I Am Not Your Slave

by Tupa Tjipombo

  “You are truly beautiful,” Almaz said unexpectedly.

  I was not sure how to respond; the comment seemed misplaced, given the context. Finally, I said, “I am dressed like a prostitute. Where I come from, prostitutes are not considered beautiful.”

  Almaz smiled encouragingly. “Hopefully, a nice man will choose you for the whole weekend. That is the best thing that can happen.”

  Madam Dua, who had stepped out of the tent for several minutes, suddenly rushed back in and clapped her hands in a flurry. “Girls who are in the first group, come with me now!” she shouted. Earlier in the day, we had been designated as belonging to one of two groups. The first group included seasoned veterans who had participated in one of the Jackal’s special events before, while the second group, which was much smaller and included myself, consisted of girls with little to no experience.

  Since she was part of the first group, Almaz gave me some final words of advice. “The men will be drunk by the time you come to the tent. That will make things go easier. You only need to walk around and greet them and laugh and smile at everything they say. I know many men will want you, but I will try to find a nice one for you. I will guide you to him when you come. Hopefully, the Jackal will not want you for himself. But he has just had you so I think he will want another girl. Look for me when you come. Remember: laugh and smile at everything.” She made an exaggerated, toothy smile to emphasize her point, reminding me of how the white tourists smiled back in Opuwo.

  After the first group left, I assessed the other “new girls.” They were all very young, even younger than myself. “Where do you come from?” I asked a tall, slim girl with brown skin and large green eyes that had an almost haunted appearance.

  “Morocco,” she said.

  “How did you come to be here?”

  Shrugging her shoulders, the girl cast her eyes about nervously. “We needed the money, like everybody else.”

  I asked her if she was here by choice or had been forced, maybe even taken without warning and thrown into the back of a truck like myself. But the question only seemed to make the girl more nervous. “I cannot answer those types of questions,” she finally said, before repeating, “We needed the money.”

  I listened as music filled the evening air and the raucous laughter and excited voices of the men grew louder. When the sun dipped behind the dunes and it almost seemed like we had been forgotten, Madam Dua finally returned, clapped her hands sharply once again, and ordered the second group of girls to follow her.

  The path to the main tent was lit by torches, which in the half light cast flittering shadows on the surrounding dunes. The flames accentuated the carnivalesque atmosphere and created an eerie energy that was almost palpable. We sauntered through the tall grass in single file behind Madam Dua, trying to keep up with her brisk, determined pace. Bringing up the rear, I hesitated and gazed up at the evening sky. There were a dizzying number of stars. I said a silent prayer and tried to compose myself for the evening ahead.

  The main tent was a tempest of activity. On a raised platform in the center, a live band bounced about as they played the animated, almost frantic music that I often heard coming from the radio in Madam Kassab’s bedroom. Alongside the band, three scantily clad belly dancers weaved and undulated suggestively, pointing and beckoning around the room as if inviting different spectators to come join them on stage, though no one seemed to be paying much attention. The lone exception was a drunken middle-aged white man who lingered nearby and swayed back and forth. He leered idiotically at the women as he spilled his drink down his shirtfront. In all, about twenty men were scattered about the tent, most reclining on pillows strewn about the heavily carpeted floor. A gaggle of boys who doubled as both waiters and busboys dashed between large, low-set tables packed with an assortment of food and drinks, diligently taking orders and removing dishes. The girls were mixed in with the men, lying alongside or in some cases on top of them, laughing and smiling at nothing in particular. They helped themselves to the food and drink as well. I searched for Almaz, but it was relatively dark inside the tent and clouds of cigar smoke swirled about. There was also an open firepit in the corner, where cooks were busy roasting a large piece of meat on a spit. And though the tent flaps immediately surrounding the pit were rolled up, thick plumes of smoke continued to waft inside. The entire scene was a whirlwind of noise and movement, as if the tent itself were about to burst from the excess and overindulgence that impregnated it.

