I Am Not Your Slave

by Tupa Tjipombo

  Realizing it was her only chance, Almaz sprang up and made a mad dash down the alleyway toward the Big Ground. The man immediately gave chase and caught up to her at the intersection of a cross alley. Grabbing her by the hair, he yanked her back so violently that she stumbled and fell again. She put her arms up to protect herself from another blow, but it never came. Instead, an enormous man appeared from behind her attacker and struck him on the back of the head with a pipe. He dropped to the ground like a rock. The man with the pipe seemed to consider hitting him again but settled on kicking him in the face, sending several teeth skittering across the alley.

  A whistle came from above. It was one of the D-gang spotters who positioned themselves on the rooftops to keep an eye out for police or anything out of the ordinary. He waved at the man with the pipe, who acknowledged him with a nod. Almaz recognized the big man now; he was part of the D-gang’s security contingent, an imposing group of Punjabi who were rumored to be ex-military and roamed the Big Ground like ravenous tigers. Fortunately for Almaz, they had watched the entire incident unfold from the beginning; few things happened on the Big Ground without the D-gang’s knowledge.

  Later that night, we learned that Almaz’s attacker was part of the sayyad. He confessed that he was specifically looking for the two of us, lured by the large reward. While the secretive leaders of the D-gang did not necessarily care about the fate of two African girls, they took incursions into their territory very seriously. Rumor had it that after the man was beaten and confessed to everything, he was taken deep into the desert and buried alive. It was typical of the punishments meted out to those unfortunate individuals who violated the rules of the Big Ground.

  After the attack, Almaz decided to return to Ethiopia, at least for the time being. “I am no good to my children dead or in jail,” she told me. “And maybe we can find a way to open a shop together in my country. Maybe Ethiopia can be your new home.” I considered the idea once again. It sounded more tempting to me now, especially since I had already been thinking about Rakesh’s words about bringing shame to himself and his family, which also made an impact on me. I understood that kind of pressure and realized that escaping Dubai did not necessarily mean having to return home to Namibia. I wondered if I even had a home to return to. Whenever I allowed myself to think about my life and what it might look like if I ever made it back to Namibia, I was nagged with suspicion and doubt about my family and their failure to protect me on the day of my abduction. That led, in turn, to the one question that haunted me: Did my uncle—and, more importantly, my father—know beforehand that I was to be abducted? I could not bear to think about it.

  * * *

  After discussing our options, Almaz and I agreed to approach Queen Victoria for help. She was one of the few people who could help us: she was not only street savvy but also plugged in to Dubai’s underground network of gang members, scammers, smugglers, and sex workers—a definite asset when it came to things like blackmailing rich Americans. At the same time, she had a soft heart and somehow managed to move among all these people with a doting, almost motherly affection, especially when it came to “her girls” at the Big Ground brothel. She may have played the role of a sympathetic nursemaid, but few doubted the Queen’s ability to slit a man’s throat when necessary. She was perfect.

  We decided our best bet was to be honest and appeal to the Queen’s sense of decency by telling her the full story, including the entire odyssey of my abduction and how I had come to Dubai. One evening, the Queen invited us to her room and, after closing and locking the door, listened quietly to our story, interjecting only to ask a few questions. On several occasions, she looked at me with shock and exclaimed, “Oh, you poor dear!” When I was finished, the Queen took my hands in hers and said, “I am feeling pity for you, my daughter. I truly am.” She then leaned back and thought for a while before asking how much money we were demanding from the American and whether he had responded. I told her the amount, admitting that I had not checked for a response in several days.

  “Oh! Let us see, then!” the Queen boomed, pulling out an iPad from among the voluminous folds of her robe. We quickly confirmed that the American had not responded, even though it had been over a week.

