Fiction story concepts and narrative development

Raheem woke up early that day. Maybe it was the wind, or perhaps it was the sick feeling in his belly. Ever since they booked the flights to Senegal, Raheem had not felt himself. After two hours of tossing and turning in bed he got up and watched the sun rise from the porch outside.

The duplex Raheem and his fiance lived in was on what could have been any old street in London. It might as well have been Bristol; the row-houses all looked the same. Their neighbors were nice enough. Yannis and Leah to the left were the only ones they ever exchanged words with but no one gave them the blank stares they came to associate with the city.

Dusk barely broke. Raheem smoked the last cigarette in his pack and did not care about where the next one would come from. He was going to Dakar tomorrow to meet Sheri's parents. Nothing else mattered now. Sheri still slept. She always slept well. Raheem did not; ever since he was a little boy his sleep was restless and full of dreams. Usually the dreams meant nothing but sometimes the same people would appear. He imagined that the man and woman in them were his parents but not having ever met them Raheem could only hope that they chose his nighttime visions to say hello. The people in his dreams looked nothing like the people in the photo he carried in his wallet.

Twenty years ago, almost to the day, Raheem was abandoned on a street corner in London. He knew it wasn't their fault. They never would have deliberately done that and must have been in prison or sent back to their native land wherever that might be. All Raheem knew was that Sheri was from Senegal and he hoped only that he would find himself amid the dust and dirt roads and the goats and the chickens and the heat of the sun. Inhaling deeply, Raheem could smell Senegal already.

Tomorrow they would leave. Sheri showed no signs of the tumultuous fear that gripped his soul and so he kept his inside to shelter her from his pain. Feeling the sting of abandonment deep in one's soul is enough to prevent one from wishing the same on anyone we love, and so Raheem barely spoke of his parents. His adoptive parents were lovely enough people but they were old and tired and they knew nothing of what it was like to not know who you were. Even Sheri knew who she was; her parents were flesh and blood. Raheem was about to meet his new family and felt a childlike sense of longing for their embrace, their understanding, their unconditional acceptance. He expected no less, and probably a bit more than what he got from Sheri herself.

Mon Sheri," he said when he stood over the bed that morning as dawn asserted itself through their windows. "Mon Sheri, it is time to leave. We have a plane to catch!" His excitement matched that of the sunrise, which shone brightly in anticipation of their journey. As if it were natural for the streets to be bathed in such glorious light, Sheri smiled when she opened her eyes and asked, "Are we ready?"

The sun is shining. The sun never shines here in April. This is our day to shine! I'll call the taxi as soon as you wash up."

Sheri crawled out of bed and brushed her teeth. She washed her face and hands and changed her clothes, putting her pajamas into her suitcase and zipping it shut for the journey ahead. They had one bag each of their own clothes and one bag each bearing gifts for Sheri's family. The bags were filled with sundry items for children, clothing for adults, and candy for everyone. They had books, they had CDs, they had tennis shoes and T-shirts. Raheem had a copy of his diploma too in case her parents needed to be sure he was good enough to marry their daughter. Both of them had their documents ready to show the immigration officials they were citizens of the United Kingdom.

The flight to Dakar lasted only eight hours stopping once, in Lisbon. Not having left the European Union since it was called the European Union, both Sheri and Raheem were nervous about the border crossings and the customs checks but having nothing to hide they traveled with an innocence befitting anyone taking a personal trip. The airport teemed with people of all colors, a multicultural melange they might not see when in Senegal. They held hands at the gate anticipating the boarding call, watching the Airbus cargo crew load up the plane with passenger baggage and catering trays. The in-flight movies were silly and so they both slept soundly, Raheem as fitful as ever and Sheri as sound as she usually was with her head resting against Raheem's shoulder.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our initial decent into the Dakar region. Please fasten your seat belts. Flight attendants prepare for landing." Raheem's heart beat faster but so slightly even he remained unaware. His anxiety levels quickened as they deplaned but especially when Sheri ran to embrace the mom and dad she had not seen for over seven years. Tears flowed. Mom and dad looked directly into Raheem's eyes and waves of warmth and recognition passed between them. Raheem was part of the family. An aunt and her daughter accompanied them to the airport and the extended family arrived with two cars whether out of need or out of showmanship, it did not matter so long as all their bags fit snugly in the trunks and they made their way safely to the tenement buildings in which the family dwelled. Aunt and her children lived on the third floor; Raheem's future parents-in-law on the fourth, with Sheri's grandparents. A small meal awaited them and before they could unpack the barrage of questions began.

Who are your parents? What do they do? Where did you go to college? What did you study?"

Raheem answered as best he could. He took out the photo of his parents and proudly showed it to Muhammad and Marianne. Raheem was too proud to notice the look on Muhammad's face when he handed back the photograph and only knew something was wrong later, after Sheri and Marianne had gone to bed. Taking out a bottle of whiskey stored in a cupboard in the bedroom, Muhammad poured them each a glass to drink and said, "You cannot marry my daughter."

But why, sir? What have I done wrong?"

You have done nothing yourself but you see, your mother and I were once married."

Raheem's stomach churned, swelling with all the fear he ever felt in his life. "What are you talking about?"

Here, I can prove it to you." From the same cabinet from which he drew the liquor Muhammad pulled out a box of photographs and rummaged for one: a photo of Raheem's mother and him arm in arm.

You are not my son; you were already hers when I met you. But you are still my son because of that, and I cannot let you marry my daughter."

Raheem was speechless and only after a few minutes of silence could his throat relax. "But we are technically not related; I am not your son and therefore we are not related by blood so there is no problem and no one needs to know about this."

Muhammad slammed down his drink so loudly Raheem feared the women would awaken. "No! You will not marry my daughter."

His voice echoed through the corridors and Marianne walked in, asking what the ruckus was about. Seeming no less pleased than Muhammad, the family cold-heartedly forbade Raheem to sleep anywhere near Sheri that night and so he was forced to move in with the aunt and her family for the next few days. He was fed well there, but treated coldly and was forbidden even to see Sheri until one morning the aunt pulled Raheem aside by the kitchen window.