  As new arrivals, we were ushered onto the stage, where a short man dressed in a powder-blue sequined suit introduced us to the assembled crowd. Each girl was given an armband that had a large number printed on it, which the man referenced as he read from a card describing her pertinent details. When my turn came, he said, “Number twenty-five is a beautiful young princess from the primitive Himba tribe in southwest Africa. The Himba are known for their exotic beauty and sexual drive. And yes, she is a true African princess. She is a little shy, but you should not let that fool you. She will fill your night with wild memories straight from Africa!” Men hooted and whistled as I walked off the stage, where Madam Dua grasped me by the arm and thrust me toward the nearest table. “Go,” she hissed. “Make certain you find a man tonight. I do not want to see you alone at any time.”

  I took several tentative steps toward the table but then was grabbed from behind. I turned to find Almaz’s smiling face. “Come with me,” she said, then laughed in an exaggerated manner, as if we were two schoolgirls having the time of our lives. While walking arm in arm with my friend across the tent, I locked eyes with the Jackal, who was chatting with two other men at a bar in the corner. For the first time since I had known him, he wore the white ankle-length robe favored by Emirati men. He stood out sharply against the crowd of half-naked girls and white men dressed in tan slacks and checkered shirts. He peered at me for a brief moment before his attention was drawn away, as if I were somebody he recognized but could not quite place.

  Almaz led me outside, where two white men were sitting by a fire, drinking and laughing. She whispered in my ear, “This man seems nice. I have not seen him before. Attach yourself to him.” Releasing me, she crouched behind the second man—an older, heavyset man with thinning gray hair and a full beard who was busy gnawing on the stub of his cigar. She wrapped her arms around him familiarly, as if she had known him for many years, and glanced at the second man. She nodded toward me. “This is my friend. She is beautiful, yes?”

  The man glanced up at me. He was younger than the other man, perhaps in his late forties, with a friendly, expressive face. He winked and smiled. His eyes moved down my body before quickly snapping back to my face, betraying a polite man with powerful, hidden urges. I had seen that look many times before, though on most men I had become familiar with since my abduction, those urges overwhelmed the politeness in an instant. This particular man reminded me of the white middle-aged tourists I knew from Opuwo: pale skin, large soft limbs, slightly bulging stomach, and an open face with an ever-present smile and attentive eyes. I noticed how well groomed he was; he was clean-shaven with neatly trimmed hair and nails that looked professionally manicured.

  “Hello, my dear,” he said with a pronounced twang. “Come and have a drink with us.” He patted the cushion on the bench beside him. “I’m Mike,” he said as I sat down beside him. He poured me a full glass of wine and proceeded to ask me a string of funny questions, again reminding me of the tourists back in Opuwo. But his easygoing manner—combined with the wine—relaxed me, and I allowed myself to answer his questions, though I was careful not to reveal too much about myself.

  Mike was an American who was in Dubai working for the United Nations. He mentioned that most of the other partygoers worked for the United Nations as well, though for different agencies. He was unusually talkative, either because he was drunk or just a naturally open person, and offered up a surprising number of details about himself. At the same time, he asked many probing questions about my own backgroun
d, including where I was from and how I had come to Dubai. It never crossed his mind that I might be here against my will. As we continued to chat, I felt a nagging sense of frustration with the man; his questions and comments were extraordinarily naive, especially for a person with such obvious education and experience. I wondered how someone who was so curious and asked so many questions could be so ignorant. But as the night wore on, I realized that Mike the American was talking right through me. To him, I did not really exist at all.

  Eventually, we returned together to his tent, the interior of which was almost entirely taken up by a large bed. He immediately took his clothes off and began clutching and grabbing at me, initially in a boozy stupor, but as he became aroused he seemed to snap out of it. The friendly demeanor he had maintained all evening vanished in seconds as he forced himself upon me. He recorded everything with his cell phone, even setting up a small tripod to hold it. When he brought out a box filled with his “sex tools,” as he referred to them, he really got down to business. When I saw Almaz again, I thought, I would rebuke her for making me believe there could possibly be a “nice one” among such men. With that thought in mind, I set my jaw and endured the night as well as I could.

