Iman Bashar | Thirty-five
A MISSION FOR A DREAM
___
Two weeks ago
"Iman!" Nimah called out to me when the chariot began to throttle away. "You were right!"
"About what!"
"The dream!" He smiled, then signed, 'Thank you'.
"You are most welcome dearest friend!" With a smile, I slipped through the gates and made my way into the Abubakar residence.
The Night of The Veil was a night neither I nor anyone in the kingdom would come to forget with ease. The flaming chandeliers, the singing flutes, the grandeur attires that depicted the very epitome of elegance. But of all things majestic and starry about that night, my best friend, a white man, dancing with the Queen struck me the most. A significant memory all of Arjana would carry with them for the rest of their evening.
I smiled my way into the hallways of the main Abubakar residence, replaying the sight. In all my years knowing Nimah, I had never seen him glow with such glee and gaiety. His glow was worth every price I needed to pay.
Much had been asked of Nimah for years, eventually driving him to the gallows and the guilt tore through me like an axe through wood. Of course, I lost many who chose to fight beside me, and all their deaths hunted me. But, Nimah never wanted any of it, any of the danger, the lies, the constant fear. I asked and pressed him for it until it came to be. He was a man standing beside his friend, even if it meant breaking himself. Nimah deserved a night of beauty and dreaming. A night where he was not the victim, rather a victor, with the kingdom's eyes on him. When the opportunity presented itself to make this a reality, I took it.
I told Nimah the tale of an abandoned Oshun temple where an old oracle resided, and how she had gifted me the camouflage magic because I spared her life. It was a beautiful lie for a good cause. If I told him the truth of it, the bargain I had made. The camouflage magic for a suicide mission. He would never have gone to The Night of Veil, he would never have even considered it.
We did encounter an old Oshun oracle, but it was I who sought her out. Few oracles agreed to an audience with a white person, so I figured, why not the Goddess of the old? The one who blessed the arrival of white explorers on Arjania soil in the first place.
"I wish for a friend to attend the Night of The Veil as a prince. Name your price," I said to the old quivering oracle, sitting on the bare muddy floor of the run-down temple, mostly destroyed by the cruel hands of age.
It was to be my utmost apology to Nimah, fixing his wounded heart with a dream. A dream that will bring back the optimism in him, by showing him what the future could become.
"You know your way around the sword," the Oracle said, straining every word as she opened her palms, revealing two vials. "A mission for a dream."
The mission: Aidding in the escape of a prisoner of the mines. An almost impossible feat. Almost, because I had not yet tried.
The mines were built with powerful magic wards. No magic thrived there. Even the deities would walk the mines' darkness with little energy to draw from. And now, I had come, a woman who spent her whole life with a sword, and the oracle offered me this choice.
When I returned, I summoned all those who I knew had served time in the prison mines and demanded they tell me of it in great detail.
"Once you are in the caves, there is no light," one said.
"No one knows their way around the mines," another said. "It is just an ever-deepening hole."
"A river runs somewhere underneath, it is where dead bodies are thrown. But even that is searched, too," a young boy of eighteen who served five years in the mines as a cook said.
"Tell me more about this river," I implored.
"Not much to tell. The only people allowed are those who work in the kitchen, those assigned to cleaning, and those assigned to throwing away dead bodies. The river goes nowhere, I believe," he answered.
They fed my ears for weeks with all the rules, places they could remember, where to go, who to go to, where to avoid.
"Iman. The prison mine is no place for a rebellion. If you are disorderly, the warden will behead you and everyone in your battalion for your sins," another woman who lived in the mines for twenty years said.
"My battalion?"
"All those you arrive with. You will be paired together." She watched my face closely as I watched the fire. The cracking noise of burning wood filled the air. "But, if you choose this." She dug out a rolled paper from the side of her wrapper and offered it to me.
I opened it and glanced over the portrait of a smiling young girl, "Who?"
"I was foolish enough to get pregnant during my sentence. But the child was nothing short of magic, a true blessing. However, all children born in the mines, stay in the mines." Her eyes filled with tears. "If... I wouldn't ask, but–"
"Yes," I said, "I will find her."
