* * *
—
When the man wakes them in the middle of the night, they do not realize it is the middle of the night. They think it is daytime and the man is waking them to take them to Binah’s village. It is cold. The girls emerge from their sleep and are still in the land of dreams, then they see the dog, recognize it, but it is growling now and baring its teeth. They snap awake as if a pail of freezing water has been thrown in their faces. Bakhita hears Binah scream. Then she feels it. The chain around her ankle. Binah tries to run away, but succeeds only in tripping Bakhita. They are both on the ground. Binah shrieks, tries to crawl, her hands clutching at the icy ground, Bakhita catches hold of her hand, draws her close, and holds her tight. Binah sobs in her arms. Bakhita makes no sound. She feels no surprise or anguish. She is no longer afraid. She is as high up and cold as the stars paled by the moon. She lives far, far away, beyond this night, with her little Binah in her arms. Chained to her. Again.
* * *
—
The memory of what she and Binah experienced in that sheepfold is one of her greatest traumas. An alarm woke inside her, a memory that lurked in all her fears and many of her nights. Like a visitation. The fire in Olgossa, then the cell in which her captors locked her, and now this sheepfold, these are three abyssal depths. The steps to hell. After the shepherd has chained them, they are shut in the sheep pen, trampled, butted, bitten by the whole flock, the animals walk over them, smother them, ram them, and soil on them, and still the chain around their ankles, digging into their calves, and Binah moving only when she sobs. Bakhita has no words to comfort her. They do not speak. But touch each other’s hand. Sleep a little during the day when the sheep are let out, sleep on the filthy ground, in the stench of droppings that makes them nauseous, sleep in brief snatches, tormented by thirst and hunger, and when the sun goes down, they hear the flock return, the fear of that bleating coming nearer is as long and sharp as a needle, and when the rams fight they are butted by their horns, and they cry at the injustice of it all. And yet, treated like animals, mistreated by animals, shut away, trampled, chained, still their personalities, their dreams, and even a part of their innocence, of who they are, live on.
The shepherd comes for them one morning, drags them outside. How many days, how many nights had they spent in the sheepfold, they do not know. Three days? Ten days? Thirty? It was a nightmare in which time had no business. They lived in a time distorted by violence, at the mercy of a cruel, sadistic, backward man. When they come out of the sheep pen they look more like two old women than two little girls. Their skin is blighted, scabbed, and dirty, two stooped figures holding hands, their nails broken, they emerge into the daylight, half human and half animal, with the same obedience and the same mute passivity. They are hauled outside, offer no resistance, do not think or anticipate anything but simply obey. Slavery has caught up with them once more, as if every other form of life has disappeared. The only truth is slavery.
* * *
—
The shepherd wants to sell them to a dealer who grimaces as he prods them, Bakhita understands that they are worth very little. But they are young, That’s what sells best. Children. They are easier to mold. To make just the way we want them. The girls are asked to squat, stand up, squat again, they are touched in intimate places, and Bakhita feels ashamed to be so dirty, this shame is the first sign that she is still alive. When the men remove the chains to watch the girls walk, Binah falls, Bakhita cries her name in a voice that grates like rough stones because that is what she is now, full of earth and stones. She is frightened of being bought without her friend. Sprawled on the ground, Binah looks at Bakhita as if seeing her from far away, as if trying to remember who she is. The daylight is blinding, Bakhita reaches her hand out to her friend. Binah looks at her but does not move. The shepherd kicks her in the back to get her up. This makes her curl into a ball, she turns her head slightly toward the sky and simply stays there. Bakhita is still reaching out her hand. She wants to hear that story again, the one about little Mende and Binah teaching her to walk. Wants to sing her funny song to her again. Because she knows, knows that if Binah has the strength to get up, they will start living again. But if one is chosen and not the other, then the other will be sent back among the rams and ewes. Alone with them. And that, that would not be possible. Alone with the shepherd. That would not be possible. The dealer grows impatient. His slaves wait behind him. Shaking with exhaustion and anger. The ones crying must have been caught only recently. And these newcomers are constantly whipped, even when standing, even when waiting, they are whipped, Bakhita can hear the guards grunting with each lash, the whistle of the whip before it strikes their skin with a wet sound, the groans from the men and the whimpers from the women. She tries to forget them, leans closer to Binah and whispers “Awadir,” the name she had as a beloved child. Binah opens her eyes. She wants Bakhita to forgive her, but she can’t do it, she can’t take any more. There. It’s over. This is where she stops. Her eyes ask for forgiveness, and then they close of their own accord, such a gentle relinquishment. Now Bakhita forgets the dealer, the shepherd, the guards, and the whip, couldn’t care less about them in fact, she is determined to save her friend, touches her shoulder and reaches out her hand firmly, this hand that Binah has so often held, this strength.