  “Sometimes you must give such things time to work on a man,” the Queen said reassuringly. “Even the moon and the sun move slowly, but eventually they cross the sky.” She turned her attention to Rakesh’s e-mail and nodded her head. “Ah, yes, this is good. I will help you. But you must give me this man’s share of the money now. Do you agree to this?” We exchanged glances and quickly agreed. The Queen continued, “And we must double the amount we want from this man. You are thinking too small. He is an American, after all, and I am certain this is nothing to him.” She noted how the original message did not take Almaz into account, so asking for more money would ensure that she could return home as well. Putting down the iPad, the Queen slapped her hands on her knees. “Now!” she said. “Give me this American’s phone. Let us see if we can put more meat in the trap!”

  * * *

  The American had still not responded by the end of the week, so Queen Victoria sent several more e-mails. I asked to read them, but the Queen simply laughed, patted me on the shoulder, and told me not to worry, assuring me that he would reply, probably very soon.

  The very next evening, the Queen intercepted us as we were about to go on parade. “There has been a response,” she whispered excitedly. “Come with me.”

  We followed Queen Victoria to her room, where she went through the same routine of carefully shutting and locking the door before settling down and beginning to speak. “He has agreed to our demands,” she said, beaming. “But he says it will be difficult to put you on a plane when you do not have passports and are wanted by the police. I do not know how he knows these things.” Almaz suggested that he may have been in contact with the Kassab family and Madam Dua; it was the most likely explanation. “Well, it is no matter,” the Queen continued, “because the American has offered a solution.” She explained that he would put us on a World Food Programme flight to Addis Ababa. Once in Ethiopia, I would have to find my own way back to Namibia, but the amount of cash he was giving me would be enough to make that possible. “So that is the deal,” the Queen said, spreading her arms.

  Trusting so few people these days, I asked skeptically, “How do we know this is not a trap?”

  But Queen Victoria had a plan: We would go to the airport together, and once there, the American himself would ensure that we were safely on the plane. Several D-gang members would accompany us as security, and she would only return the man’s phone once the plane was in the air. The American was aware that she had copies of everything. “And there are other things I can use as leverage with this man,” the Queen said mysteriously. “I do not think there will be any problems.”

  * * *

  On the day we were scheduled to depart, the American was waiting for us in a shopping mall parking lot near the airport. We remained in the car with a D-gang security guard while Queen Victoria and a second guard, who happened to be the pipe-wielding man who had disposed of Almaz’s attacker, approached the American’s car. When he rolled down his window to speak with the Queen, we confirmed that it was Mike the American. I could never forget that soft, pale face. I knew now it was the face of a man who had as much to lose as he had to hide.

  After a brief discussion, the Queen returned to our car, and we followed the American to the airport, where he used his World Food Programme credentials to get us through a special entrance to the airport’s Humanitarian Response Depot. “He is alone, and he is nervous,” Queen Victoria said. “When such a man is alone and nervous, it is always a good sign.”

  We passed through the security checkpoint with surprising ease; the guards simply waved us through after exchanging a few words with the American. They appeared to know him, and one guard even made a small, respectful bow as he went by. Once inside, we passed row upon row of large warehouses, al
l identical, with blue roofs and white corrugated metal walls that shimmered brightly in the afternoon sun. Forklifts and other vehicles scurried between the buildings and several massive cargo planes on the tarmac. Every plane had WFP painted in large blue letters on its tail.

  We parked in front of one warehouse, and the Queen, accompanied by both security guards this time, followed the American inside. Several minutes later, she emerged carrying a plastic bag, climbed back into the car, and said with a broad smile, “It is good. You will be back in the motherland today, praise be to God.” She then handed Almaz and me each $1,000 in cash, in American currency. We gasped; it was more money than either of us had ever seen in our lives. “It would take several years to save up this much money working in Dubai,” Almaz gushed. “This is all I need to open a shop in Ethiopia.” She beamed with excitement through a pair of black eyes, the result of the broken nose suffered during the attack almost two weeks ago.

  Dumbstruck, I stared at the wad of money in my hands. My mind raced through all the possible things I could do, all the opportunities for a brand-new start. At the same time, I knew it would never erase everything I had been through. In that sense, I might as well be holding a handful of ashes.

