by Yasmin Angoe
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” she says through a wry smile. Her eyes are the color of chestnuts. A simple patterned duku is wrapped around her hair. She is tall, pleasant looking, her husky voice reminding me of a warm desert breeze.
She brings me a bowl of light soup, urging me to eat. “The spice will revitalize you.”
It is the hottest meal I have had in—again, I try to recall how long we have been here. I yearn to ask, but I refuse to speak just yet. If she is here tending to me so freely and without guards, then she must work for Paul. She looks too well to be one of us—the captives. My first instinct is to trust those kind eyes because to trust is all I ever learned before the attack, but I am learning hard lessons about trust and good and evil. The only girls who flourish here are the ones who have become amenable to the guards’ wiles, thinking it will keep them alive and off the sales rack.
“You’ve been here for two days.”
Abayisɛm. Witchcraft. She must be using her juju powers to read my thoughts.
I do the calculations in my mind. Two days here, plus two in the box. Before that, how long in this wretched place? A fortnight? Three weeks? A month? Eternity? There is no sense of time in this place, and it destabilizes me. The soup slides down my throat. I relish the burn all the way to the bottom of my stomach and immediately feel better. An angry rumble erupts in protest. My hand flies to my belly. I hope I do not get sick.
“My name is Essence,” she says. “I was here when you arrived.”
I chew my bottom lip, considering whether to converse or continue my stony silence. There is nothing I have to say, but my mind is a cacophony of questions. There are things I need to know.
She leans in, her voice conspiring. “They tell me I’ll go to America. Maybe that is not so bad. America is full of rich people, o? Land of the free.”
Of which she will not be. Does she jest or truly believe what she says?
She waits for my response, and when it does not come, she continues. “You need to get well or get dead or find something to contribute that they can use.”
“I think—he said there is a Frenchman for me.”
Essence’s eyes widen as she claps softly. “That’s good, o! France is the country of lovers. I’ll have a rich man, and you will have a loving one. You won’t be so bad off, eh? Anything is better than here.”
“We are being sold,” I hiss, my anger untethered. “Like animals.” That she would try to find a positive aspect in this black hellhole of ours is confounding. “Or maybe you have already sold yourself out.”
Her eyes flatten as she peers at me. She leans back, unimpressed with my accusations. “I do what I have to do to survive. You would do well to follow the same plan.” She turns in a huff, leaving me to eat the rest of my soup and contemplate my future.
I am content to spend the rest of my recovery in solitude and silence, but Essence is not built for silence. She inches near, sending me furtive looks.
“Is it true?” she hedges.
“Is what?” I gaze forlornly at the empty bowl, wishing I could grab it and lick it clean.
“About the guard. Is it true that you bit his ear off? For true bit his ear off? Like this?” She mimics what she thinks I did, gnashing her teeth against an imaginary ear. I nearly laugh at the look of her. She has her answer.
She whistles, dropping back into the chair. She is impressed with me now, but I still see the warning in her eyes. “You should be careful.”
“Why?” Being careful in this place is an oxymoron.
“That guard—Paul had him killed as punishment for you ending up in here. Because of you, one of theirs is dead.”
Her words tumble around in my mind. Because of me, one of theirs is dead. There is no guilt at this discovery like there is for my family.
“They will seek retribution.”
I am okay with being the reason their numbers are minus one. I would subtract the whole lot of them if I could.
The thought becomes my fantasy, making me giddy. Visions of killing each one of these bastards, especially Paul, bring me immense joy, though I know I will not be given the chance. I will either die here or die at the hands of whatever trash Paul sells me to. Essence leaves the medical building, but I am too far into my fairy-tale world to notice.
I would save Paul for last. I would make him watch as I dismantled his life and everything he holds most dear—money, power, respect. He is nothing but a covetous man who takes from others to make himself feel big. He will try and try and never achieve what he wants more than his own humanity.
These thoughts help me mend. These are the fantasies that wile away the endless time at the Compound. These are the wishes that help me bide my time as I await the inevitable.