It was quiet for a time. She didn't need to say anything more, the gratitude poured out of her softened stare. "Her name is Tom. She won't look anything like the drawing. She will be a whole woman by now." She smiled painfully, then wiped her tears away.
"I will find her," I repeated.
What began as a simple mission, for the sanity of a dear friend. Now quickly turned into a rescue mission. Different people sent in portraits of a friend, a lover, their children. It was hope for many, though they knew it was highly unlikely I'd be able to rescue any of them.
I considered this. There were thousands of wrongfully imprisoned white Arjanians in the mines. If I were to find a way, I could help them cross the border into Niger. News had reached me concerning Niger's welcoming hands to white people. They were a poorer kingdom, with nothing but fishing and herding driving their economy. To us, that was an abundance of wealth.
For one to be imprisoned in the mines, one must have committed a grave crime. Sins like murder, arson, blasphemy. My choice was clear. I had always dreamed of wearing a hijab in public, it felt like embracing the freedom, my basic desire to wear what I chose. In a way, most white Arjanians, Muslims, Christians, or traditional worshippers understood this feeling. None of us were gifted the freedom to wear what we chose, especially those who lived in the capital.
"Iman," Fadimah called from the shadows as I strode through the hallway and my feet halted.
"What— how are you here? Shouldn't you be at the ball?"
She stepped out into the light from the burning torch hanging on the wall, illuminating her pretty face. "I could not bear to be there anymore, and not touch you. You were beautiful tonight, Iman."
I sighed, "No one was stopping you, Habibi."
"What in the name of Amadioha compelled you to such a stupid decision?"
"What do you mean?"
"You wore that," she pointed to my Hijab, "in public? At the royal ball? Have you gone mad?" She stepped forward. "Take it off."
"No."
"I said–" It all began to fade away, the blue of my gown turning back into the dark gray of servant rags. Midnight was finally upon us, the camouflage magic had run its course. With her lips ajar, she asked, "What just happened?"
"Goodnight, Fadimah." I began to turn away when she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the opposite hallway. "Let go! Let go this instant!" I tugged at her wrist.
She slammed me against the wall, her cold hand wrapped around my lips as her body weight pressed me hard against the wall. I whimpered in her palm, pulling at the other hand that dug into my ribs. "Is this it? Mmh? Your sick twisted way of leaving me! Prison?!" she roared, her glare tearing into me.
Fadimah and I were a peculiar kind of entanglement. A sick, twisted kind of entanglement on some days, and on other days, two pieces of art, painted by two different hands, coming together in perfect unison. I adored her, I loved her, I hated her, I despised her. There was no breathing when she was not there and there was no living when she was. Every memory I held dear was corrupted by the lie she was, and I never thought a dawn would come when my eyes parted in wakening, and found her absent from the sun rays. A beautiful torment she was.
In her grasp, my body learned its place. It obeyed the things she did not say and I stilled, holding my breath the more her gaze flared. She freed my lips and continued to pull me down the hallway. This time I refrained from protesting, the only way with Fadimah was her way.
I was fourteen when Papa was beheaded for stealing grain, then our village was burned down for participating in 'crimes against the crown'. Papa developed the first resistance and enforcers came to learn of this, administering the proper punishments.
Shortly after, I became a homeless servant, forced to work in a brothel for a little wage. Sweeping the floors and tending to the empty cups of guests was all I had to do---until it wasn't. Soon, just like every other orphaned teenager who worked in the brothel, I was up for the taking. The establishment was often frequented by high borns for both whores and palm wine. It was how we met, Fadimah and I.
She had just come of age at twenty and her friends believed a good way to welcome her into womanhood was to bring her to a brothel to lose her virginity before marriage, like a rite of passage amongst them.
I was pouring wine into the cups of a broad robust woman, a highly regarded General whose hands roamed free under my wrapper as they found their way to my ass, when my eyes first met Fadimah's for the first time. Deep brown eyes stared up at me from below the deck where I stood, her friends whispering things to her as they pointed out the prettiest girls for the taking in the brothel.
