Bichara's Heart: Chapter 9

“Quoi?”

Her eyes widen as his gaze hardened and he leaned closer and closer to her. When he kissed her again, she hadn’t expected it. It was like an assault, and yet she felt tingles from the tip of her lips all the way down her spine. Why was he so touchy today? Could his seeing her and John together have affected him so much? Why?

He kissed her deeply, rapturously, but Bichara was desperate to know what was on his mind. She tried to pull away, to move away from him long enough to protest. His lips, sensing her resistance, moved from hers down her body. His hands were around her face at first, then her neck, then his right hand moved down her shoulder and over her chest, her stomach, around her back, down, and then back up her thighs. She felt heat everywhere his fingers touched, searing heat. She sighed, trying to release some tension.

He paused for a second to gaze at her, his eyes seeming to beg her. She noticed he was breathing heavily. He took her lips again, and his hands were around her, pulling at her gown. After a few minutes, she felt cold air on her body as the beautiful dress gave way with a loud sound that wasn’t from the zipper. He must have torn the poor thing off. He pulled the fabric down her body, not letting go of her mouth for a second. She heard herself moan softly, giving in to the building pressure.

Bichara gasped as he pulled away from her and shoved his hands under her back and thighs, lifting her up. He matched to their bed area unaffected by her weight and dropped her on the large bed. Standing over her, he pulled off his own clothes, staring hungrily at her. Her own breathing had sped up as she lay riveted to the bed, meeting her husband’s gaze head-on.

She had no thoughts as he got frustrated with his shirt buttons, yanking the shirt apart and sending plastic buttons in many different directions, sounding like discordant piano keys as they hit the marble floor. He unbelted, unbuttoned, and unzipped his pants, and Bichara felt herself start to panic. He was so frantic she feared what he would do to her as she lay there in black silk and lace lingerie. She lifted her hand over her pregnant belly and his eyes followed the movement closely. He shoved down his trousers with his briefs and she watched him spring free, fully aroused. She bit her lower lip as she admired him, heat rising up her face. She whispered his name. He seemed to hear her because he swiftly clambered onto the bed, over her body, and bent to her ear, biting it, whispering slurred words in his mother tongue…

...Taska ta

Ina son ku…

kai nawa ne...nawa ...

Mala'ika...

zuciya…

ka mallaki zuciyata... ina son ka...

He sounded ready to weep like he was struggling to hold his tears in, and her heart broke for him. Why did he make loving him so hard? He smelled like the floor of a liquor store, and she felt herself get drugged by the scent, slowly, surely. He covered her lips with his again.

Her eyes flung open the next morning, and she wasn’t surprised to see the sun high in the sky, resembling the midday sun, a consequence of how late she had slept last night, morning. She was surprised though, that the blinds were not drawn. Of course, they had forgotten to do that last night. She turned to the table clock that was always on her side table, but it wasn’t there.

“You hit it off the table… It’s broken.” She flung her head in the direction of the voice so fast her neck hurt a little. She was startled to hear it

“Good morning,” she greeted, feeling excessively shy. Her face and neck heat increased remembering last night’s happenings. Her body ached too, but she wasn’t entirely complaining.

Rahman returned her greeting with a curt nod. He was sitting in an armchair facing the bed, in a large woolen dressing robe, his right fist wrapped in a white bandage. There was a small stool in front of him with a glass of water, another empty cup, and a jar of what looked like aspirin, on top of it.

“You were drunk last night,” she mused aloud, her gaze rising to his face again. He smiled, but it appeared more like a grimace, and he rested back into the winged back of the chair. “Do you want to talk about last night?” She felt like they needed to. She needed to know what he was thinking.

“I think we said enough, masoyiyata.” He chuckled.

“We said NOTHING!”

“Isn’t that all we needed to say?” She felt defeated by his question. How could he think they didn’t need to talk about...about his…reaction when they were becoming strangers living together? Her eyes burned with the coming tears and she let out a deep hot breath.