“Don’t leave me,” says Bakhita.
Binah smiles slightly, a desolate smile.
“Don’t leave me all on my own.”
Binah hesitates, would like to smile at her but can’t manage it.
“Come, please…”
The dealer strikes Bakhita and she backs away. He says something angry and strikes her again. Bakhita puts her arm in front of her face until he stops beating her, and then she slowly lowers her arm, and sees, standing before her, Binah. She has picked herself up and is waiting to be inspected. The dealer turns to her, spits on the ground, and screws up his face as he feels her bones and her stomach, then he slaps her legs, lifts her eyelids, and when he holds her chin to look inside her mouth, Binah steps back, her teeth hurt so terribly, her cheek and throat are burning. The dealer opens her mouth wide, as if trying to split Binah open in two, open her up by the mouth, and he delves his fingers inside. He pulls. Binah looks like a little horse. Her eyes wild like a frightened horse. She moans and backs away but the dealer has her firmly by the jaw. He pulls out two back teeth, two molars, and throws them on the ground, then resumes his deliberations with the shepherd. Binah spits trickles of blood, Bakhita puts her hand around her back, wants to tell her she will be better off without her damaged teeth but says nothing. She is crying. Because it is over. They will not see their mothers. She looks off into the distance all around, but of course in such dazzling daylight, there is no reason for a fire to wait for them anywhere. There will be no more reunions or hope of reunions. The world is too big, too poor, too grasping. And it is now, in the middle of this haggling between the dealer and the shepherd, their arrangements and arguments, in the middle of the sobbing of slave men and women, the sheep bleating, the cock crowing, in the middle of all these scrambled sounds, it is now that, somewhere among the slaves, Bakhita hears a baby cry. She immediately thinks her mother is with the slaves. Spins around to look at them. Scans them to find her mother, it is a small caravan, she has very soon looked at them all, and just as soon realizes she was wrong. Her mother is not there. But still. She will never be rid of this. All her life, till the very end of her life, when she hears a baby cry, she will think it is in her mother’s arms. Even when her mother would be too old to be a mother. And too old to be alive. Every child crying will be in her mother’s arms and waiting to be consoled by her.
* * *
—
Binah hears it too. The cry of someone younger than she is. Both girls are old enough to be big sisters, old enough to be little mother figures in their villages. This baby is more fragile than they are. And Binah blows her nose with her fingers and takes it upo
n herself to stop crying. The baby keeps screaming, and Binah shows that she can stand upright, like a big girl. She finds it difficult to breathe, the pain in her mouth radiates over her whole face, but the baby reminds her how it goes. This tiny child, this latest addition is part of the caravan, so, at seven years old, the two of them must go too.
* * *
—
They are bought together, Bakhita and Binah together. Once again. And once again they walk between the guards, unchained. They set off. Keep going. I won’t let go your hand.
