The woman then left the place running from the scene to prevent giving other trackers time to reach her. This is where our story begins.
Human trafficking is one of the oldest and cruelest stigmas of humanity. European and Arab dominated this traffic for centuries and America was partly populated by Africans brought by slave merchants. The Arabs were very active in this traffic, particularly with supply sources throughout Africa and destination in the Middle East, the rest of Asia, Africa and Europe. It is estimated that between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries more than ten million human beings were kidnapped, taken as droves of cattle and sold as cheap labor, domestic servants, cannon fodder and basically sex slaves and prostitutes, including women and children in the latter category. In no way can it be considered these activities as part of the past as they continue in a latent form today, with the complicity of governments in the points of departure and arrival.
The Horn of Africa is a region located on the eastern tip of the African continent, on the Red Sea and the Arabian Sea, and facing Yemen and Saudi Arabia. It consists of Ethiopia (the largest and most populous country), Eritrea, Somalia and Djibouti. Historically it was one of the main areas of action of the slave hunters and traders, which then drove their prey in harsh caravans through its western neighbor, Sudan (one of the largest countries in Africa) to the above referred slaves markets. The various routes included the Sahara Desert, the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean.
Shipments of slaves to Europe often enter by the dilated Italian Mediterrean coast and from there they continue their to the final destinations. On a recent date have been detected boat trips to the Americas, particularly United States. This is our history.
Chapter 1
His cell phone rang with the distinctive calendar recorded message tune. The young man pulled the device out of his jeans back pocket with a puzzled gesture, since he did not remember having recorded anything for that day. The screen illuminated and he slapped his forehead as he read the reminder recorded months earlier.
Indeed the student visa with which the boy had entered the United States had only a few valid remaining days; moreover, he no longer had the possibility to extend it for a further period. As he was not interested to join the legion of foreigners who were irregularly in the country, Marcos thought he had to prepare his return to his home town.
At twenty three Marcos Ferrari had left his town in the Argentine Province of Santa Fe to settle with relatives in the city of Buenos Aires. The youth found the winds of the great metropolis stimulant for a period of almost a year, during which he had held a series of menial jobs in various mechanical motorcycles workshops, one of his true passions until he was hired by his uncle to work with him . However, after that period his adventurous spirit produced again to him the familiar restlessness and Marcos ended up traveling without any preconceived plan to Caracas, moved only by his desire to change air, without greater knowledge of the situation Venezuela was facing. Indeed, once he was there it was difficult to find a job that would allow him to stay alive at least until he could raise money to continue his journey, and he was about to hit the road with his travel bag to tempt fate in Colombia when he met Elena.
Elena Rodriguez was a Caracas thirty-eight years old lady, recently divorced from an executive of a trading company that had actually left her for a younger woman shortly before the divorce. Elena enjoyed however a comfortable life in her hometown until due to the dramatic drop in the international oil prices the country’s economic situation began to deteriorate rapidly. Elena met Marcos when he served coffee to her at one of the many precarious jobs that the boy had taken in his two-month stay in Caracas. She had been attracted by the tall if somewhat ungainly silhouette of the young man, his pale eyes and reddish hair. Elena got immediately to draw the boy´s attention simply by pulling up her skirt in a way that then made her reproach herself as shameless. Afterwards, as she paid the consumption, the woman introduced a note with her phone between the depreciated bolivars notes, with the result that in that same night they had slept together at her house. Marcos had taken care of all maintenance issues in the woman´s house and car for which he managed to extend for another month his visa to stay in Caracas. Meanwhile she began to sell all her properties in Venezuela getting however a reduced revenue due to the economic crisis in the country and decided to travel to the United States, where she already had a resident visa obtained years before and kept valid since then. The young man accepted excited the possibility of escorting her.
After over a year together Elena showed signs of fatigue in their relationship and it became clear she had lost interest in Marcos. Finally she moved to Miami claiming that the climate of New York, with the autumn approaching, did not fit her.
Despite holding a tourist visa the boy got a job in Harlem, with an African American cabinetmaker, a sixty-nine year old craftsman. Charles Barlow or Uncle Charley was born in Mississippi where he had learned the rudiments of his craft with his father, and then, tired of the racial persecution of that time had migrated north, eventually settling in New York. He was particularly fond of Marcos, who despite being a very skilled with computers was obviously interested in learning a trade almost forgotten. The fact that also the young man came from a rural environment created a spiritual closeness between them, above the differences in age, race, culture, religion and nationality. Besides, it soon became clear that Marcos was a very clever boy and quickly grasped the secrets of the trade. His help allowed Charley to maintain the work level in his workshop, which was in turn his home, as he had many customers who came to Harlem to commission different works.
To reach the workshop from the nearest subway station Marcos had to walk a couple of blocks and finally through a narrow, dark alley, which gave him some stinging when he left the workshop late at night that with the withdrawal of summer arrived every day earlier. Being the only white person on his way did not make him feel safer.
