by Yasmin Angoe
Paul appears from a building dressed in an army-green shirt and camo pants with black combat boots. It is the basic uniform of the men here. He looks fresh, rested, and clean from the bath he undoubtedly took, while the rest of us wallow in filth. Attah Walrus and Kwabena flank him.
He begins, “I believe in being transparent about what comes next for you.” He paces in front of us, while Kwabena stands at attention and the Walrus looks bored, swatting flies and spitting on the ground.
“You are scared, of course. Understandable. But life for you can be relatively easy.” He grins. “If you follow the rules. No trying to flee, no fighting us, no wishing you’ll be saved.” His minions laugh around him. “There is no saving. This, my dears, is your new reality. Embrace it.”
The girls with me are the same ones from school. Lived in homes next to mine. Socialized with me just yesterday. We were playing a guessing game about which boys we would marry—boys probably burned to crisps now. It seems eons ago. Childish and superficial.
“N’nkakuwe is gone. It was unfortunate, true. However, there is no use dwelling over—what do Americans say—spilled milk?” The chuckling around him increases.
Raping, pillaging, beheading, hacking people to pieces is not spilled milk.
Paul continues his sales pitch. “When you leave here, you will be sold—”
Sold! My heart thumps violently in my chest, and my fingers go numb. My mind reels. Like slaves! A murmur rises from the abducted, the blasphemous word awakening us like the paddle of a defibrillator.
“—to the highest bidder. Take care of yourselves.”
The grounds of the Compound resemble a bull’s-eye, the clearing at its center. Surrounding it is medical, the mess hall, the latrines, and Paul’s quarters. He stays close to the main and perimeter gates, which are the only real ways in or out. The next ring consists of our quarters, small, cramped one-level buildings. Tin roofs that jut out and connect to the buildings on either side cover them. We are lucky to have small windows in our quarters, so at least there is that.
Behind our quarters is a lower chain-link fence that serves more to slow any attempted escapes than to stop them. Behind that fence are the guard quarters, and behind those are the perimeter gates and the walls with those strategically placed guard towers. Beyond them are the carports housing the trucks used to transport us. Every inch reaffirms there is no getting out and no going back.
Paul continues to pace, slowing in front of me, hands on his hips. “Behave. Keep clean and be presentable.”
I zoom in on the dark stain on his boot toe, wondering if it is blood from when he poked Papa’s head.
“Because if you break any of those rules, we will kill you.”
We are nothing but entertainment for the men, who are cruel, gluttonous children. The Compound is their candy store, with a bounty of young, nubile confection ready for selection every night.
Our quarters consist of maybe ten to twelve girls. We speak infrequently and only in whispers. We abhor attention because it brings nothing good. Every night, we are listening for approaching boot steps, knowing when the door bangs open, an intruder, maybe two, will be there to peruse the candy aisles.
While he does, we hold our breaths, guiltily hoping his eyes fall on someone else, not us. We try to avert our eyes without looking obvious, because the men tend to pick the girls who look like they want to be chosen the least. When the selection is made, they drag one or more of us kicking and screaming from the room. They pull us past the chain-link fence, into one of their quarters. They return us before daybreak and threaten death if we do not clean ourselves well enough so Paul does not know they have sampled the merchandise.
The day of my selection, the guard remembers who I was before and takes extra pleasure in having a chieftain’s daughter. He finishes, spent and lying next to me as if we are lovers, and that is when he makes a grievous error.
“Your father’s head sounded like a bowling ball when it dropped. Bamp! Like that. Off with his head, o.” He cackles at his pun, his breath foul like refuse. He is still laughing when my arm shoots across my chest, fingers curled.
I claw at his cheek, my nails digging deeply into his flesh, intending to tunnel into his mouth so I can rip out his tongue. I roll onto him, biting his ear, all thought blotted from my mind. I grind my teeth until they connect, determined to take his ear off. He screams bloody murder, bucking beneath me.
I do not consider his screaming. I should have grabbed his gun. Killed him, silenced him, then ended myself before the others came.
