Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love

by Abby Winter Flower

  He reaches for my glasses. I grab his wrist and kick his knee. As he falls forward, I snatch back my phone. “You can have the watch, that was my deal. My brother found the shades when they fell of a truck and he’d get mad if I lost them. I keep the glasses, the hat, and the phone.”

  He’s in pain but he moves forward. Two suits join him. “Hold it. Too many people around—not with the shipment in your possession. Get her in the van,” orders Mr. Clean.

  A Lincoln Town car pulls up. One of the suits opens the back door and Mr. Clean and two suits get in. A dirty Ford van follows it. I’m tired, there’s two of them, and I can’t think of any options so I don’t resist when they push me in the back and slam the door.

  Chapter 20

  The back of the van is empty and closed off closed off except for a small window to the passenger compartment which is blocked by a shade. It’s dark. The air is stale and it smells like mom’s cat litter when she forgets to empty it. There are no seats so I sit on the floor and feel every bump. We stop once and I hear a door slam and muffled voices. They must have dropped off the remaining suit. I try to keep track of time but keep dozing off. After at least an hour we stop and the engine shuts off.

  The back door opens and I’m nearly blinded by bright sunshine. I make out the outlines of Bat Man and a guy in a white robe who must be the driver. As my eyes adjust, I see that young Bat Man has a gun pointed at me. Second .45 today—must be cheap in Nigeria.

  “Welcome to Lagos. I’ll be your tour guide,” He gestures me to get out.

  I’m stiff, sore, and groggy from the trip and don’t move fast enough to suit them. The robe pulls me out and my new tour guide kicks me in the knee. He does it twice before I twist away. It hurts but he doesn’t have the leverage to do much harm.

  “Payback time? You’re fast but, if you give me back my watch, I can show you how to do it so you cause some real damage.”

  “Got us a smart-ass woman. Can’t wait to introduce her to the boys. Thanks for the lift. I’ll take it from here.” My new tour guide shakes the robe’s hand and we both watch the van disappear in traffic.

  * * *

  We’re in a dirt parking lot littered with tin cans, rotting garbage, patrolled by three scrawny, mongrel dogs. It’s a slum even beyond reservation standards. He prods me across the lot and through the graffiti stained plywood back door of crumbling cement building that could have been an apartment complex in its better days.

  We go down a dirty hall lit by a single bulb hanging by a twisted wire, through a door with a couple of faded, unrecognizable words spray painted on it. “Sit,” he commands, gesturing at a chair behind a lopsided card table. He takes a chair across the table and puts the .45 down in front of him. It’s still pointing at me.

  “The boys will be back in a few minutes, but first, let’s get acquainted.” He’s dropped the Hitler act and seems somewhat friendly. That makes me even more nervous. “My English name’s Ben. I’ve got another African name, but for you, it’s Ben. Almost everyone here speaks their native language and English—even us Area Boys.”

  “Area Boys?”

  “The Nigerian name is Agberos but most English speakers call us Area Boys. “ Now, tell me your name.”

  “That’s complicated. My Ojibwe sir name is Black Bear. My dad changed it to Black but I go by my Mom’s last name, Peterson. You can just call me Layla.”

  “You an Indian?”

  “Indians live in Asia. I’m a Native American—half of me is.”

  “Well, half Native American let me explain the facts of life here. You owe us for getting you out of the airport. Henry’s Cult is watching me. If we don’t give them enough, they’ll take their business to another gang. So what we have to do is figure out how to get that payment out of you.”

  “What cult? Who’s Henry? What’s an Area Boy?”

  “Okay, no reason to not tell. Area Boys are what you Americans call street gangs. Mine’s better organized, more disciplined, than most. We collect protection money from small shops—sell some soft drugs—hassle citizens on the streets until we get money—do some carjacking—that kind of stuff. Campus Cults are into bigger stuff. They started in universities to harass professors and extort money. That’s where Henry came from. Now he’s a big player in organized crime.”

  “What’s all that got to do with me?”

  “Henry, the English name for the guy you call ‘Mr. Clean’ is our connection. You offended him that’s why we either need to get enough payment or deposit a dead half-Native American in the harbor.”

