Table of Contents
Birth of the Prequel
Chapter ONE
Chapter TWO
Chapter THREE
Chapter FOUR
Chapter FIVE
Chapter SIX
Thank you for reading this short story!
The Red-Heeled Rebels Novel Series
Other Books by the Author
About the Author
Copyright
Birth of the Prequel
Born of parents from two different countries and living in a third, all Asha wants is to belong. But she’s always the stranger, always the outsider. The day she decides to commit a crime to gain trust and friendship, her whole world collapses. Will this be the end of her life? Or the beginning of another?
This is a short story of innocence, audacity, and death. This is also the beginning of the adventures of the Red-Heeled Rebels, a band of gutsy, sassy, young women who fight for their rights and travel the world to find freedom.
We start in East Africa, but will soon journey across the globe, from Asia to North America and all the way to Europe.
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Chapter ONE
Ten minutes before the bell rang, the library door banged open.
I looked up, startled.
There was a tiny crack between two bookshelves through which I could see. A gaggle of girls had stomped in and were taking over the reading table at the center of the room. They didn’t notice me behind the shelves. Pens and books came flying out of designer bags. Someone unrolled a large white sheet of paper in the middle of the table. All heads bowed over it, like they were planning to invade China.
The librarian had stepped out for lunch that day, asking me to keep an eye on things, as usual. She knew me from the countless hours I spent at the library of the international school I was attending in Tanzania, and always had a book recommendation for her “little Indian bookworm,” as she called me. There was an old rocking chair in the back of this small library, near the window. Hidden behind the bookshelves, I spent every lunch hour in this chair, curled up with a book, munching on my onion buns, keeping an eye on things. With the sun streaming through the window and warming my shoulders, it was a cozy place to be.
My curiosity grew as I watched the girls around the table. I half wished I could join them, but knew they’d never let me into their inner circle.
While uniformed chauffeurs drove them to school in shiny black Mercedes, I took a bus from home. Some days, I’d sit next to the school gardener or cafeteria cooks coming in for their early shift, and other days, I’d sit next to one of the local teachers in the bus. While these girls flew to Europe, America, or South Africa for their vacations, my holidays were made in our two-door, forest-green Fiat to the back roads of the African savannas.
My classmates lived in a different stratosphere from me. When it was time for lunch at school, everyone bought burgers, chips, and ice cream at the canteen, while I ate homemade onion buns from a brown paper bag. How I envied them.
Our differences were not just in lifestyles, but also in what our parents did for a living. Every morning, I’d sit next to the kids of politicians, diplomats and wealthy business people, some of whom ran the biggest mining syndicates in Africa. Others owned cattle ranches, airlines, railways, even shipping lines. While their parents worked hard to retain their businesses across the continent, mine investigated those same businesses’ environmental practices. At the dinner table, I often heard my parents talk about the corporations that belonged to these families. I couldn’t help but wonder if my classmates’ parents talked about mine around their dinner tables, because no one wanted to hang out with me at school.
The only two places in school where I was comfortable were at our martial arts class and at the library. When we were learning how to kick, punch and shout and were beating up Bob, the rubber man in the corner of the gym, everyone was equal. No one was judged by the designer clothes they wore or how many cars their family owned. All we had to do was show up in simple T-shirt and shorts and follow instructions. It was fun and my kicks were fast and furious, though my legs were shorter than anyone else’s.
When I wasn’t in class or at the gym practicing kicks, I hung out at the library. I could stay here for hours with my best friends whom I found between the pages of books. Books, to me, were enchanting gates to other worlds that enthralled and delighted. They were my escape whenever I felt sad or lonely. They took me on adventures, and let my imagination soar. As long as I had books for friends, I didn’t mind too much being the black sheep in school.
But it was that day, as the girls whispered conspiratorially over the library table, that I learned how black of a sheep I really was.
“Do we have a caterer?” Tanya asked, breaking the silence.
Tanya was the tallest girl in my class. With a pretty face and ebony skin, she was the girl everyone said would become the next Naomi Campbell. More importantly, she was the daughter of the American ambassador, so Tanya’s word ruled all. From hearing my parents talk about world news every night at supper, I couldn’t help feeling my class was a miniature United Nations, including the power plays between all the countries.
“I got Mother’s favorite caterer to bring us treats,” Bethany said. “They catered to the queen’s birthday celebration last month, and everyone was delighted.”
Bethany’s father was a high-ranking official in the British diplomatic corps in Tanzania, and their embassy parties were the most lavish in town. Or so I’d heard.
“Ooh, I remember that party,” Tanya said. “That’s great, Beth.”
“Do you want to know what we’ll be having, girls?” Bethany asked with a coy smile.
“Yes!” a chorus of voices replied.
“We’re going to have cucumber sandwiches, mini quiches, prawns on sticks, and a plate of cold meats and rare cheeses,” Bethany said. Satisfied murmurs went around the table. “And for those of you with a sweet tooth, we’ll have lemon bars, butter scones, and a fancy chocolate cake smothered with Belgian chocolate icing.”
“Sounds divine.”
“Fantastic.”