But they come, pouncing on me. They punch and kick me until they force me off the guard with half his salty, flabby ear in my mouth. I spit it out on the ground. My curses rain down as I kick at him. His blood trickles into my mouth. I spit saliva and blood at the group of them. He writhes on the ground, clutching his ruined cheek and ear.
I am a force for them, a feral animal locked on its prey. It takes four to restrain me. I am alight with lunacy. I want blood, all of theirs. I want death, my own.
Maybe they will make an example of me, drag me into the middle of the courtyard and put a bullet in my brain, take me from this never-ending hell and from my guilty mind.
But they do not.
Instead, it is the Hot Box for me. It is hotter than hell in that little box, only half the size of a coffin. Memories of my family, of Papa’s cologne, and of Mama’s moisturizer torture me. I remember the soccer squabbles my brothers will no longer have. I recall Papa’s language lessons, him telling me I need to speak as many languages as possible so no one can ever lie to me.
In the box, I sing in French. I count in English. I recite prayers in both Ewe and Twi. I meditate in Ga. I mutter the little bit of Spanish I managed to learn before my world dissolved into fire and brimstone. Now, I may never have the chance to learn any more if the Hot Box melts me. If these demons kill me.
Or if I lose my mind.
21
AFTER
Fresh from their father’s reprimand, Elin stood from her chair abruptly. “Maybe we should have tea? Yeah?”
Nena’s words were soft, barely audible. “That man, Dennis Smith, was Attah Walrus.”
The name hung between them like a guillotine. Elin stiffened, having not heard it in years. “Maybe a shot then.” She hurried to the bar at the corner of the living room and selected the first open bottle she could find—whiskey. She was allowed two shots before Nena continued.
“Do you remember who he is to me?”
Elin stepped down into the sunken living room and resumed her place across from Nena. She folded her long legs beneath her, holding the tiny glass containing her third shot. “How could I not? The way you described the lot of them—him, Bena, Paul—they were like the horsemen of the Apocalypse.” Elin shivered. “But Nena, remember, Dad sent a massive number of soldiers scouring Ghana looking for them. They found the Compound in ruins. The locals said Paul’s own men turned on him and killed him. Said he refused to pay them. I’m pretty sure Dad had scouts looking throughout all of Africa in case Paul happened to turn up. Dad knows how to find people.”
“Dad doesn’t know Paul like I do.” Nena’s face was stony. “Paul is . . . resourceful. He knows how to survive.” Like me.
Elin rolled her eyes. “It’s a bit overdramatic, you think?”
“Still the truth.”
Elin was tapping her front tooth with her nail again. She cursed, reaching into her bag for her pack of cigarettes. She was supposed to quit, but Nena knew that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Nena scooped up the gold-plated lighter with sparkling crystals—only the best bling for Elin—from the mirrored centerpiece lying atop the ottoman and tossed it. Elin caught it deftly.
“God, you’re insufferable. They’re all dead. Trust Dad on this, yeah? You mixed this Smith bloke up with the other guy.”
Nena focused on her hands, folded in her lap. She nodded. The man was Attah. She’d know him anywhere.
“These back-to-back
jobs we assigned you scrambled your mind.” Elin pointed at her. “And if anyone asks, tell them the wind was fucked up this morning and threw your bullet off or some gun shit like that, okay? But don’t tell them this crazy shit about sex traffickers coming back from the dead.”
Elin was right; no one would believe her without more proof.
Nena’s lips pursed. “I won’t say anything to anyone. Not even Dad. Not until I figure things out a bit more.”
“Let’s just tell him, and he’ll fix this bloody thing.”
“Tell him and crush what he’s spent his life building? The African Tribal Council—his baby? Because that’s what we’d be doing, crushing Dad’s dreams. You want to crush his dreams? You heard him say how close this new member gets them to achieving their goals.” She looked pointedly at Elin. “Truly?”
Elin groaned. “I really hate when you make sense.”
