Bichara's Heart: Chapter 1

The golden Sahel, a sub-saharan palace, her fairytale storybook home was a vast estate of villa, garden, desert, lake, mosque, ranch, stable and farm, vineyard and orchard; a reflection of the Caliphate of old, ancient folklore, a sharp contrast to the unassuming Chadian life she was raised in. Rima Villa. Her home. Her new home. Hers by marriage. Yet she couldn’t explore the entire perimeter at a go, nor was she at home in it.

Marriage was the most complex of human pursuits. Every day, a new battle. Every day, she had to decide if it was worth fighting for. And she’d been married just under a year. She touched her large protruding belly, stroking it through her floral cotton sundress.

Bichara Bello was six-months pregnant. Maybe the raging hormones everyone talked about were to blame for her feelings, she hoped it was just that. As she walked, she was oblivious of her surroundings yet conscious of the little things. The wet velvety grass-leaves beneath her bare feet. The light arid air breezing around her every so often. It was too late in the afternoon for the bright sunshine. She was only getting used to the Sokoto sun’s schedule.

She reached a garden bench under a shade overlooking the stables just as the incessant back ache became too hard to ignore. There wasn’t much life around her except a few staff rounding up for the day.

“Ina kwana, madam!”

Her Hausa was still wishy washy but she understood that simple greeting. She wasn’t one of those fast language learners she wished she was. Not knowing enough of her husband’s language left her feeling handicapped where he was fluent in hers.

“Ina kwana ehn...yaya kake?” She said to the stable boys who had one after the other offered a greeting, and lowered herself onto the hardwood bench. Her eyes caught the sheets of paper abandoned beside her, a small rock holding them down. She put the rock aside and snatched them up without thinking, reading the handwritten words before she could caution herself. They could’ve been private.

It was a poem. A good one. She should know, she’d spent most of her life reading.

She was still wondering who could’ve left such a valuable piece behind when a shadow fell over her.

“Good afternoon, Missus Bello.” The soft voice was male, and it didn’t sound Hausa. The face she looked up to wasn’t a familiar one either. She couldn’t boast she knew everyone who worked on her husband’s estate by name, but at the very least, she remembered the faces. She was confident she’d never seen this one before. She would’ve remembered; those eyes were the purest and lightest brown.

“Mrs Bello?” and she realized she hadn’t answered him.

“Ah… Bichara. S’il te plait.” She shifted her gaze away from his face, down to her laps, considering the cord lace trimmings of her long dress. She wished Nigerians weren’t so big on formalities.

“Pardon?”

“Bichara…, not that Mrs. Bello rubbish,” she said, feeling more than a little bit self-conscious. She was most conscious when she had to speak English. It was either that or Arabic here and she was terrible at both. Hausa was out of the question. A big smile spread across his face as she looked up again, giving the impression that he meant to laugh.

“Well Bichara, I’m John, your new gardener.” As an afterthought, he added “…well a new member of your gardening army.” He did a visual sweep of the vast grounds before his eyes rested on her again. She wished they hadn’t; she couldn’t hold them, her impulsive shyness.

“John? You’re not Hau…”

“I’m Fulani, but only half so… I’ve lived with my Sudanese mother most of my life and alone in Kano the remainder of the time.” She nodded, her gaze returning to the poem in her hand. John was her grandfather’s name. “I see you have my writing.”

“It(sic) yours?” She glanced at him once more.

He nodded. “It wasn’t exactly ready for public consumption.” Her brows furrowed, struggling to understand his words. “Oh…You only speak French?” He said in fluent French that reminded her of her husband. Her lips formed a tiny smile, a little embarrassed. She should’ve paid more attention to English in uni.

“I’m trying to learn…English and Hausa,” she replied in French, a weight coming off her. She looked at the papers in her hand again and realized the words were French. That’s why she could read them right away.

“I wasn’t ready for anyone to read this,” he murmured. His French was a little accented but it was perfect.

“Really? This is good…very good. You’re a writer?”

“Me? No no no!” He scoffed. “I just maybe…muse on paper some times.”

He snatched the paper from her hand. Caught off guard, she lowered her hand to her belly. Her back ache had disappeared.

“Well, I think it’s good enough to sell…or publish.” A big yawn escaped her lips as she spoke. She’d lost track of time, walking the estate. She was so exhausted she could fall asleep right there on the bench.

“Let me walk you back to the house?”

“Please.” She held onto his outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet. They walked with slow steps, his hand at the small of her back. He was a lot more presumptuous than most of the workers were, than he should be, than she should allow him to be, but she couldn’t help the strange comfort from the minuscule show of unpretentious care. She couldn’t let herself think about the source of her neediness.

“I’ve thought about it…selling this stuff.”

“And?” They were halfway across the field separating the stables from the house, and she couldn’t wait to collapse in bed. Was it normal to be so tired? She was going to soak her feet in salts the moment she reached the house.

“It’s impossible, here in the North, without a sponsor.” She turned her face to look at him, to find him staring straight ahead as they walked. His hand had left her back and she could breathe freely again.

“Why is that?” She said, and he turned to her at that moment, making her wish she hadn’t been staring at his profile. He chuckled. Was her question amusing?

“Well, I don’t know exactly. There’s not much money in our economy right now to be thrown around, I suppose,” He said in an offhand manner that reminded Bichara of her husband when he wanted to evade questioning, and an idea came to her.

“You have more of these poems?”

“Yes?” Where was she going with this? “…and some short stories.” She smiled up at him.

“Ok. Send a typed compilation to me as soon as you can… I’m willing to consider sponsoring you.”

“Hardcopy? I could email you the…”

“I prefer to read physical print…” She was surprised he wasn’t more excited she’d just offered to publish him. She was surprised at herself for offering out-of-nowhere. He seemed to have taken it in his stride. How could someone so talented be so complacent about such an opportunity? “When you’re ready, give it to Mrs. Ali…the housekeeper?”

She was doing it more for herself than for him. She’d always loved the idea of sponsoring art. She’d never had any real talent, or skill, beyond teaching and caring for children, so she was perpetually amazed when she met people who had one. She’d never even dreamed of an extravagant life in her future, the one she was now living. All she’d wanted was to teach at a good children’s school for as long as she was able to, then use whatever savings she had in retirement to tour the rest of Africa, and…well, she hadn’t thought much beyond that. She hadn’t even thought about marriage, or a family…until he’d proposed, her husband.

“Thank you, Bichara.” His belated reply surprised her, hearing her name from his lips even though she’d given him permission.

“Don’t thank me yet. I still need to read your work.”

“Well…thank you for giving it a chance then. That’s more than I’ve gotten from most people.”

They reached the patio, and John came to a halt just as the cobblestones met the pavement. She stepped onto it and turned to him, assessing his appearance closely. He looked a lot less muscular for a grounds man. The gardening overall seemed out of place on his lightweight body. He was probably gardening due to some unseen circumstance. Since she had the means to help him, she decided she should.

“You’re welcome. Thank you too…for helping me here.” She smiled and turned away from him, not waiting to hear anything else. She had to find Isha at once. As she entered the villa through its rear glass doors, she saw the exact person she wanted to see.

What do you think of Bichara? Is she too trusting? Isn't John a little too presumptuous? What do you think of the language barrier situation? Tell us in the comments below. We'd love to talk about it.

Chapter 2 will be posted next Saturday...