From the gold pieces of jewelry to the purple brocade outfit, the artful henna drawings all over her hands, lips tinted pink above dark glowing skin. I knew she was high-born. And not just any high-born, she must have come from the city of Khada, where only the most elite dwelled. Her beauty was that of a princess who had remained protected her whole life, locked away in mansions while constantly being pampered.
I had never had a crush or admired another woman. In my eyes, they were all the same. But Fadmiah illuminated before me, like the golden sun before it set. Her friends' glamorous outfits dulled in contrast to the glow she exuded. My heart skipped a few beats when her lips began to curve into a smile and I lost all sense of where I was, overfilling the General's cup until it was pouring all over her.
"Eh! Girl!" barked the General as she sprung up to her feet and I fell to my knees in apology, offering to wipe her clean. "I will take this one! And I'm not paying! She ruined my clothes! More clumsy than a blind dog," the General tapped at the brothel owner.
Madame Bimpe, the owner of the brothel who sat a few rows down, smoking snuff as she counted her cowries took one look at me and said, "Fine. One hour with the girl and her debt is paid for the clothes." She resumed counting.
"Get up, girl!" the General pulled me to a stand.
"I'll pay twenty cowries for a whole night with her!" a voice came from the crowd and when I turned to it, Fadimah stood with a satchel in her palm and tossed it to Madame Bimpe.
I was not worth twenty cowries for a night. One, at best.
"She owes me an hour!" the General reminded.
Madam Bimpe shrugged, then tossed her a cowry. "A debt paid."
Huffing a breath of annoyance, the General hurried past Fadimah, shoving her before moving down the stairs.
"She is yours for the night," Madam Bimpe said to Fadimah, and the matter was settled.
"Jookwah," Fadimah said to me once she was near, her spicy but sweet perfume encircling me.
"Jookwah." I bowed.
"I am Fadimah."
"Iman."
She led me to the private room she had purchased. I knew the routine, I had done it a thousand times before, but my heart raced for some reason as I followed her into the room. She was beautiful, audacious, full of curves, and... well... I was me. Not a second passed after we were inside I began to strip.
"This isn't too shabby, I was told there would be more elegance to the decor of this place, is this the be–" She was cut off by my nakedness as she turned around.
"It is the best room, Ada," I spoke softly.
She stared at me for a minute or two before approaching. I swallowed, holding my breath at her closeness. There was no reason to be, I had grown accustomed to the things that happened in those rooms. But Fadimah unnerved me.
She descended to her knees and retrieved my wrapper, her finger lightly brushing against my ankle, sending a jolt of shock through me as she ascended. "You are beautiful," she said. "But we can just talk, Iman."
Talk? No one talked in those rooms.
She gave me the bed and sat in the raffia chair opposite it. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," I answered meekly.
She made a face, a bit surprised. "At sixteen I was learning how to braid, how to catch fish." She chuckled. "Why have you come here?" her next question followed.
I smiled at the privilege of her question. To be black in Arjana was to be oblivious to the amount of pain people without color endured. I told her about my father, then about my village. She listened and asked more questions and I answered. When I felt I could, I began with questions of my own, and she answered the same. Such was the first night Fadimah and I shared.
The next morning came in the same likeness it always did, with the crowing of chickens, the tiniest of morning rays piercing through little cracks in the mud walls, then the smell of alcohol and sweat. I rolled to my side, purring as I woke, believing I was below the brothel where I and other orphaned teenagers shared a room. I was quick to recollect I was not. There was no recollection of when I had fallen asleep, just what she looked like smiling. It made me flush with a girlish giggle.
The door busted open and I was dragged up by one of the brothel keepers. "You've been bought, whitey," he said, pulling me along. That was all I was told throughout the ride, from the brothel to the magnificent residence I would now call home. Fadimah had bought me.