Nena looked at her soberly. “You’re the one who said we needed proof so no one would think me mad. Very sensible of you.”
“I hate you; you know that?” Elin’s pretty face, a perfect blend of their mother and father, contorted into a pout. “All I wanted to do today was gossip with you about Oliver. Like, we’re getting serious now—”
“After a month?”
Elin shot her a dirty look. “There’s no time limit on love. You’d know if you gave it a chance,” she returned. “And no knowing where you find it, because who would have thought I’d find a guy I actually wanted to keep around? There’s something different about him—”
Nena’s eyebrow quirked. “More different than John before him? Or Nathan before John? Or when it was both Giles and Felipe at the same time? That was very different.” A half smile played at Nena’s lips.
“I already love,” Elin stressed, ignoring her sister’s dry humor and placing a hand over her chest dramatically, “every bit of intense, straitlaced, by-the-book Oliver. I want you to meet him.”
Nena’s lip twitched. Elin’s theater study from their school days was reemerging, as it often did when Elin wanted someone to pity her.
Elin said, “Apparently, Oliver will have to wait.”
She rolled the lighter around in her hand, intently watching the sunlight catching the crystals. Nena imagined all possible contingency plans playing through Elin’s calculating mind like a movie reel on fast-forward. Elin got that masterful mind from their mother.
“You sure about this guy and about not telling Dad?” Elin finally asked, her cigarette remaining unlit. “Truly? Smith was Attah Walrus?”
Nena gave her a single nod, adding, “Yeah.”
Elin balked. “What if Attah Walrus was lucky? The other two could be dead, and he was the only one to survive. Dad’s teams couldn’t have missed all three. Those assholes aren’t that good even on their best day.”
“Also a possibility, but doubtful.”
Elin continued to fidget with the lighter, giving her cigarette long looks that told Nena how badly she wanted to go to the balcony and smoke. She didn’t know why Elin didn’t just go. She was fine, for now, maybe. She’d managed to drive away the memories threatening to strangle her ever since she saw his yellowed eyes and face that looked like a melting Hershey bar. The years really had not been kind to him.
“The Council may call for consequences.”
She was resolved to take whatever punishment should come from her actions. “There should be consequences for me.”
Elin pinched the space between her eyes and said thinly, “Maybe docked pay.”
“I wouldn’t have accepted payment anyway.” Nena recalibrated. “I would have given my life savings to kill that man.”
“Nena, you can’t go saying that to the Council. You’ll need to show a mea culpa for what you did. Just go with the bullet-and-the-wind story I mentioned earlier. Or say you’re overworked. Maybe that will keep the Council off your back and—”
“Those are excuses.” Nena paused. “However, I am sorry that Attah’s death was too swift. He deserved to suffer for a long time.”
Elin groaned, long and defeated. “Nena, that’s not how remorse works.”
Nena’s anger simmered so close to the surface she feared she’d explode. She was always calm and collected. Her restraint was the only thing she took pride in. That and dispatching.
“He took everything from me, Elin.” The rage she suddenly felt, something long hidden, surprised her. And from Elin’s wide eyes and frozen expression, she’d surprised Elin as well.
Elin stood, walking toward her balcony, which overlooked Biscayne. The view was what had sold her on the flat. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find about Smith and the other two, but chances are this Attah Walrus guy was an oversight.”
Nena remained quiet because what she was really thinking about the term oversight would only incite more of Elin’s wrath. Elin wouldn’t understand the danger Paul and Kwabena posed. No one knew, except Nena.
“Meanwhile, don’t do anything without telling me first.”
Nena extricated herself from the couch expertly and without using her hands for balance. She couldn’t make that promise.
Elin cast a long look at her. “While you’re waiting for word from the Council or me, go out and have some fun. Do something wild. You’re wound too tight.”
“Copy,” Nena said, watching as Elin glanced at her gold Rolex for the third time since she’d stood up. “You have somewhere to be?”
“Mm-hmm. Date,” Elin responded dreamily, lighting her cigarette.