  My gut tightens. I’m in a lot more trouble than I thought. “How much payment is enough?”

  “Henry didn’t say, but it’s a hell of a lot mere more than a fake Rolex, an old phone, a pair of sunglasses, and a baseball hat.”

  “The Rolex isn’t fake. Are you thick headed? I told you my brother only deals in the real thing.”

  “I don’t care about your damn brother. Tell me why you came to Nigeria—who you’re with. Will they pay to get you back?”

  I can’t expect any help from the volunteers so I make up a story. “I’m a boxer, a prize fighter. I nearly killed a woman in an unsanctioned fight and had to get out of the country in order to get another fight. Thought I’d try my luck here. I heard there are no restrictions, heard woman boxers are popular over here.”

  “You any good?”

  “I do all right, I had a good trainer.” I don’t tell him I’ve never lost.

  He smiles, pushes the gun aside and puts his elbow on the table. “Let’s arm wrestle.”

  That comes out of left field. “What—why?”

  “I want to see how strong you are.”

  He’s stronger than me, but I put up a good fight before he bends my arm down to the table. I cheat on the second round by standing to get leverage and we’re on the third go when the boys come in.

  * * *

  I count nine of them. The youngest looks about fourteen, the oldest close to thirty. They wear an array of scruffy slacks and short sleeved shirts. The oldest stands over me with a glare. “Who’s this?” he growls. He’s tall—bigger than me—and wiry. He’s missing the bottom his left ear and wearing a new pair of Air Jordan’s.

  “Found her at the airport, Bernard. No passport, says she has no money. Henry helped sneak her out. Now we owe him. Gotta find a way to turn this blue eyed, white American Indian girl into cash.”

  Bernard remains on his feet while the others sprawl out on the couch and chairs. “Stand up. Come here,” he orders. I move next to him and he pinches my belly. “Hard and flat. No meat on her. Good looking except for that scar on her face. If she had more flab we could probably sell her to the boys by the harbor. Young pudgy white girl would fetch a good price.” He walks around me, pats me on the ass and tries to fondle my tits. I wait until he’s exploring with both hands before kicking him in the balls.

  “Keep your damn hands off of me.” Bernard is now sitting on the floor so I have to look down at him. “That goes for all of you,” I say scanning the room. One thing I’ve learned growing up in Desperation Hollow, is the importance of making the relationship ground rules clear from the get go.

  “Claims she’s a boxer,” Says Ben. “Maybe we could put her in tomorrow’s fight against Mama Jefferson.”

  “They’re thinking of cancelling. One of the blind guys is in jail, the wrestling show moved on to Indonesia—something about not getting paid—and there’s no-one around dumb enough to fight Mama. They don’t want to cancel and she puts on a good show when they can keep her under control. If this Indian can box, we could make some money.”

  Ben says, “Or, we could just sell her fake Rolex. Shoot her and skink her body in the lake. Give the money to Henry and tell him she escaped.” He looks at me and smiles. I think he’s kidding about the watch, but I’m not sure about the rest.

  “Not fake. Do I need to get my brother over here to straighten you out?” Ben laughs but Bernard doesn’t. “Stop playing games�
�� he snarls, back on his feet. “We got a problem. We have to find a way to appease Henry and do it fast. You’re wasting time and she needs a lesson.” He’s rubbing his balls and moving toward me.

  “I’ll work it out. We’ll do it my way, by my time schedule.” Says Ben, walking him backward toward the couch. Bernard backs away slowly, then stops and stands his ground.

  “Hey, Bernard, pick on someone else. I thought Ben was the leader here,” I say, hoping that getting him mad would make him easier to handle. He doesn’t say anything, just turns and glares at me again. “What’s the matter, can’t hear out of that ugly half-ear?”

  “Careful, Layla. Bernard was a fighter himself. Some thug boxer copied Mike Tyson and bit off his ear. Funny, that guy ended up floating in Lake Lagos a few weeks later. Naturally Bernard had a good alibi,” says Ben.

  Bernard, pushes the couch, table, and chairs against the walls. He moves to the middle of the room and I get in front of him. The others step back and we’re facing each other in the middle of a circle.