“We didn’t talk at all…we don’t talk at all,” she said in a shaky whisper, struggling to keep her emotions in check, battling with her helplessness, but her husband was completely calm, unaffected, unmoved. He watched her from beneath lush black lashes. “Why are you doing this?” She breathed, closing her eyes against the falling tears.

“Doing what?” He asked simply, and she wondered if he was the same man who called her his treasure, his heart, his love, last night. She opened her eyes to look at him again, and he looked as though he was waiting for her answer. She glanced at her fingers beneath the sheets. He stood up suddenly, and for a moment, she was scared he was coming to her, but he entered the bathroom, shutting the door gently behind him.

Was she losing her mind? The tears came full force now. So much for marrying the love of her life.

Rahman came out of the bathroom a long time later, fully dressed in a pair of snug dark jeans and a loose t-shirt, holding his wounded hand up fragilely. She had laid back on the bed, thinking seriously about what her life was becoming. He didn’t look in her direction as he left the room, and she jumped out of bed after the fact. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself, she mused as she headed to the bathroom still steamed out from his use. The light haze smelled like him–his strong woody scent and that vanilla soap and shampoo he always used. She had a quick warm shower, ran her brush over her teeth a few times, and was done. She needed to get out of the house. She moved to her room closet and wasted no time in picking out a casual jalabiya and pashmina.

After a lone breakfast, which she ordered up to her room, she managed to evade Isha – no easy task – on her way out of the house. The sharp-eyed secretary believed she was still sleeping, exhausted from yesterday’s trip, as Bichara had told the maid who cleared her breakfast table. She could evade her secretary with much stealth, but she could never evade their doorman, especially if she wanted to leave the house. She could never evade the security guards either. She needed a plan.

“Madam.” She smiled up at the doorman now, as she walked toward the door.

She feigned a flippant expression she hoped was effective. “Where Oga?”

“Ehn. He went outside, to the ranch. Are you going out?” He replied to her offhand question, and she thought quickly about how to get out of the house without Rahman’s knowledge…at least until she got to where she wanted to go.

“Yes. Call Danta. I want to go to town… Wait till he ask before you tell my husband…” She looked straight at the man, as sternly as she could manage, knowing he had been instructed to inform his boss on all comings and goings in the house as soon as they happen. “Yana da mahimmanci cewa bai san inda zan tafi ba. Ina da mamaki da aka shirya masa…” She smiled what she hoped was a mischievous smile. She needed him to believe she wasn’t purposely trying to evade her husband. “I will take security. Tell him,” she muttered as she waited for him to call the drivers’ lodge from his mobile intercom. He hesitated a little before lifting the phone to his ear, still assessing her face closely. She tried not to falter. Honestly, she was like a prisoner here. Was it really necessary for her to go through all this to leave the house without her husband’s knowledge?

Danta came through the domineering front door soon after, and she walked straight toward him with her small purse in the crook of her arm. Danta was the driver she trusted the most, singularly because he was smart enough to be discreet for her and still not get himself in trouble with his boss, making him the best person to take her to John’s house. She squeezed the small paper that held his address tighter in her right hand, waiting till she left the doorman’s earshot before telling Danta her plan.

Please, what is Rahman's problem?!

Also, what is Bichara doing? How do you think Rahman will react to his wife's disappearance, brief or not? Is Bichara being reckless, or is she just trying to hold on to her independence as much as she can? And doesn't she have every right to? Tell us your thoughts down below!

See what happens next, next Saturday.

Stone & the Three Kings: Part 3

This is the point in the story that features my mentor, Omofarangbara – Faran for short (and I use the word 'mentor' loosely, as his 'lessons' mostly consist of condescending rants about how I know nothing of my heritage and the spirit world; a problem he could easily fix by actually teaching me something!). I dreaded our weekly training sessions, and now, I was in the unenviable position of needing his help desperately.

Sandra was out cold – as in, she was out like a light, and her skin was cold. I didn’t think she was dead – she seemed to be breathing - though that could have been me looking for reasons not to panic. But after shaking her for the umpteenth time, I realized there was no way she would wake up by normal means. That thing said its mission was to disgrace me. Then why go after Sandra?