  Following breakfast the next morning, most men attended one excursion or another. A large group drove straight into the desert on quad bikes, while the Jackal took a second, smaller group somewhere nearby to give them a demonstration of falconry, a particular passion of his. When everyone departed, an eerie silence descended on the camp. Of the handful of men who stayed behind, most remained in their tents in the company of one or more of the girls. Before leaving with the group of quad bikers, Mike the American told me he would look for me upon his return.

  “If he wants you a second night, then you cannot deny him,” Almaz told me after I recounted the night’s events. “I am sorry that I introduced you to him, but the truth is that most of these men have . . . evil spirits to feed.” Beyond these meager words, Almaz offered surprisingly little comfort or compassion, even lightly chastising me for being so naive at this point.

  When the American returned later that evening, he sought me out as promised, and I was forced to remain by his side throughout the night. By the time we went back to his tent, he was noticeably drunker than the previous night. He continued to drink in the tent as he set up his phone to record the night’s coming activities. Stripping off his clothes, he lay on the bed and mumbled something that sounded to me like a command to lie on top of him. By that point, however, I thought he might be on the verge of passing out, so I remained where I was and watched him closely. Within minutes, he had passed out and was snoring loudly. A sense of relief washed over me. I knew we were leaving early the next morning, so I would be far away before he ever woke up. Turning to leave, my eyes landed on the man’s wallet, which he had placed next to the phone on its little tripod. I glanced back at his prone figure and, without really knowing what I was looking for, grabbed the wallet and began rifling through it. I discovered photos of the man with what I could only assume were his wife and children, an American driver’s license from the state of Virginia, and more bank cards than I had ever seen. I also found a business card with all of his contact information, including phone numbers and addresses in Dubai and the United States. It stated that he worked for the United Nations World Food Programme. Judging by his impressive title and credentials, he was a very big boss of some kind.

  I took the business card, knowing he would never miss it, and placed the wallet back on the table. But then I realized with a shock that the phone had been recording me the entire time. I have to delete the video, I thought. Unscrewing the phone from its tripod, I fumbled around with it clumsily, trying to figure out exactly how it worked. But I had only ever used a cheap analog cell phone and had no experience with the more expensive touch-screen phones like this one. I pressed various buttons in a vain attempt to navigate through the different pages, but my efforts only seemed to make matters worse. Eventually, a mysterious warning sign popped up that left me completely uncertain of what to do next.

  Rather than panic, however, a strange calm settled over me. I realized that I had nothing to lose. How much more could they humiliate me and treat me like an animal? What more could they do to me?

  As I stood there in the American man’s tent, staring blankly at the warning sign on his phone, I wondered how many violent rapes I had endured since being abducted almost a year and a half ago. Just at the hands of the Jackal alone, I could not possibly estimate the number of times I had been defiled. And now that he was through with me, he had tossed me aside to be the plaything of these bloated white men with their fake smiles and sunburned faces, these men with hidden lives and false morals. No, I thought, I will not lie back and take this anymore. “I must act,” I whispered to myself. “I must act now.” I said a little prayer and slipped from the tent, still clutching the cell phone.

  11

  I RETURNED TO MY WORK ROUTINE the following week, but hardly a minute went by when I did not think about the stolen phone, worried that Madam Dua or even the Jackal himself would confront me and demand to know where it was. I could not imagine the repercussions, certain only that they would involve a combination of physical violence and sexual abuse. Each time I heard Madam Dua’s quick, purposeful footsteps approaching, my heart skipped a beat.

  I hid the phone in the garden shack where we had been stashing our stolen food. When I told Almaz, she became silent, staring at me in disbelief before asking, “What have you done?” I had not expected this type of reaction from her, and it only made the potential consequences of my actions all the more real.