From my corner of the room, I looked down at the last bite of the onion bun in my hand. It had lost its remaining appeal.
“What else?” Tanya asked, looking around her party committee.
“Aunt Majorie just got back from Jo’burg and brought me these beautiful packets of macarons,” Sophie, the French girl in my class, piped up. “It will be my pleasure to share them with you.”
Sophie had her golden hair in pigtails and her signature pink lipstick on. When she introduced herself to the class on the first day of school, she named the mining company her father owned in East Africa, which inspired our teacher to teach us a new word: m-o-n-o-p-o-l-y. I’d recognized the company because my parents had inspected it for Environ Africa. From what I overheard my parents say one night, children as young as seven worked in underground shafts. They were preferred for their small size and nimbleness.
That night, we’d just finished supper and my parents were cleaning up in the kitchen while I was supposed to be doing homework at the dinner table. But I couldn’t help overhearing. Whenever my parents’ voices dropped, I knew the topic at hand was “adult conversation,” which meant I was compelled to listen in very carefully.
“Those supervisors beat them. They’re not even eight, some of them,” my mother said. “It’s a terrible thing happening right under our noses.”
“No one cares as long as they’re making money,” my
father said. “We did what we could do.”
“You think telling the commissioner’s going to help? Sometimes I wonder if he’s with them. Politics over science, I think is what always happens.”
“We can only do the best we can,” my father said in a quiet voice. I leaned in. “Even James quit and went back to the States. He was getting those threats too, you know. He did the smart thing.”
What threats? I thought.
“Well, we don’t have any other place to go,” my mother said with a sniff. “This is our home now and we need to do what we can right here.”
“Remember Sven? They said he died hiking in the desert. I know him. I knew him. He hated the outdoors. He lived in the lab, even on Sundays. Someone didn’t want him talking.”
“Oh yes, I remember. So pale, like he’d not seen the sun in his life.” My mother sighed. “But we don’t want to get carried away now. Maybe, he went out for a walk and got heat stroke or something.”
“Dirty politics over science, more like it,” my father mumbled.
They were silent for a minute.
“Those men from the Boko Mines came to see me yesterday,” my father said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “Four men in that black armored jeep they always drive around in. They were smiling and friendly but one of them had a gun. I saw it on his belt. Maybe they wanted me to see it.”
Boko Mines? Didn’t that belong to Sophie’s family? I slipped out of my chair and tiptoed toward the kitchen.
My father was facing the sink. “Some days,” he was saying, “I wonder….”
“Not now,” my mother cut him off, giving me a sideways look. She’d noticed me slinking near the doorway.
With an innocent look on my face, I asked, “So what are you talking about?”
“Go finish your homework, child,” my mother said, shooing me out with a dishcloth.
“Karma will get them eventually,” my father said, not looking up.
It was a conversation that would haunt me later, but that night, I had nightmares of Sophie dragging me to an underground mine, to work in a deep, dark place where my parents would never find me. I avoided her like the plague from then on.
***
“Sophie, you’re a gem!” Bethany said. “I love macarons. How lovely.”
“They come in all sorts of gorgeous colors,” Sophie said. “I can’t wait to show them to you.”
“That’s wonderful of you,” said another girl.
“Mon plaisir,” Sophie said with a self-satisfied smile.
“What about drinks?” Tanya asked. She always kept everyone on track. “We’ve got to have drinks. Serious drinks, ladies.”
“I’ve already made plans for punch,” Ana said proudly. Ana was from Spain and came to school with her five brothers in a limousine. “And my brother said he’ll ask our driver to get wine for us. He’s got connections at the duty-free shop. No one will find out.”
“Girls, girls,” Shanti said, with a worried look on her face. “Please don’t get caught. I tell you, if my father ever finds about drinks, he’ll never let me talk to you again. Ever.”
Shanti was the doe-eyed daughter of the Indian High Commissioner, and the only other Indian girl in school. She was prim and proper in class, except for the oversized earrings that dangled dangerously from her earlobes. She bought her clothes from Harrods in London, where she went shopping every three months, and dined on sweet gulab jamun balls sprinkled in gold dust. Real gold. I knew this, because she reminded me every time we met. I wished she’d be nicer with me. I had the same waist-length black hair and chocolate-brown skin she had. I’d never had a sister, and always wanted one, but she took pains to put me down whenever she could.
“Okay, what about the invitations?” Tanya asked.
“Got everyone,” Bethany said.
“Hope you didn’t invite that one,” Sophie said.
“Gosh no, I’d never do that,” Bethany said.
“Who are you talking about?” Ana asked.
“The new girl,” Sophie said.
“You mean the stick insect?” Ana said, making me almost drop my book.
I’d always been skinnier than my classmates, and the mean boys in class would taunt me with “runt” or “stick insect.” The latter particularly troubled me because I was frightened of insects of any kind, and images of my arms turning into long-legged jabby things haunted my dreams many a night.
“You mean the new Indian girl?” Tanya asked.
“She’s not Indian,” Shanti said with such vehemence, it surprised me. “She’s only half-Indian and that’s lower than the lowest caste. Trust me, I know these things. I’m from the Brahman caste.”
