Monsoon Winds Hotel: A Novel

By Julie A. Bankston

WHEN ON A JOURNEY.....
Out of love for her profession, school teacher Ivy Jones accepts an offer from her long lost cousin Genevieve, to teach the children on the Island of Zanzibar for the Summer. The last thing Ivy expected was to bring closure to the Jones family's unsolved mystery.



EXPECT SOME SURPRISES... Genevieve tries to hold on to one of her dearest secrets, but it's eating at her conscience nearly making her insane. She watches her secret unravel by unexpected events that occur, while her life seems to suddenly take a turn downward. Genevieve learns that secrets reveal themselves when it's time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663224552

Julie A. Bankston

Julie A. Bankston, was a Mental Health Professional for twenty-five years, she is a licence Hypnotherapist, and a licencee Social Worker. She has a bachelor degree in Social Welfare, a master in Education of Family Studies, and a Doctoral in Organizational Leadership. She currently live her life writing and being a Servant Leader to the world, engaging in worldwide Humanitarian work. She states she wants to share her heart with the world though her writings and helping others.

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 Julie A. Bankston.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2454-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2455-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021912520

iUniverse rev. date:  06/11/2021

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Swahili Word Definitions

Special Thank

s To

Theresa Price

for all your hard work on helping

to bring my book to life!

Sometimes the wind speaks to us,

But we have to be willing to listen.

Acknowledgments

The One God Almighty, Jehovah,

Who is the Revealer of all secrets

And the Creator of all things

And is the One we must answer to!

Is it true that

What goes around

Comes around,

You reap what you sow?

It is said a secret is only a secret if you keep it to yourself, but it’s not even a secret

then

because God knows all

secrets.

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For the word of God is living and active.

Sharper than any double-edged sword,

It penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit,

Joints and marrow, it judges the thoughts and attitudes

Of the heart

Nothing in all creation is hidden from

God’s sight.

Everything is uncovered and laid bare before

The eyes of him to whom we must give account.

—Hebrews 4:12, 13

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Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction inspired by the beauty of the island of Zanzibar. I want to take African American females around the world to explore other cultures and countries to understand that life does not stop in America. America is only a small facet of life to be indulged in.

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Chapter 1 Doc1.jpg

Ouch! What the…? Ivy yelled out as the bus went over some large objects.

Zanzibar, said the guide, is an island famous for its beauty. For the beautiful hand-carved artwork in the doors; the calm, romantic air; and the spices. For the last fifteen miles, Ivy had heard scarcely a word the guide said. She was in deep thoughts about what her aunt and cousin’s journey must have been like. She had been traveling along this long, curving road that went along the Forodhani waterfront close to the mambo building, the last home of the great explorer Dr. David Livingstone. And where the legendary Della, Ivy’s aunt, came to Zanzibar thirty years ago with five bags and boxes, along with her first cousin, Genevieve, no older than herself at that time. Now Ivy was coming to visit Genevieve, who was still living on the island of Zanzibar. Nestling in the Indian Ocean, Zanzibar is a partner state in the United Republic of Tanzania. If Della had driven on these roads, it must have been a long, bumpy, exhausting journey with frequent stops at the various inns they passed. No wonder she contracted malaria. Although that must have been quite a long time later. By then she had certainly reached Zanzibar to find her elderly aunt had died and left her a small castle that looked out over the beach from a cliff above the sweeping bay. The atmosphere of the place was serene and friendly. Della had fallen in love, and Genevieve hastened to save her from a disastrous marriage to a man she thought just wanted Della for her money and to get to the United States.

When just two weeks ago, a letter had arrived to Ivy in Philadelphia from Genevieve, inviting her to Zanzibar. Ivy’s mother’s immediate reaction was, Stay away from that old bitch! Ivy had been told the story of Della’s trip to Zanzibar, where family said she died. Her parents were angry when she refused to come home but instead called to announce her intention of marrying some Zanzibarian, a university teacher, and a very good-looking native with African and Arabic features. Genevieve insisted he had his eyes on Della’s money and American citizenship. Ivy also heard about her plain cousin, Genevieve, being dispatched to bring her back, but in the end, neither of them, nor Della’s so-called husband, returned to the United States.

Ivy hadn’t realized what a fascinating story it was until the letter came from Genevieve. Now she demanded to hear the it again, and her mother had no problem telling it. Her mother began to talk about what she knew, in a less than kind voice. Genevieve was no doubt tired of being considered a poor sorry first cousin of Della’s. I don’t blame her. Della and I used to call her Genevieve, the Queen of the African Island. But she was fond of Della, or professed to be. Genevieve was very willing to desert her pupils and take her little ruler to Zanzibar and rap poor Della sharply on the knuckles and tell her to behave when she felt things got out of order. She, in simple words, was supposed to be Della’s police. Anyway, she quickly dispatched the lover, locked Della in her room, put voodoo on her, and starved her to death.