I turned the spirit’s words over in my head again and again, but they still made no sense. There’s no time for this! I need to call Faran!

I reached into my bag and pulled out a small case. Inside were two cowrie shells not much bigger than an eraser. I replaced the case, held the cowries to my mouth, and muttered an incantation. The cowries tingled and let out a soft white glow, barely visible in the darkness.

I passed one of the cowries to my left hand and held it to my mouth. I held the other to my ear.

“Faran!” I said, speaking into the cowrie like a mouthpiece. “Faran! It’s Stone, o! I have a problem!”

A few seconds passed without a response. I was about to call out again when I heard something like static from the other cowrie. It took a moment to clear up, and for the familiar, husky voice to burst through the shell.

“Gbare!”

“Faran!” I cried. “Yes! It’s me! I need your help…”

“So you can’t greet again?!”

I hissed. “I don’t have time for this, Faran…”

“You don’t have time to show basic respect? You’re truly like your father, aren’t you?”

“This is serious!”

“I don’t think it is. And neither are you, to be honest.” I hissed again. I was running out of time. It was five minutes past seven by my watch. “E ka san, Baba Faran,” I droned.

“Baba who?” the voice crackled.

I sighed. “Baba Faran, the one who challenged the gods and won.”

“Now that wasn’t hard, was it?” He said. Then his tone became jarringly business-like. “Gbare, the oracle is doing somehow right now. Is there a reason you’re disturbing me this time of night?”

My elbow brushed against Sandra’s cheek. Her skin had gotten much colder. “Something attacked me and my friend…,” I said.

“A spirit, most likely. I suppose you’ve managed to destroy it…”

“I have,” I said, cutting off the sarcastic comment he would certainly have made. “But it did something to my friend, and I need you to help me fix it.”

The inhuman snort that emanated from the shell made me grind my teeth. “If your friend was stupid enough to get caught in your line of fire, that’s really not my problem. And it shouldn’t be yours either.”

I glanced at Sandra. Her breathing was getting shallower. “It shouldn’t, but it is.”

“I don’t have time to play doctor to your friends, Gbare.”

“Abeg na!” I begged. “Her parents will be home soon. If anything happens to her, it’s me everyone will be looking at. I can’t start explaining all this spirit world stuff to these people.”

“You can barely explain it to yourself,” he muttered under his breath. He probably didn’t think I heard him. I rolled my eyes.

“Okay, you can bring your friend to the shrine, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Relief washed over me, only to be replaced with confusion. “The shrine? In Ibadan? Can’t you come here with…like…a magical first-aid box or something…?”

“DON’T…YOU EVER…,” he screamed. I nearly dropped the cowrie. “INSULT MY CRAFT BY CALLING IT MAGIC! OR COMPARING IT TO…” insert snort here “FIRST…AID!”

I had to clutch my chest so my heart wouldn’t leap out. I’d forgotten how touchy he was about the word 'magic'.

“As to getting you here…,” he continued, like the outburst from two seconds before hadn’t happened. “…just put an elbow or something on your friend and hold still.”

“Okay?” I said, gingerly resting my elbow on Sandra’s stomach. I could feel the chill through the cotton.

Before I could blink or shiver, the street and houses around me disappeared into complete darkness. I was thrown into the void at a speed that I wasn’t sure I would survive. I closed my eyes and let out a scream.

“Keep quiet, jare!” I heard.

When I opened my eyes, it was to see a young man, not much older than eighteen, looming over me. He wore nothing but a pair of dirty Ankara trousers and an enormous scowl on his face, which he directed at me.

“What happened?” I asked, shaken.

“Question,” the man said. The voice that came from his mouth – raspy and ancient – was strange coming from such a young body, but I’d gotten used to it. “If you’d bothered to learn anything, you’d be able to make this journey yourself.”

He was referring to my ability to travel through space and time, something I’d only done once and didn’t mind never having to do again.