“Whatever you say,” Tanya said with a shrug. “You know these things.”
“Shanti’s right,” Sophie said. “She’s a mulatto. Her mother’s from some island or something.”
“Hey, do you know the mulatto’s mother sells cakes at the market?” Bethany said.
“No!” a chorus of horrified voices replied. I stopped breathing.
“Our cook saw them at Uhuru last Saturday,” Bethany said.
“Who buys cakes at the market?” Sophie said with a sniff.
“Who sells cakes at the market?” Ana said.
“Someone who takes the bus and hangs out with the teachers,” Tanya said. Her voice was almost sympathetic. “She doesn’t belong here.”
“Don’t her parents work for that environment company or something?” Ana said. “Mother says they’re worse than hippies.”
“Why do they let riffraff in here?” Bethany said. “Why can’t she go to the local school, whatever it’s called, down the road?”
“No idea, but I know why she smells so strange,” Sophie replied. “She’s always playing with the locals and eating smelly stuff.”
“She dresses weird, too,” Tanya said, “like she’s from a hippie commune or—”
“A slum,” Shanti said.
Chapter TWO
The rancid smell of the slums was suffocating.
It always was, when we drove through the south side of the city. The smell of open sewage pipes and mountains of garbage came to us well before we saw them. I usually put my finger on my nose and held my breath till my mother started to yell, “Close the window, child, before I have a stroke or something!” I’d roll up my window as fast as I could, slam back on my seat, and let out my breath in one giant whoosh.
I liked to leave the window down, even when it rained. This way, I could stick my head out as far as I could to feel the wind and take everything in. When in the city, I’d watch out for buses so loaded with people, sacks, and baskets full of chicken, I’d worry they’d topple onto us. On drives to remote mining towns, I’d look out in wonder at lone trees in the middle of vast, barren lands, or at rustic villages with mud huts scattered along desolate roads. Sometimes, I’d see village women dig their fields with handmade hoes, chanting soulfully, lulling the babies strapped to their backs to sleep. Other times, I’d see girls half my size stumble along the road, balancing aluminum pots of water twice their size on their heads. I admired their poise and made sure to wave.
Then, there were the days when I’d sniff the warm, dusty air in anticipation of catching a hint of the smoky, fishy aroma of the Uhuru Market, the largest open-air marketplace in the outskirts of Dar es Salaam. Ever since we’d moved to Tanzania, going to the market on Saturday afternoons had become a weekend treat. My parents and I spent hours chatting with people and nosing around to see what was new. I looked forward to Saturdays, not because it was a getaway from the routine, but because it was where my best friend lived.
As soon as my father found a shady spot to park our Fiat, I’d jump out and race toward the open stalls. My goal was to find Chanda, wherever she was hanging out in the market.
Though my mother was from Sri Lanka and my father was born in India, to everyone in the market I was the “little Indian girl.” Being different meant every market boy and girl w
as curious, but only a few ventured to say hello. Girls peeked from behind their mothers’ skirts and pointed and smiled. Boys laughed at my hair, some daring to pull my ponytail before running away. Chanda, the local hairdresser’s daughter, was exactly my age and was the first one to invite me to play. Soon, the market became our Saturday afternoon playground, where we ran wild and free.
When I hung out with Chanda, I felt like I belonged. We’d spend most of the day skipping through the market stalls. We’d dodge around tables where silvery fish lay ready to be gutted and packaged. We’d hold our noses as we passed racks of dried fish on old newspapers, smelling like the Maldive fish jars in my mother’s kitchen, except a hundred times worse. We’d navigate through a maze of brown sacks and barrels, sacks so large I had to get on my tiptoes to see inside. Most of these were filled with rice grains or coffee beans, but sometimes we’d come across strange things like the green bottle gourd that was like a cucumber made for giants, or the yellow horned melon, whose gooey, snotty insides made me gag every time someone cut one open.
Chanda and I would dart in and out among tables laden with spice baskets, practicing the martial arts kicks I’d learned in school that week, and which I happily taught my friend every weekend. But if we paused to peek in the baskets, we’d see chocolate-brown cinnamon barks, dark fingers of cloves, ginger roots, vanilla beans, spiky lemongrass, and a myriad of other roots, herbs, and barks that promised everything from adding flavor to curing the most incurable maladies.
Right in the middle of the market, we’d encounter the charcoal barbecue racks, their delicious smoky smells rising in the air, making my stomach rumble. Here, teens armed with steel tongs would holler at us to buy a skewer of marinated mutton or a grilled chicken leg. They knew my parents, and their wallets were not far away.
There was one part of the market from which we were forbidden. It was the edge of the market where glassy-eyed chickens lay with their feet tied together. It was also where young goats kicked, bleated, and pulled on the harnesses that tethered them to tree stumps. I couldn’t bear to look them in the eye, knowing they’d be flipped on the barbecues soon, but those poor animals never crossed my mind when I pleaded for a skewer of meat at lunchtime, much to the chagrin of my vegetarian mother.
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