It was the first time I knew what freedom felt like since Papa's death. The first time I knew the taste of fruits, bread, grilled fish and milk. The sixteen-year-old girl I was marveled at what was to become my new life. A servant girl in Khada. Every white person's dream. Fadimah was like a touch of cool spring water in the middle of dry season. For the first time since Papa had passed, I thought, I could breathe–I thought.
Fadimah led me across the pool and into one of her private quarters. A reserved space for just her and me. She slammed me into the tiger skin chair sitting in the common area, paced to the left, then to the right, her chest heaving as she chewed her lip in thought.
"Fadimah–"
"Shut up!" she rasped. "I will hear nothing from you! Nothing!" She pulled off the gele on her head and tossed it to the corner. "I will write to Chief Justice Ekweme, he will know exactly what to do about this."
"Fadim–" She was upon me like a lioness on her prey, gripping my jaw tight as she straddled me.
"You will not go to prison, Iman. Not even to get away from me, not even to hide. You're mine. You belong to me. The heavens will fall before I ever let you slip away from me. How dare you. How fucking dare you. Did you forget what you are? Did you!" she seethed, eyes darkened and raging.
I shook my head. "How could I ever."
"Say it," she seethed.
"I belong to you, Fadimah. Only you."
"Yet you turn your back on me!"
"This is not about us!"
"It is always about us. You hate me, don't you? Say it!"
We locked in a tight tussle as I fought to free myself from her hold. I was not an easy woman to pin down or maneuver, but when it came to Fadimah, I lost all strength in my limbs. Ten years after she had walked into my life, I was still at her mercy. The harder I fought to free myself, the harder she fought to keep me there.
"Why? Do you think hate is the only thing that keeps me by your side!"
"Yes. That and all those connections I have provided for your precious resistance!"
It was quiet between us for a minute, then another. With every minute I grew angrier, more furious. Fadimah knew how to bring out the worst in me. Always. I shoved her hard with a scream and she landed on the stone with a loud thud. Then I was upon her, straddling her before slapping her hard across the face. Then harder the second time. The third time she caught my arm mid-air and our eyes burned into each other. The words unsaid hung in the air like daggers, ready to stab whoever spoke first.
"You will not reduce what I feel for you to opportunism. Only so you can justify your weakness." I snapped my hand out of her grip. "Even if I painted my skin black, I will always be white to you." I was breathless and shivering. "Tell me when you look at me you don't see someone beneath you." I waited, knowing in truth, she could not.
Slapping the back of my right palm into my left, I continued, "I BEG for scraps. I have gone against myself for you! I asked you not to marry him, I asked you to make me your concubine. Anything to stay by your side!" I pulled her up by her blouse, "But you want me here. Below you. A brothel girl for your pleasures for the rest of my life." I slammed her back into the ground. Rising to my feet, I staggered backward until I slumped into the seat behind me.
"Iman, you are no brothel girl," she said softly.
"I will always be a brothel girl. Because in the eyes of the woman I love, I am nothing."
It was quiet again. I bit my nails, then rubbed my palms together. Everything ached. Everything. It almost felt like I would implode with all the things I needed to say.
"I hate you!" I barked at her, "I hate you so fucking much I want to rip out this heart that beats only for you! You are the worst! You should have left me in that forsaken brothel! I. HATE. YOU!" I roared as my skin burned. Then I drew a deep breath.
Fadimah stared at me in shock—a reddish undertone to her dark skin. We let the silence linger for a few more moments before I heard her first sob, then caught a glimpse of the tears rolling down her cheeks. My heart shattered.
"I'm so sorry," I muttered, "forgive me. I didn't mean that, Fadimah. I didn't mean it." I rushed to her side and cradled her in my arms as she cried, squeezing my clothes.
Fadimah cried herself to sleep that night, holding me close. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, counting the hours till it was dawn. I had never said those words to her out loud, it felt as though I would breathe life into those emotions if I did. And now that I had, there was no going back.
I cuddled and kissed her. By morning, Fadimah was not in our bed, and the enforcers came to collect me for my blasphemous crime.
***
First look into Imans world. Thoughts?
New Chapter Tomorrow if you're good.
Thank you for reading, gentle reminder to vote.