With this small caravan they tread the soil of a Sudan laid open to the vast sky and sullied by bartering and trafficking. They walk and Bakhita realizes that the time spent running away was wasted, the world of slavery is her world, but there are always hopes to keep her alive. Perhaps they will pass her village. Perhaps they will find Kishmet. They will not spend their whole lives on these paths, one day the walking will be over, one day there will be something else, and whatever it is, it cannot be worse, they have already been through the worst. Bakhita follows the long, sinuous, dangerous path, like the snake shapes her brother used to draw to frighten her, and she decides she will never be afraid of snakes again. The snake that made her scream on the night the shepherd caught them will be the last. No longer being afraid of snakes feels like conquering them. And she finds this resolution strangely reassuring. Is amazed by it, would like to share it with Binah, but talking is forbidden and anyway, they do not have the strength for it. Everything is concentrated into walking and the energy it requires. But the appetite for life that comes over her now, in this captive state where she is ranked lower than a donkey, is like a promise she makes to herself: She wants to live. This thought belongs to her. No one can take it from her. She has seen slaves abandoned to the vultures and hyenas. Has seen unsalable slaves and those sold off to the destitute. Does not know whether she is worth money, a goat, four hens, some salt, a few copper bowls, necklaces, pagnes, a debt, a tax, does not know what would be given in exchange for her, but she does know one thing: She does not want to die abandoned by the roadside. So she obeys. Keeps walking. Concentrates on the effort of it. She is with Binah, saved from the sheepfold and the shepherd. She walks. And she has a friend. A life other than her own that she holds as dear as her own.
* * *
—
But there is the baby, still. The crying baby. The mother is not chained. She is very young and this is her first child. She was so frightened when her hut caught fire that her milk has dried up. This is what Bakhita gathers from hearsay within the caravan. The slave drivers set fire to her village. As they did to Bakhita’s. And the story is the same everywhere, violence endlessly repeated, rifle fire and torch fire, fire that engulfs huts and the people inside those huts, fire that consumes animals, trees, fields, fire that runs faster than life itself.
* * *
—
After a while this crying baby makes it difficult for Bakhita to breathe. She finds it hard to walk without losing her balance. And she is not alone in this. In among all the chains, the sighs, and the blows, all the turmoil, this baby is the only thing anyone can hear. His mother holds him to her. Tries to rock him but she is shaking so much her arms twitch and jerk, and while trying to cradle him, she squeezes her breasts and attempts to milk them, the baby latches on to a nipple, releases it with a wail and then tries again, his mouth twisted, he knocks his head against his mother’s chest, mouths her nipple, and immediately starts to cry again. The nearest guard, a short man, compact as a block of stone, whips the mother to bring an end to the wailing. “Shut him up! Shut him up!” he yells. He is young, but old enough to have children, perhaps he has some. And is genuinely troubled by the baby’s cries. Or perhaps, Bakhita thinks, perhaps he is afraid. She thinks she can see this in the man’s cruelty, thinks she can see fear.
* * *
—
Hands reach out to the mother and then fall away. Women look at the baby and then look away with a grimace of pain. Others are irritated, like the guard, and anguished too, they are familiar with the dreaded, much repeated story, the story written in advance. And then there is this young boy who is so angry that if the guard met his eye, he would burn on the spot. His head is shaved, his features already strong, both stubborn and kind, the face of an older brother ready to fight, but who still carries within him a fragile gentleness that hinders him.
* * *
—
After walking for one long hour, perhaps two, the caravan comes to cultivated fields. There must be villages nearby. The mother barks a brief laugh, like a sob. She is still shaking the baby in the hope of lulling him and her face spins in every direction, she wets herself in panic, does not feel the stream of urine down her leg, looks around wildly and suddenly throws herself at the guard. She has seen a goat. She says she will be very quick, she won’t delay the caravan, will run straight back. The guard shoves her aside with an elbow in her temple. She almost smiles, is not discouraged. It is as if she cannot see what is going on, as if she has lost her mind. She is with them and yet far away already, so far away. She comes back at the guard, with her crying baby, and tells him that if her son grows up he will fetch a high price. She turns to the slaves, wants them to agree with her, yes, it’s a good idea, if the baby has the goat’s milk, if he doesn’t die, he’ll be valuable. But no one believes they will stop for the baby to suckle at the goat’s udder. The angry young man shouts some words no one understands, his voice shakes with rebellion, bounces off the stones, and dies away. The guard does not beat him. So the angry young man repeats himself, three times, repeats the words no one understands, three times, staring up at the sky, but the sky replies with nothing but the fierce sun. Bakhita and Binah take each other’s hands, they are frightened now, accustomed to human danger. Their stomachs churn in dread. Something evil hangs in the air, curdling it. A young woman, but one old enough to be the baby’s grandmother, looks at the mother and says very quietly, Asfa. Sorry. And she shakes her head helplessly, because the young mother, who is the same age as Bakhita’s older sister, fourteen at the very most, does not understand what is happening.