When I said nothing, Faran hissed and looked past me. “That’s your friend, abi?” I glanced at Sandra and nodded. “Hmmn…she does look terrible,” he muttered. He turned and walked out of the room. “Bring her into the altar room. I’ll see what I can do.”

I got up and dropped my bag and sword on the ground. At first, I tried to lift and carry Sandra in my arms, newlywed style, but at this point, she was freezing cold besides being plain heavy, so that fell through faster than she did from my arms. I grabbed her by her armpits instead and dragged her out of the room with me. The cold dug into my hands, but I had to ignore it.

Faran’s shrine hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d been here. It didn’t look much different than the stereotypical shrines in those Africa Magic movies, except everything was much more authentic and dangerous. The oracle room was a large, open space shrouded in the darkness that the numerous candles allowed. The walls and floor were bare, cracked mud that allowed all kinds of creepy crawlies to wander about. I couldn’t understand how Faran could stand to walk barefoot all the time.

At the center of the room was a large mound of earth, which more or less served as an altar. Faran stood at the other side, gathering ingredients while muttering something to himself. He got more irritated the further his ramblings went along.

“But what is it exactly?” He was saying, in sacred Yoruba. “If you’re not going to tell me…”

He stopped when I approached the altar. I stood there for a few minutes, hoping he would assist me in getting her up there. But wishful thinking had always been my tragic flaw, and I found myself struggling to maneuver my girlfriend to the top of the altar as my mentor rambled on to no one in particular. It was rough going, between the cold and the distracting soliloquy, but I somehow managed.

“You can destroy all my ingredients if you like,” Faran snapped when one of his vials of questionable liquid started to shake. “I’m sure you’ll be able to take me to where I can get them back.”

I ignored him, and he turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Now, I’ll have to warn you. The oracle’s been doing somehow since you called me, so this is going to be a lot of trial and error. I’m not sure I’ve seen anything quite like this.”

I gulped. That didn’t sound good. Possible explanations for what had happened to Sandra started to run through my mind, each one more stupid than the last. And it was definitely not a good time to mention I needed her awake by eight.

“What’s wrong with the oracle?” I asked, trying to take my mind off my fears.

Faran was sprinkling blue powder all over Sandra while chanting an incantation, so I didn’t get an answer until he was done. “It’s neither respectful nor wise to interrupt an Ifa priest when he’s conducting a ritual, Gbare,” he said, putting away the jar of blue stuff. “But if you must know, the oracle seems to find something funny, and it refuses to tell me.”

That seemed dumb, and I said so.

“Well, the ways of gods would seem inane, especially to one who’s spent so much of his life separate from the spiritual,” he said the last part with a toxic sneer. “Gods also find our ways amusing from time to time.”

When they’re not finding it offensive, I thought.

“The point is, something has happened that the oracle finds hilarious,” he continued then paused to rattle something over Sandra’s body as he chanted another incantation. “I don’t mind that he refuses to say what it is. But it seems to be keeping him from giving me any of the insight I ask for.”

“I’d hate to be the idiot a god would laugh at,” I muttered.

It was quarter to eight when Faran gave up. “It’s only you, Gbare,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at me. “It’s only you that can enter this kind of problem, and then bring it to me at the worst possible time. I think you just exist to disgrace me.”

I looked up from the games on my phone. “Well, maybe if I had a better teacher, I could have saved her,” I said.

“A stunted maize stalk will always blame the soil,” he said in regular Yoruba. I can speak neither regular Yoruba nor the sacred one, but I had heard him say this before.

“Will she live, at least?” I asked, hopeful.

“I don’t even know,” he said. Those were words he rarely ever said, and he reeled from spitting them out. “Whatever this affliction is, it’s immune to all my spells. I can’t even tell what it is.”

There was silence. “But…,” I said. “If you were to hazard a guess?”

He shook his head. It was foolish to hope. It always was whenever I was concerned.

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.

Excited for Part Four? We are too! We wonder if Stone will make it back with Sandra by 8 pm. What do you think?

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.