  “Don’t get in over your head, Bernard,” taunts Ben, “Claims she almost killed someone in the ring.” He winks at me. “You think you can handle a woman? Be bad for your reputation if you couldn’t,” he continues.

  I’ve sparred with a lot of guys—not many women boxers in Buck Brush Falls—but never actually fought a man. Biology made us different and, if I stand a chance against Bernard, I need to fight dirty and get inside his head. It looks like putting on a show for these guys and fighting this Mama character is my only ticket out of here and up to North Star Girl’s school. Okay, time to get on with it.

  “Just you and me ugly-ear. You think those Jordan’s make you tough? Don’t let anything but fear hold you back.” We’re nose-to-nose and I know he’s about to lose control. I’m counting on it.

  He doesn’t disappoint me. He forgets to step back and get balanced, stands flatfooted and takes a wild swing with his right. I step back and move to my own right and nail him under the chin with a left uppercut. His eyes flutter and I think he bites his tongue. He pauses and I kick him in the balls again. Harder this time; I’ve got leverage. He bends down and I hit him again with my right on his good ear. Just for emphasis, I pick up a folded up metal chair and hit him on his half-ear. He sags to the floor, lands on his ass and stays there.

  “Not fair. You fought dirty,” says the skinny kid.

  “I don’t see any referee. He picked the fight and I didn’t agree to any rules.”

  “I think we got a fighter after all. What do you think Jethro?” says Ben to the skinny kid.

  “Mama Jefferson will whip her, but we can spread the word about her victory over Sitting Bull here.” He points to Bernard who is still on his ass gazing into space. “We can attract a bigger betting pool and get more people in The Pit. That will make Henry happy. Once she loses we can still either sell her or dump her in the lake—peddle her fake Rolex.”

  “Not fake.” I give Ben my own wink.

  “Good plan, little brother. Get over to the Island and sign her up. The rest of you pass the word that we’ve got someone who can finally give Mama a match. Don’t mention the chair or the kick in the balls. I’ll take care of two punch Layla here. Clean her up, get her some food and sleep. Got to take care of our meal ticket.”

  We all leave. The last thing I see is Bernard, still on his ass, studying the door.

  Chapter 21

  Ben has an old, banged up, motorcycle. He tells me to get on the back. I know I can push him and his bike over and run away before he gets the gun out of his pocket but there’s no point. I’m alone in the slums of a strange city and I’ve got to find a way to persuade him to help me get to North Star Girl’s School.

  He gives me another one of his winks. “Feel free to escape. If not, let’s go.”

  It’s a wild, twisting ride through narrow alleys, traffic clogged streets, dirt paths, and sometimes sidewalks. We come to a spine snapping stop behind a whitewashed concrete apartment building. I unclench my sweat soaked hands, wipe them on my shirt, and smell a mix of burning charcoal and something sweet that’s cooking. He leads me through a side door and down a flight of steps. It’s much cooler inside and the smell is stronger.

  Home sweet home,” he announces opening a door. “Tim, you here? We got a guest.”

  * * *

  We enter very clean family room with chairs, a couch and a large flat screen TV. I see a desktop computer in the corner and large shelves on both sides crammed with books and videos.

  “Nice place,” I say. “Personality like yours, I thought you lived in a cave.”

  “Crime pays if you’re careful and don’t blow your money. Timothy, get out here please,” he shouts at the opening of what must be the kitchen. At least that’s where the smell’s coming from.

  “Please? I didn’t know you knew that word.”

  Timothy emerges from the kitchen. He’s tall, gets me by two inches, and looks like a model from a weight lifting magazine. He has large brown eyes, full lips, a light brown complexion, and black hair. I watch him move across the room with the athletic grace of a dancer. He’s wearing an apron over his shirtless upper body and a pair of tight black jeans.

  “Wow,” I blurt out. It’s not the most elegant greeting but all I can come up with.

  “Meet my other brother. Tim, this is Layla. She’ll be our guest, at least until after the fight tomorrow night.”