That morning Marcos had reached the middle of the long alley; the boy was whistling a tune to give himself courage when he saw a movement between two high dustbins near a doorway. As there was no one in sight he put himself on guard ready to run or fight as were the case and did not separate his eyes from the moving site. Suddenly his ears perceived a slight moan in a voice that sounded feminine. Marcos approached cautiously the place trying not to make any noise when walking; suddenly, another movement startled him; shocked he saw an arm sticking out on the dirty pavement. It was a black thin arm likely belonging to a woman or a child.
Without ruling out the possibility of a trap the youth approached the gap between the two trash cans and then his heart sank. A pair of huge eyes stared him from a black haggard face. He verified that they belonged to a young woman curled up on the floor who was shaking in convulsions. Marcos touched her forehead with his hand and found that it was burning with fever. Without hesitation he bent down and tried to help the young woman to stand up but it became clear that her legs would not support her weight. Marcos looked around to see if there was someone to ask for help but the alley was completely deserted. He lifted the woman in his arms surprised by her light weight and walked the distance up to Uncle Charley´s store.
“I’ve cleaned her wounds.” Said the old man. “Luckily the shot produced no irreparable damage, but the girl has lost much blood and is now very weak. Actually we should take her to a hospital. This is a gunshot wound with an outlet. She’s asleep now.”
“We do not know what her history is or why she lay in the alley. Is there nothing more you can do?”
“I would be asking for trouble if we do not report a gunshot wound.” Charley looked alternatively at Marcos and at the woman until he eventually made a decision.
“To hell! In Vietnam I took care of bullet wounds in worse condition.”
“You never told me you were in the Vietnam War. What were you, a paramedic?”
“Among other things. Listen, go to Sam´s pharmacy and brings t
hese things.” He leaned over the desk and wrote down a list of products in a paper. “While you go I´ll call Sam so he won´t make problems nor questions and give you everything I ask.”
Charley proceeded to disinfect the girl´s wounds again, applied a very strong local anesthetics and sutured with firm hand. Then he injected a large dose of antibiotics
“It is done. Five stitches at the entrance in the back and seven in the front. Now there is no longer risk of bleeding; she should still keep taking oral antibiotics for a week.”
“The girl woke up.” Charley said when entering the workshop. “The fever has gone down although it can still rise again.”
Both men entered Uncle Charlie´s bedroom where they had placed the young woman. She watched them entering with a hint of fear in her eyes.
“Do you speak English?” Asked the older man. She nodded affirmatively.
“What’s your name?” Charley asked again.
The girl hesitated.
“Nubia.”
“Is that your name or your origin ?” Insisted the homeowner.
“I am called that way me because I belong to the Nubian people.”
“So I figured. But you have a given name.” Charley’s comment was between a question and a statement.
“Alimah … Alimah Koumi.” Replied the woman overcoming certain reservations.
“Where are you from Alimah … or Nubia?” Marcos made his voice heard for the first time.
“ I was born in Sudan but lived in Ethiopia all my life.”
“Until when you lived in Ethiopia ?” Charley’s voice was full of commiseration.
“Until … a month or so ago. I lost track of time.”
With a rueful gesture Charley sat on the edge of the bed while Marcos kneeled at its side. Seeing the two men in a gentle and non-aggressive attitude for the first time in a long while, the eyes of the woman called Nubia filled with tears. In her broken English she began telling her sad story.
Chapter 2
The Nubians are an ethnic group of very old data that inhabit the south of present Egypt and a broad band in Sudan. In the old ages the Nubian warriors were famous as archers and fast riders.
The woman called Alimah, born within that ethnicity had migrated to Ethiopia as a child with her family, and had been educated in an Ethiopian Christian school, leaving aside her original Islamic creed.
Making a great effort to overcome the psychological pain produced by the memories, Alimah told the men who listened attentively a brief summary of her childhood at school, certainly the best time of her life, where as a pupil she was offered to work with the teachers, who were excited by her desire to learn. She was then in charge of the girls training in different disciplines and even teaching classes.
Nubia took breath and her beautiful face furrowed with a bitter gesture.
“Go on, dear girl.” Urged Charley.
The narrative was interrupted thereafter by tears produced by the painful and recent memories.
One morning a band of Eritreans kidnappers fell over the small village and the school, massacred the few men who tried to face them in order to defend the villagers, most of whom tried to escape through the steppe of sparse vegetation surrounding the village, being chased by the looters who managed to kill many of them. School teachers were also murdered and the students abducted, raped and herded like cattle forcing them to cross the border. The village was burned and the few cows property of the peasants taken with the aggressor group. What had been a small oasis of peace was literally wiped off the map.