Mama, she didn’t!

Her mother rolled her eyes, the Joneses’ big brown eyes, a little faded now, as Della’s would have been, but still sexy and ravishing. A moot point, my dear. A very moot point. Della was told not to go messing around on some island in Africa. I can well remember how Della looked before she set out on her travels. Della was the complete female, all the curves in the right place and shape, and clothes worn to accent her well-proportioned shape. But Genevieve, her appearance was not so easy on the eyes. She was a plain dresser and had a body that was straight as a board, flat butt, and a small Afro. Nothing to attract a Zanzibarian’s roving eye.

Ivy convulsed with laughter. Mama, you’re exaggerating.

Not a bit of it. You think all black women have a large round bottom.

No I don’t, Mama.

If a lady is in Africa and has no round bottom, heads will not turn. And if she is skinny, consider, she should consider herself invisible. That’s exactly how I remember her, Ivy’s mother said in a firm voice. That’s what some say. Others say Genevieve married him herself, the man for Della.

The very same man? But she couldn’t have! I mean, Della with her nice full-figure curves and butt, Genevieve the way you describe her? Ivy asked, puzzled.

Well something mighty strange happened. Within two years after their stay in Zanzibar, Genevieve was married to a gentleman called Abdulra Alraisi, a Muslim; mostly all the people who live on Zanzibar practice Islam. It is sad to think that Della died of a broken heart and voodoo.

Surely it was a surprise to the family here, Ivy said.

Genevieve had to call it something, but I have my own theory. She must have been very jealous of Della. Think about it for yourself. Della was pretty, Genevieve plain. Della was well-off or even rich for the time. Her father was a famous musician who traveled around the world. This was a lucky break for a black man in his period. Della had a string of admirers. Genevieve had few to none.

Then that makes it all the more unlikely that she could steal Della’s lover. Ivy remarked.

Yes, you have a point there. My mother and father were certain he had to be bought off with Della’s money. Della came into some money from her father when he died, so she was a very appealing catch for a Zanzibarian. But in the end, no one got her. What happened before her death no one knows except Genevieve. But Della left Genevieve the house in Zanzibar, either in gratitude or to keep her mouth shut; I don’t know why. So she was able to live in luxurious surroundings for the first time in her unselfish life. Ivy’s mother looked off in a daze, wondering what really happened on that island.

She and her husband, this Abdulra? Ivy asked.

That’s right.

But didn’t anyone go and see for themselves what really happened?

I would have if I’d been old enough. And also to get me one of those handsome Zanzibar boys. However, I was just a girl of fourteen years, in school, still trying to learn what it was to be a black American in the sixties. Though Della had gotten the end she deserved. My mother was always uncomfortable about having such a beautiful daughter, so unlike herself. She was timid and completely dominated by my father. Della was a meteor flashing through their lives. and they never knew it.

And through Genevieve, too, I imagine.

Genevieve should have been their daughter. It should have gone on when I was older, I would have gotten a round-trip ticket to Zanzibar and kicked some butts, voodoo and all, her mother reflected. But somehow I could never bring myself to be pleasant to Genevieve. I’d probably have ended by accusing her of murdering Della.

Mama, no!

Well, maybe it wouldn’t have been true, but Della shouldn’t have died at thirty. Scratching up the hot dirt to bury her at thirty. That’s prime age. Ivy’s mother’s face was dark with the helplessness of old anger. While Genevieve thrived and prospered in Zanzibar from all her wealth, the family in the States just sat and worried.

But that was to her credit. She had a business brain.

Yes, I grant her that. She opened a hotel. Monsoon Winds Hotel is what it is called. It’s for tourists, mostly from Europe. I hear that it is very, very nice, and she earns a good living. I’ve seen her name in sales tourist ads from time to time. She must be very old now, but she has a daughter and a son-in-law to carry on I hear.

She sounds like a fascinating old woman.

I’ve no doubt she is. But why the devil should she be suddenly interested in you?

She read about the National Teachers Award in the paper and saw my picture and name. She knew right away, I guess, who I was. I think she’s proud of me, and the children there could benefit from my skills and knowledge.

Her mother reared up indignantly. Good God! How dare Genevieve takes advantage of your skills and uses them for whom? Look what you’ve got: a perfect body, good height, long legs, plenty of poise, a sense of humor, and intelligence. And the Joneses’ big, brown, innocent eyes. What else could anyone want? No, baby, I haven’t forgotten your award. All it means is that you won’t have to be a schoolteacher for the rest of your life. Which I must admit, I never thought paid you well enough anyway for all the time and skill you put into teaching.

"Mama, it’s not about the money.