  “Nice to meet you Tim. You . . . you . . . look nice

  “American accent.” He moves closer, wrinkles his nose and looks me up and down like he’s deciding whether to take a chance on buying a slightly ripe bunch of bananas. He moves even closer and sniffs deeply. “You stink. Do all American women smell so bad?”

  “Tim, it’s been a long hard day. I’ve traveled half way around the world, then ran into your brother and his gangster friends. The last place I took a shower was in Desperation Hollow Minnesota. Give me a break.”

  “My friends call me Tim. I’m not sure yet what I’d like you to call me. By the way, how old are you, smelly American girl?”

  “Tim—Timothy—whatever. I’m twenty-one. What about you?”

  “Our family didn’t keep birth records but he’s registered by the government as the same age as you. They’ve got me at twenty-three. Those are good estimates.” Ben answers for him. “Tim’s pretty direct. Takes no prisoners when it comes to social stuff—striking similarity between the two of you.” He turns to Tim, “Show her where she’ll sleep. Better point her to the shower, too. Don’t want no smelly American girl sharing our dinner.”

  I show up in the kitchen after cleaning up. Timothy meets me at the door and takes another sniff. “Much better, now you can join us.” He puts his hand on my arm, “I’ve decided you can call me Tim.” It’s warm where he’s touching me. It feels better than the shower. He zeros in on me with those brown eyes and I know he’s aware of what I’m feeling.

  “I dressed for dinner.” I run my hand over my last t-shirt. “I also put on my genuine Rolex.” I hold up my arm.

  “Fake Rolex, besides it’s for a man” says a grinning Ben.

  “Real Rolex. My brother gave it to me for my birthday and I keep it for a good luck charm. It doesn’t seem to have worked out all that well recently.”

  Jethro has arrived and the four of us sit around a kitchen table. Tim has cooked a kind of a stew. I identify the meat as lamb but I have no idea what else is in there. He pours a thick sugary sauce over our servings. “It’s a tribal specialty. Tastes best when cooked over charcoal,” he says.

  I’m starved and it’s delicious. I forget my manners and gobble it down. He refills my plate before I have time to ask for more. When we’re done we move to the family room.

  “I got some vodka from the Russian boys. Traded for some weed,” says Jethro, pulling a bottle out his pack.

  Ben’s not happy. “Not a good idea little brother. You know we only do cash deals and you’ve been hitting the booze too much
lately!”

  Jethro ignores him and fills four glasses a quarter full.

  “Not for me, thanks.” I give him back my glass.

  “Maybe a little smoke instead?”

  “Nope, don’t do that either.”

  “What’s with you, some kind of a saint?” asks Tim. He’s already polished off his drink.He’s definitely not the sipping type.

  Something has changed. I don’t feel like a prisoner anymore. They’re treating me like a family member so I decide to be honest. “I saw what alcohol did to my dad. I don’t trust myself to take anything that might make me lose control. I lose it enough without taking anything.”

  Tim stops at one. Ben and Jethro finish off the bottle while I tell them about my family. When I’m done I ask them about theirs.

  “Our father was a truck driver, a Muslim. He took a load north the year after Jethro was born. Never came back. Left us with nothing. Some say he joined Boko Haram. Mom was Christian, got sick and died a year later. We’ve been on our own since.” Ben is a little drunk and slurs some of his words.

  “We don’t hear anything about Boko Haram in Buck Brush Falls. What are they really?”

  “The south of our country is mostly Christian. The North is Muslim. Boko Haram are bad guys—terrorists. An oversimplified translation is that Boko Haram means educating girls is a sin. They don’t think you should go to school. Think you’re property, like cattle,” says Tim.

  “Cattle are less trouble. Don’t cause a problem with Henry. Good thing you can box,” mumbles Jethro.

  “Time for bed little man” Tim springs across the room and pulls him into a bedroom. When he returns he yells at Ben. “For god’s sake, he’s only fourteen. You’ve got to get him off the booze.” He takes a deep breath, then sits back down next to me, much closer than before.

  Ben stands and turns to me. “You need to get some sleep. You’ll need it when you fight Mama Jefferson tomorrow night. I need some rest too. Get out of here.” He’s now all business and I feel like a prisoner again.