  While examining the phone later that night, we discovered that the battery was dead, and we did not have the right kind of cable to recharge it. I was almost relieved; I did not particularly want my friend to see the photos and videos that the American had taken. But Almaz sensed my worry and waved her hand dismissively, saying, “All these men like to take videos, you know. We are all forced to do similar things.” She turned her attention to the phone and studied it more closely. “This is American,” she said. “But it is available here in Dubai. The cable is easy to get. I will ask my friends to bring one when they next come.” She returned the phone to its hiding place and asked to see the man’s business card. She inspected it for a long time before letting out a heavy sigh, saying, “He is very high up in the United Nations. This does not surprise me. These special events are not for tourists—only the very powerful—only for men who can help the Jackal in some manner.” She handed the card back to me. “And these men—you know they keep their lives on their phones. It is only a matter of time before he comes looking for it.”

  “What can I do?” I asked. And then I added with a note of defiance, “I am glad I took it.”

  Almaz eyed me curiously, as if seeing something she had never noticed before.

  “We need to get this phone working,” I said, feeling emboldened now. “So we can contact this man directly. We will make him listen to us.”

  * * *

  Several days later, I entered my tiny room to find Madam Dua searching through my things. “Something is missing,” said the old lady without a trace of guilt or self-consciousness at being caught rifling through my personal belongings. “I must find it. Have you taken anything recently that does not belong to you? Do not lie to me, girl.”

  “I have not taken anything,” I replied, determined not to cave in or back down at this point.

  Madam Dua grunted and flung a box of tissues on the floor. There were few places to conceal anything in the sparsely furnished room. For once, the old lady looked tired, even a little defeated. “Stupid Americans,” she mumbled more to herself than to me. “They are not responsible people.” An awkward silence passed as the old lady, sitting in a plastic chair, clasped her hands and seemed to lose herself in contemplation.

  She looked up at me suddenly, her deep-set eyes boring through me with a look of intense hatred. “You are
lying. I will tell Master Kassab that you are lying and that you are hiding something. He wants to see you again, and I will bring you before him in a few days.” She stood up, slapped me hard across the face, and exited the room.

  I placed my hand on my face and worked my jaw, waiting for the pain to subside. I sensed something terrible was coming.

  * * *

  The next day, I approached Almaz and begged her to contact the twins so they could bring the phone cord as soon as possible. Fortunately, Madam Kassab was throwing a dinner party the following day, so the part-time staff would be needed, and the twins were due to arrive early the next morning. Almaz borrowed a phone from a delivery boy who happened to be at the house and called her friends, who promised to bring the cord.

  By the following night, I was navigating through the phone as I lay in bed. Fortunately, I had watched the American enter his four-digit passcode several times during our first night together. If it were not such a simple sequence of numbers, I never would have remembered it. Looking back on everything now, however, I realized that knowing his passcode probably factored into my decision to take the phone in the first place.

  Now, with more time to search through the phone, it was easy to collect information on Mike the American. I discovered that he was married and had at least two children, one being my age. He was the oldest of several siblings, had parents with health problems, liked to golf, and lived in Virginia. He also had a second home in a place called Arizona. I even learned the name of his dog.

  For the most part, he communicated with his wife through his phone’s messaging app, which allowed me to sift through their conversations with ease. I learned that his wife and children remained in America while he divided his time between the United States and Dubai, something they had been doing for over five years now. They had ironed out any problems related to trying to maintain a long-distance relationship, developing a yearly routine that seemed to work well for both of them. I was shocked at how much love and respect the man displayed for his wife; he anticipated her needs and responded with attentive care to everything she said. Their text messages made frequent references to phone conversations they had with each other, which occurred every few days. They talked a lot about their children—their hobbies, their soccer games, how they were doing in school, what they did with their friends, the parties they attended, the funny things they said and did—everything. They referenced the great time the family had during a recent vacation to the Caribbean. There were few indications of any serious problems or challenges. Mike the American had a nice family life. He and his wife seemed very happy. Everything was good.