The corners of Nena’s mouth curved slightly. “With this different Oliver. Can’t wait to meet him.”
As Nena neared the front door, she threw over her shoulder, “I do hope this guy is as different as you say, because it would be unpleasant if I had to dispatch him.”
“Fuck you, bitch,” Elin answered merrily as she took the first drag. Her eyes closed in pleasure before she called out, “Oh, and I’m planning a dinner so you, Dad, and Mum can officially meet him. I’ll let you know soon as they tell us when they’re coming to town.”
“Okay,” Nena answered, relieved to have Elin’s benefit of the doubt. She needed her sister by her side. If Elin doubted her . . . Nena couldn’t think about any of that.
The next time she’d play it safe. The next time she wouldn’t run off half-cocked and be so reactionary, without a plan. She’d ask for Witt’s help, too, if he’d give it—he wouldn’t refuse her, would he? And she’d just make doubly sure there were no more ghosts left to haunt her.
22
BEFORE
Mixed in with the guard quarters are the Hot Boxes, tiny metal boxes conducting heat that reach nearly oven-high temperatures. They are specially reserved for the greatest offenders, those of us who dare fight or flee. As far as I know, no girl who spends time in the Hot Box ever goes back. She either learns her lesson or succumbs to the sweltering temperatures before the men have a chance to get her out.
I am not sure how long I have been at the Compound. I have lost track. Weeks must have passed, because until the guard took me for his, my wounds had begun healing. The pain inside and out had lessened to a throb. And my body, which no longer felt like it belonged to me, moved robotically, doing what it needed to survive—eat, drink, wash, defecate, rinse, repeat, all without my mind willing any of it, at least not that I knew of.
But when the guard ridiculed Papa’s death, I was reanimated. I was Frankenstein’s monster sparked by his insolence. A spark propelling me to act, to lash out, to rip his dirty, stubble-filled face off with my bare hands.
The action brought me here, to the Hot Box, where I have been for God knows how long, because in here, time stands still. And in here is where I am in the process of dying.
I am nearly there, I think, when ironically enough, Paul saves me. He flings open the door, bathing me in blinding light. My arm rises to shield my eyes, but I relish the wisps of cooler, dry air that flood in and drive the blanket of heat out.
“I told you not to fuck with t
his one,” Paul growls. “I leave for two days, and this is what you do?”
Only two? No, it has been two hundred years.
He continues, “Fuck his ear. Kill the bastard for disobeying my orders.”
An unrecognizable voice asks, “What should we do with her?”
“What do you think? Get her to medical and have her looked at! I told you imbeciles to leave the girls alone. We have a big sale next week. You need to fuck around, then do it with the whores in town. These here are merchandise. You understand? And no one wants to buy fucked-up merchandise.”
If my mind had not turned to jelly and my limbs hadn’t become petrified wood, I might react properly to being called merchandise and the knowledge I am to be sold the following week. But all I can think of is water. And sleep. And maybe death, because the thought of it seems sweetest of all.
Two of his men lift my body, frozen into a question mark from the cramped box. The pain drives my screams into the air. They drop me back on the floor.
Paul is livid. “You see? She’s all fucked up. If I can’t sell her to the Frenchman, you take on the debt.”
My eyes crack open, blinking rapidly, trying to adjust and focus on his face. He grimaces at mine, undoubtedly bruised and swollen. His nose wrinkles at the smell of my blood, excrement, and vomit. I hope he gets a good whiff. I hope the Frenchman tells him to go to hell and refuses my used merchandise. And then I hope he kills me.
My thoughts become nonsensical because when the men lift me again despite my howls, white-hot currents rip through my body, and I fall into darkness.
I awaken on a cot with a rough spun blanket covering me. Cold compresses battle the swell of my face. The pain has now receded to a dull ache, and I am surprisingly hungry. Gingerly, I sit up on my elbows, surveying the room. The other cots are empty, but I am not alone. There is a young woman, maybe eighteen, watching me. She has a healthy glow about her, is without the vacant, catatonic look most of the girls walk around the Compound with.