  “The American will put you on the plane himself,” the Queen informed us. “But you must go now.”

  It was all happening so quickly that I could think of nothing to say beyond a simple “Thank you.”

  The Queen laughed. “This is not the first time I have caught a big man in one of my traps,” she said. “It will not be the last.” She lifted the bag with her share of the money. “I have been blessed, my dear.” She then offered me one of her caring, maternal looks and said, “You do not belong here, my dear. I have known this from the beginning. Africa is your full-time home. And with God’s blessing, when Africa is under your feet again, everything will be better for you. You will be healed.”

  The American walked up as we were saying our goodbyes. “Follow me,” he said curtly as he brushed past us toward the largest of the planes. We trailed behind him as he led us up a ramp and into a cavernous cargo hold. The interior of the plane was filled with pallets of rice and boxes labeled with the words HIGH ENERGY BISCUITS. Several workers were strapping down the last of the pallets. They glanced at us with mild curiosity but remained silent.

  The American guided us to a row of jump seats lining the side of the plane. He demonstrated how to buckle ourselves in and produced a pair of headsets, which he explained were meant to deaden the noise during flight. He was all business as he strapped us in. It was as if we were just two more sacks of rice being delivered to Africa.

  Taking note of the man’s detached, almost haughty demeanor, Almaz clucked her tongue in disgust and scowled menacingly at him. It seemed to break the American’s stony facade, which in turn sparked something deep inside me.

  “I am not your dog to do with as you wish,” I hissed in an icy whisper that startled even myself. I glared at the man and pounded my chest with a clenched fist. “I am a girl,” I stated. But thinking this did not sound quite right, I corrected myself and practically shouted, “I am a Himba woman!” As the words came out of my mouth, I felt my grandfather’s presence; I knew the Old One was sitting beside me now, leaning on his walking stick, smiling with approval.

  The American gave a small start. He looked dazed, as if he, too, were seeing a ghost. I imagined it was not a position he was used to being in. He turned away and muttered sheepishly under his breath, “You will be taking off to Addis in about an hour.” Only then, as I watched him retreat down the cargo ramp and out of sight, did I know for certain that I was returning to Africa. It had been two years since I was abducted.

  * * *

  Time passed quickly once we were back in Africa, as if making up for the slow, torturous pace at which it had been moving for the past couple of years. Before I knew it, I had been in Ethiopia for well over a year. I had grown fond of Addis Ababa, the capital city nestled high in the Ethiopian highlands at the foot of Mount Entoto. Its pleasant climate and crisp, thin air was a welcome relief from Dubai’s oppressive heat. Each morning, I watched the city teem with life as its broad avenues and countless monument-filled squares filled up with people from all walks of life and every corner of Africa. The city seemed to embrace its own frenzied logic and reason for being. To me, it was as if a single bee from every hive in the land had been placed together in a giant gourd and, by some stroke of luck, had managed to produce the most wonderful honey. And the energy from this African patchwork buzzed and echoed against a backdrop that had something undeniably ancient and mystical about it. It felt like the ancestors walked among us here.

  With the money she received from the American, Almaz opened a shop in the Addis Mercato, the city’s labyrinthine open-air market, selling vegetables from her uncle’s farm on one side and making coffee and samosas on the other. I loved to watch her make coffee—she brewed it in the traditional manner using clay vessels called jebena. She did it with as much care and attention as if she were painting a picture or carving some beautiful piece of artwork each and every day. Her clientele, consisting mostly of older men, sat for hours on rickety plastic chairs, sipping their coffee and passing the day in animated conversation. They flirted regularly with Almaz, whose skills at seducing and enchanting her fellow countrymen were on full display.

  I invested part of my money in my friend’s business and kept myself busy helping her to run it. Customers flirted with me as well, and I knew they watched me as I moved about the shop. But after everything I had been through, I felt their advances were harmless, mostly because they lacked the predatory bloodthirst of every man I had been with during my abduction. The men of the Mercato were just normal men with everyday desires. It was nice to be an attractive yet ordinary woman going about my business in a more manageable world.