The arrival of market day.
23
AFTER
Two days after Nena took Attah Walrus out and practically gave her family a heart attack, she was pulling onto the private school’s grounds, trailing behind another car that led her to where the students congregated to meet their rides home. She surveilled the property as she pulled to a stop in the curved driveway, wondering for the hundredth time why she’d come. She stepped out of her luminescent white Audi, shutting the door behind her. Her eyes jumped from point to point, mapping the location with the precision of a cartographer.
There wasn’t security past the gate she’d entered. Teachers dotted the grounds, but they were more involved in their own conversations than in what the students were doing. The adults in the car line were too busy using their phones or speaking with each other. Students milled around, some playing sports, some talking. The place reminded her of the preparatory school she and Elin had attended. The school didn’t seem like Cortland’s or Georgia’s cup of tea, but what did she know?
She spied Georgia sitting on a bench on the plush lawn, glancing at her watch. The girl looked up and noticed Nena. Georgia’s first reaction was shock, not fear, Nena noticed, pleased. Georgia jumped off the bench and nearly ran to where she stood.
As she neared, a student passing by asked, “Who’s the Audi?”
Nena’s brows crinkled as she looked at her car. It wasn’t any different than the expensive imports lining the pickup line.
“Don’t worry about it,” Georgia said, reading Nena’s expression. She stopped short of her, breathless and flushed. “That’s how kids here at Prep refer to the cars they’re riding in. I guess you’re an upgrade from my dad’s Chevelle, so they noticed.”
Nena nodded. These kids had life easy if car types were all they noticed.
“How’d you know where to—” Georgia stopped when she recognized the school lanyard Nena dropped in front of her. The ID twisted in the breeze, sunlight glinting off the plastic.
She groaned, accepting the ID. “Where were you when I needed this?”
“Indisposed.”
Georgia’s eyebrows furrowed as teen angst emanated from her. “I had to serve hours for two days.”
Nena’s blank stare prompted her to add, “After-school detention.” She slipped the lanyard over her head, patting the ID three times.
“For good luck,” she explained. “Thanks for bringing it.”
“You’re welcome, Georgia Baxter.” Nena slipped her hands into the back pockets of her dark denim jeans as she tried to think of what came next. Awkward. She wasn’t sure what to say to a kid. She didn’t usually deal with them in her line of work. What did people this young like to talk about?
Georgia toed the earth with her sneakers, eyeing Nena warily as the wind blew at the thick coils around her head. She brushed them back impatiently, her eyes moving all over: from Nena’s face to her car, to the ground, to Georgia’s Vans and Nena’s All Stars. All the while, Nena watched patiently and waited for the girl to say her piece.
“Are you like a cop or special agent or something? A spy, maybe? Mission Impossible or G.I. Jane, which is one of my favorite movies, by the way?”
Nena was amused. “Noted.”<
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Georgia grinned back. “Yeah.” She looked away bashfully, as if deciding whether she should continue.
“What’s on your mind?” Nena prompted, leaning back against her car. She wasn’t ready to leave just yet. And she wanted to figure out why.
Georgia took a step forward, her eyes trained intently on Nena’s. “The other night was like a scene right out of Black Panther.”
The tiniest smile played at Nena’s lips. She’d heard this before. She and Elin had gotten a kick out of the movie when it had come out, musing about how it captured the essence of the Tribe and Africa. Their dad had groused, “It’s nothing like Africa.” But his daughters knew he liked the idea of it as well.
She leaned in closer to Nena. “How—how did you . . .” She swallowed and cleared her throat. “The thing with the big guy’s neck. I didn’t think it was possible to break a neck with your bare hands.”
Nena cocked her head at an angle. “Separating the vertebrae is not typical or easy. It was the first time it actually worked.” Nena had thought Georgia’s eyes couldn’t get any larger. She was wrong.
“You must have a considerable amount of upper-body strength,” Nena added. “You can’t just twist it like you see in movies. More of a one-two-three combination and a lot of luck.”