* * *
—
The caravan walks past the goat, past the fields, past the stream, and now the land is empty again. And still the baby’s cries can be heard like an ancient song, modulated with his mother’s sobs. This music wraps itself around the slaves, weighs them down, shrouding them in its distress. Some cry, very quietly, with all the impotence of pointless tears. The angry young man walks more upright than the others, as if this will help contain his fury, his eyes focused dead ahead, his jaw clamped like a trap closed over its prey. He seems tireless. Bakhita thinks he must be a good brother and a good son. But looking at him hurts her almost as much as hearing the mother and her baby. Perhaps they have nearly arrived, someone kind will buy her, someone who will give him some milk, Bakhita thinks. This won’t go on much longer. And then she sees the hill. Is reassured by it. The landscape is changing, which is a good sign, they will arrive somewhere else, in a village perhaps. But the hill becomes a wall. They are at the foot of this hill, and the whole landscape has become the hill, become the hill alone. Bakhita looks up to see it in its entirety, and she almost collapses. It is very high and covered in rocks, like a giant stone that has broken open. They walk barefoot over this smashed stone. Bakhita looks at the mother, she is watching her baby as she walks, and he is crying more quietly, moaning, his head tipped back, taking the full scorching heat of the sun like a torch trained on him. Bakhita and Binah help each other, hold each other by the elbow, the hand, the wrist, heads lowered. Even the guards are having trouble walking, they whip without shouting now, but grind their teeth, and when they stop to drink, there is something plain to see in many of the slaves’ eyes, the urge to kill them. Thirst hurts Bakhita even in parts of her body she did not know. Places inside her contort, and her legs ache so much they feel as if they are not hers. The angry young man
looks at the baby and mutters quietly, his eyes like two dark flames.
* * *
—
On the hillside the baby starts to cry again. The caravan leader brings them to an abrupt halt. The chained slaves jostle and bump into one another, their breathing like the hot roar of a forge. “Get that idiot to shut up!” the leader yells at the mother. She looks at him with a distant sort of astonishment and puts a nipple into the baby’s mouth, her hands shaking. “I can’t take any more! I can’t take any more!” howls the leader.
* * *
—
The baby’s cries grow louder, Bakhita tries to talk to him, inside her head, sends him solace, kind desperate words, the sun beats down so hard the air quivers, everything is hazy, as if already out of sight. The leader comes over. Says he will make the baby shut up. Make this idiot, this half-wit shut up. But the mother does not cry out. When he takes him from her.
* * *
—
She does not cry out, simply opens her mouth and her grimace engulfs her whole face, like a war mask. Where does she find the strength to throw herself at the leader to reclaim her son? She is so young and so thin, no one would ever think she had such strength, her scream is more powerful than she is, and her fists so violent on the caravan leader’s face. But powerful, of course, she is not. And she does not succeed in taking back her child. She tries to grab him, jumping up, launching herself, and the leader steps back, laughing. He holds the baby by one foot and swings him around in the air, like a rope to lasso an animal. The baby vomits and the man slams him against a rock. The baby convulses. His eyes bleed and he twitches like a fish hauled out of the river. A slave woman falls to her knees and prays, sobbing. Others look skyward and wail.
Bakhita Page 6