  My favorite time of day was when Almaz’s two boys came rushing into the shop after school. Their mother, always ready with a long list of chores for them to do, usually sent them to some far corner of the Mercato to buy milk or sugar or anything else to keep them busy. I often joined them on these missions; I loved exploring the market and its tangled web of narrow dirt corridors and tin stalls. Its merchants sold an amazing assortment of fruits and vegetables, many of which I had never seen before. Also on display were beautifully colored fabrics, intricate handwoven baskets, burnished jewelry, strange religious relics, and so much more. The air was pungent with the aroma of incense, spice, coffee, and meat. I felt as if all of life had been squeezed and wedged into a single place. Leading me through the mayhem, Almaz’s boys spent most of their time scouring the market for sweets to buy with the extra coins their mother gave them. It was all so different from the rigid order and artificial landscape of Dubai. I took it all in, knowing that it was restorative. As I wandered the market each day, I felt as if I was becoming whole again.

  But I was still plagued by the witch doctor’s curse. So after months of deliberation, I asked Almaz to set up a meeting with a well-known healer in Addis. The healer, a wizened old man with kind eyes and an easy, pleasant manner, reminded me of my grandfather and immediately put me at ease. As I told him the entire story of my witching, he closed his eyes and listened intently. I started from the very beginning and described everything leading up to the actual night of the witching itself. When I came to that particular night, I tried to remember every detail: the general surroundings, the people present, the murder of the young girl, the beat of the drums, the potion we were made to drink, the strange orbs of light—everything. I showed the healer the scar on the back of my arm, which he examined closely, running his heavily calloused fingertips over the wavy line, tracing it exactly, and lightly touching the three dots as if trying to divine some hidden code. He asked many questions and had me repeat certain parts of the story again and again, showing particular interest in the ingredients that were added to the potion. Finally, drawing a deep breath, he said, “I can remove this. But it will t
ake time, maybe a month. I must prepare something special for you each week for four weeks. It must follow your menstrual cycle. And you must also pray every day during this time. Go to church as often as you can—every day, if possible—and pray there. This, plus the medicine I give you, will heal you and remove the curse.”

  I followed the healer’s advice to the letter, never missing a day to pray at church and visiting him every week to receive a new batch of medicine. It was a syrupy, heavily spiced drink that left me feeling invigorated. On my final visit, the healer examined me thoroughly and informed me that I was fully healed with one small exception. “You are holding something against a close family member,” he said, to my surprise. “It is preventing you from moving forward with your own life. You are healed, but you are stuck—you cannot move forward or backward—you are in a nowhere place. You must confront this person and forgive them. Then you can move forward.”

  I knew immediately who he was referring to: my father. I was carrying something against him that I had been trying not to think about, pushing it away each time it threatened to surface. Until now, when the healer finally put it into words, I had never been willing or able to confront it.

  I knew that in many ways I blamed my father for everything that had happened to me. Deep down, I think I also knew that he had no prior knowledge of or hand in my abduction. I could not say the same thing for my uncle Gerson. But I did not particularly care about my uncle. I cared only about my father. I loved him. I think that was why I resented him: because even if he could not have known the consequences of his actions on that day, he still gave up his only daughter to a man he did not even know. And for what? A few cows? It was that initial decision that led to everything else. Looking back now, I felt that at that moment on that particular day my father had had a choice, and he had chosen to hand over his daughter rather than to do something—anything—to protect and defend her. But then I asked myself: What could he possibly have done? What choices did he have on that remote desert farm in Angola almost three years ago now? It was difficult to think of anything he could have done, given the forces aligned against us. And I realized that those forces were simply too powerful and immense for one Himba family from the Kunene to control or even understand. No, it was foolish to blame my father. The healer was right; I must forgive him to completely heal and move forward with my life.