Georgia’s gulp was audible, and five whole seconds passed before she could speak again.
Nena scanned their surroundings. What was keeping Georgia’s father? Most of the students had dispersed. The car riders’ line had thinned, and a group of four girls was headed Georgia’s way. Nena made ready to leave; she’d kept Georgia from her friends long enough.
Georgia squinted against the sunlight. “Anyone ever told you, you kind of look like Yetide Badaki from American Gods? Maybe Lashana Lynch? She’s the new 007, you know. Was in Captain Marvel too. Love her.”
Nena frowned. The girls were nearly upon them. “You watch a lot of TV.”
“What else is there to do?” Georgia countered. “You sort of sound like her too.”
Nena’s lips pursed. “Because all British people sound alike?” She rather enjoyed watching Georgia squirm.
“No.” Georgia’s hand shot out, grasping Nena’s wrist, to both of their surprise. Nena looked down at the light-pink polished fingernails. The last person who’d touched her without invite was no longer of this world. Gently, she twisted her hand from Georgia’s grip.
“I-I just mean you sounded like there was something else too.”
Nena nodded slowly. “The ‘something else’ is my Ghanaian accent. I also come from around London.” Why was she telling Georgia this? It was like Nena was trying to impress her.
“I get that. My mom was Haitian Cuban, and Dad’s African and Haitian, although I’m not sure where in Africa. It’s down the line.”
Nena didn’t respond. She wasn’t looking at Georgia, her attention hijacked by the arrival of the quartet. She straightened, palming her key fob so she could really leave this time. One chattering teen was enough for one day. Five was a nightmare.
Georgia turned to where Nena gazed and let out a groan. “Great. Sasha.”
The first girl, Nena assumed, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, all-American girl who led the pack with the other three in tow. And from the way dread covered Georgia’s face like a death shroud, Nena could tell this Sasha was unwelcomed. The vibe emanating from her rubbed Nena the wrong way as well.
“Georgie, my driver’s here,” Sasha started, stopping nearly between them, forcing her way into the center of attention.
Right, kids here could afford fancy drivers, not Lyft or Uber, to drive them wherever they wanted to go.
Sasha asked, “Want a ride?”
Georgia pursed her lips. “My dad will be here soon.”
“Speaking of, what’s it like for your dad to have brains splattered all over his face?” Sasha asked, widening her sparkling blue eyes in faux concern. “Freaky, right? He’s okay?”
Nena didn’t like the way unease gnawed around her edges at the mention of the shooting.
Georgia’s tone grew uncomfortable and her face shuttered. “He’s good.”
“What happened with Georgia’s dad?” A second girl, Asian, looked alarmed. Her concern for Georgia, Nena noted, was genuine. Georgia should go home with this one, not the fake Barbie.
Sasha turned to her friends. “Apparently, her dad was, like, right next to the guy who got his head blown off, Kit.”
Georgia mumbled, looking down, “Wasn’t quite like that.”
Except it kind of was. Only Nena wasn’t going to share that with the group.
The one called Kit asked, “Is he okay?” She reached out to touch Georgia’s shoulder. Nena watched Georgia seem to melt at Kit’s touch, the authenticity cutting through her defensiveness.
Georgia nodded. “Yeah.”
The anguish on Georgia’s face made Nena uncomfortable. Knowing she was the cause of the trauma both Georgia and her father were going through brought on spasms of guilt. Another new feeling Nena had never had before and didn’t care for at all. She never thought twice about a mark or a kill.
Nena took a step to leave when the one called Sasha spoke. “’Kay, we’re out then. Catch you later, Curious George.”
There was a slight breeze in the air, and yet it was as if they’d been sucked into a vacuum. Nena, having experience with all sorts, expected insecure people like this girl to make other people feel as bad as they did. She let their insecurities roll off her back like beads of water, but she caught how Georgia dipped her head, shame covering her face like a mask. Rage bubbled up within Nena, a protective type she wanted to blanket over Georgia so she’d never have to feel like she was less than again. Nena knew that feeling, that loss of self-worth, the inability to call someone out for speaking untowardly. She knew how it felt to be at the mercy of others. And there was no way she’d let it happen here when she could put an end to it, unlike she’d been able to do before.
