“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.