in school

But I can't even remember why I would think that

In truth, there weren't many people who looked like me

I am special!

The way you carry yourself, he continued

Like you were worshipped in your past life

Like you have everything under control

Like you don't need any protection

My queen

I looked into his soft hazel eyes that looked grey from a distance

Or under the sun

Hot breathe from his nose fanned my face

You are mine, I said to him

I chose him again as he chose me

The window blurs out of view and I realize I am crying

My eyes burn and I shut it tightly

I don't understand myself anymore

This is ridiculous

Teardrops fall to my fat thighs

And I feel insecure again

Am I fat again?

Am I ugly again?

I look vaguely toward the dresser mirror but I don't move to stand before it

I can't

If I look, I will become that girl again

I look at my stubby dark hands, my dark skin

Ebony, he called it

Chance's are as pale as milk

We really are different

Day Fifteen of One Eighty

I make it my mission to be up and out of the house by dawn

The house is a trap

A house of mirrors haunted with too many shadows

Nights have become torturous

I haven't had a wink of sleep in perhaps a week

I am barely conscious

Barely sane.

Art is the only answer

Yet all I paint is doom

I look at today's creation half smeared with my tears

There is fire in the sky and a body lies on the floor in the midst of several people running around in obvious panic

The body is intricately detailed, two bullets to the head.

But it has no face

In fact none of the people have faces

My tears have smeared them all out

Suddenly, there are shadows hanging over my paper

Dark inverted figures, getting bigger and bigger

I look up to see heavily suited men approach me

I take a few minutes to look at their faces

And immediately I know why they are here

I don't know when I start to run but I see approaching landscape flash past me as I move thoughtlessly away

Far away from the evil people

I mustn't hear what they have to say

I just know I mustn't hear it

A pair of arms grab me from behind and suddenly I am back in the departmental store five years ago

When I open my eyes it is not Chance standing in front of me

I put my hands over my ear and scream loudly

I cannot hear my scream but I feel my throat aching, piercing

When I open my eyes again, I am in a strange place

At first my vision is blurred

Smeared grey and dark figures moving into each other

I hear loud voices but I cannot make out their words

I need to know where I am

Suddenly, I feel panicked, restive

I move and realize I am lying down

I attempt to lift myself but something pins me down

I shut my eyes as a series of sharp pains explode in my head

I hear myself groan

And suddenly everything goes dark, oblivion

I open my eyes

I remember the last time I opened my eyes but I don't remember anything beyond then

I stare straight ahead of me where a blurred man is standing, his back to me,

He seems to be talking to someone out of view, outside the door

As my vision comes into focus, I notice the room looks vaguely familiar

The walls are muralled with blue daisies

I blink

A lady rushes in through the door and pushes a cup with a straw sticking out of it, towards my mouth

And I realize I am, in fact, thirsty

A barrage of people breeze in as I drink the water longingly

Who are all these people?

I count eight of them

The man at the door is now facing me, he is wearing an all black ensemble, suit, shirt, tie

Angel of death

His eyes lock with mine

I look away nervously

The lady with the cup now has a hot towel over my fore head

She tucks the thick blanket over me more tightly and then I realize how cold I am

I feel like I am back from the dead

And yet I can't remember what could have happened to me

I can feel these people's stare on me, wanting to talk

Wanting to tell me some grave bad news

But the lady has given them a stern look effectively shutting them up.

And now she plants a warm, flower kiss where she the towel used to me

She whispers for me to go back to sleep

My subconscious immediately obeys her as I feel myself already drifting

I must truly be exhausted

My last vision is of the lady leading everyone out and closing the door behind her.

Part 4 is COMING SOON. What do you think of the story so far? Tell us in the comments section!

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.