24
BEFORE
We are on the way to some unknown location, trussed up like life-size dolls. Just as my nerves are at the point where I believe I am going to jump from the moving truck bed and fall to my death, the truck squeals to a stop. Trace scents of burning torches fueled with kerosene and a sprinkle of laughter are on the wind. The girl beside me is breathing heavily, although the breath could very well be my own.
The younger girls relax, allowing themselves to be lulled into a false sense of security. Laughter and music have always meant something good in N’nkakuwe, so it must mean good here too.
“Maybe they have changed their minds? Will return us home?” Yaa asks, sounding much younger than her twelve years.
“Our home is gone, stupid,” Constance says bitterly. Before all of this, she was going to be a runway model in America because of her height. No one will likely find her model quality again. Not with the scar that crosses her face from scalp to chin, gifted to her the night the intruders came.
Yaa blinks several times, forced to remember there is no more N’nkakuwe. “Something must still be there,” she whispers, refusing to give up entirely. “Our families have relocated to nearby towns, and the authorities are looking for us this very moment.”
Constance asks, “Then why have they not located us?”
Yaa shrugs. “Ghana is big.”
“Not that big,” Ester says.
No one argues. Ester is likely a year older than Yaa, with big round eyes and full lips that used to always curve into a smile back home. Not anymore.
In total, we are six. Ester, Mary, Yaa, Constance, and Mamie. The injuries I suffered at the hands of the guards and from the Hot Box are not entirely healed, but over the last week Essence has cared for me as best as she could. I willed myself to be well enough to be present at this ridiculous sale because I want out of the Compound, and by whatever means necessary. Thus, I grit my teeth, bear the pain, and pretend my ribs are not sore to the point of immobility, that when I urinate it does not st
ing and is not tinged pink. My kidneys, Essence guessed when I told her. They will heal. Perhaps they will. If Paul and his hounds permit it.
The flap to the back of the truck opens, and guards tell us to get out. A warm breeze greets us as we disembark one by one. The guards touch us enough to help us down in the uncomfortable shoes they make us wear. Paul has us dressed piously and pure, as if we are young brides. Truthfully, we are nothing but fancy whores for purchase in an even fancier brothel. No manner of white and frills can mask that.
I take in my surroundings. We are at some estate nestled in a cove of tall trees that obscures it from the travel-heavy roads. The house is brightly lit with wide windows that show everything. Through them, I see mostly men, some women, a melting pot of nationalities.
Each of us has an assigned guard to accompany her throughout the night until she becomes sponsored. Sponsored. It’s the word Paul says the buyers prefer to use. It makes them feel less like slavers and more like people “sponsoring” a new life for youth in need.
Parked amid a row of luxury cars I have only seen on the television is Paul’s forest-green BMW, an older model. He exits it, dressed in a fancy suit that likely is worth more cedis than I can imagine.
We stand at attention while Paul walks down the line, inspecting, ensuring we are presentable enough to be sold like the slaves we have become.
Paul says, “Do not speak unless you are told. Be demure. You’re not sluts, for God’s sake.”
Is he daft? His men have made us so ten times over.
“Smile and look like you want to be here, because if I do not fetch a price for you, if you are not sponsored—”
Sponsored.
“—you will not return to the Compound.”
Paul is strictly business, smoothing his suit beneath the orange glow of the lit torches lining the premises. His words feel directed toward me, since I am the one who got a man of his killed.
He might still believe I am a valuable prize for my lineage, but I am no more than any of these girls. They are, in fact, better than me, because they hold out hope all will turn out well. However, all hopes died weeks ago back in our village. And dead is what these girls and I will be if we do not fetch a price for Paul. With the thought looming in my mind, I follow the others along the stone path toward the brightly lit house filled with our future masters.