The subsequent course of events was even worse, the girls were raped and beaten again, barely fed and their wounds were not healed. Several of them could not withstand the level of brutality that they were exposed to and killed themselves in various ways. Finally the survivors were conducted in small groups to be sold in different slave markets that still in the XXI century remain protected by corrupt officials who violate the mandates of the United Nations issued through UNODC and other agencies, and even by their own governments.
Finally, a contingent of twenty girls selected for their beauty was embarked in a port on the Red Sea on an old Greek merchant ship.
Nubia made a nonstop narration of their arrival in New York, their accommodation in a dirty overcrowded room and the moments immediately before the attack suffered by the traffickers at the hands of a suspected rival gang and finally their flight with Sanwarit. On reaching the point when her friend´s throat was slit before her eyes the young woman suffered a seizure and started frothing at the mouth.
“It was my fault!” Exclaimed Nubia in anguish. “I dragged her by the arm even though she did not want to follow me, and then Sanwarit ended up dead”.
Tears and exclamations were accompanied by shaking of her body that threatened to throw her out of bed. Marcos and Charley held her tightly to prevent the girl from harming herself in desperation. Finally the old man introduced a pill in her mouth and forced her to drink a glass of water.
“What have you given her?” Asked the young man.
“A very strong sedative. It will take effect in a few minutes. It is necessary to prevent her nervous system to collapse that can have even cardiac consequences despite her youth.”
“But when she wakes up her memories will come back as well as her guilt feelings.” Said somberly the boy, obviously distraught.
“ I hope not.” Replied the old man. “Don´t you think that what just happened is necessarily bad. The girl was carrying all this inside her and she needed to throw it out. She had to verbalize it.”
“How come a cabinetmaker knows all this?
“I’ve told you about my time in Vietnam. I have witnessed many scenes of traumatic stress, in some cases associated with feelings of guilt.” Charley made a moment of silence as he rose from the bed. “Now we must let her sleep.”
Chapter 3
The glass door of the vast office opened although nobody had knocked it before. Paddy O’Halloran knew that only one person would dare to do that so that when he looked up he was not surprised to see Laura Sandoval moving toward his desk.
“I told you to knock the door before entering.”
“I thought I have certain rights.” Replied the woman.
“Yes, but not the right to put us in evidence in front of all detectives. Turn around and look how they are whispering.”
“You worry too much.” She said with a feline voice as she was coming close to the sitting giant.
“You’re a police sergeant and I´m a lieutenant and in addition your boss. We must keep up appearances.”
Laura rubbed her prominent rear on his plump hand and immediately pointed her finger to the invariable result.
“Look at you!” She said laughingly pointing at the instant erection produced by her action. “You´re not only predictable but instantly predictable.”
O’Halloran reined in his anger, that they both knew never lasted long. He slid back his chair and put his big hand under the woman´s skirt feeling immediately her hot flesh; his fingers slid irresistibly upward.
“Well, what you want?” He asked making a concession.
“You can play a little upwards yet.” She answered.
“Tell me what you want at once!”
“Have you turned off your cell phone?” The woman answered with another question.
“ The battery is empty, I forgot to charge it yesterday. How do you know it?”
“That unpleasant Egyptian friend of yours called me. What is his name?”
“Jemal? He is Eritrean, not Egyptian.” The Lieutenant changed his attitude, certainly an sign that the news had disquieted him.
“Whatever. He wants to talk to you urgently. He actually demanded it with bad manners. I almost sent him to hell.”
“Never do such a thing.”
“I do not want him to call me on my cell phone. Who gave him my number?”
“I did, as back up for cases like this. He cannot call me through the precinct phone l
ine, and your cell phone is safe. Sorry, it will not happen again.”
The woman resignedly said.
“Here. Call him with mine.”
“Jemal? Hello … How are you? … Yes, I’m sorry, the cell phone was dead … I told you I do not want you to call me to my cell phone, much less to that of Sergeant Sandoval. What do you want?”
For a long period Jemal was talking in a loud voice so O’Halloran´s ruddy face turned bright red.
“How did one of your whores get away? … Was it during the Yemenis attack? … And how much does this woman know about your business? … Are you crazy? … Harlem is still shocked for the battle that you and your opponents had the other day. It has long since we’ve seen seven dead together in an incident, not counting the girl beheaded in an alley that surely is also your doing. You cannot go out and kill a loose slut in the streets just to give a warning to the other whores!” The lieutenant was yelling, what prompted Laura to touch his arm to call him to reality; as a result the man lowered the voice tone.
“Jemal, I have the deputy prosecutor and my boss on my shoulders demanding me to clarify the shooting you were involved … What? … I know that most of the dead were yours, but at this time you must stay completely still and not think about shooting a woman in the streets.”
No doubt the so-called Jemal was exploding on the other side of the line so O’Halloran pushed the phone away from his ear with a gesture of disgust.
“Are you asking me to use my men to look for a black woman in Harlem? Is it a joke?”
New explosion on the other side. As it became very long and intense the police officer decided to compromise.
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