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Cut for Life

Page 19

by Lucinda E Clarke


  Amie prayed they wouldn’t make as big a fuss about ‘so called’ British citizens without papers, as she’d experienced in Atari when she’d gone for help. Contrary to what most people believed, the foreign consulates would only repatriate you if someone stood surety for you and the government was sure of getting its money back.

  Mrs Motswezi’s words cut into Amie’s thoughts. “That is all for tomorrow, to do all those things. For now, it is time to rest from your journey. And I think you are all very hungry?”

  The children nodded their heads and Mrs Motswezi called out for one of her assistants to take them over to the kitchen area and make sure they were well fed. At first, they were reluctant to leave Amie but she assured them they were very safe as she watched Mrs Motswezi pour out a second cup of tea and add copious amounts of sugar; true African style.

  “I talk bad about your people but they do bad things to you, Amie,” said the headmistress as soon as the children were out of earshot and she had dispatched someone to take Jean-Pierre a drink and some food. “Where did they take you?”

  “They flew me to Scotland and they trained me like a soldier.”

  “But you are so brave.” Mrs Motswezi’s brown eyes were as large as dinner plates.

  “Not really. I didn’t have a choice. They’d kept me in the embassy and told everyone I was dead.”

  “It was a very wicked thing to do. I am sure of that.”

  “But how did you know to come to the hospital? How did you find out?”

  “Ouma Adede, she knows. She knows everything.”

  “Ah, I could have guessed.” Amie smiled.

  “She will know you are here now,” Mrs Motswezi nodded vigorously. “She knows.”

  Africa was a land of extremes, with so much that westerners just couldn’t begin to understand. There were people like Mrs Motswezi who gave their entire lives selflessly for others, and for whom family bonds were as strong as steel. They were unendingly hospitable, kind, sharing their last crust, if you were their friend. On the other side, life was cheap, there was terrible cruelty, inhumanity, and greed that would take a life for a cell phone and think nothing of it. On this continent there existed a different mindset, one Amie would never fully understand. And then there was the ethereal side, the magic that wove through all their lives. The fear and reverence shown to those who had second sight, could kill you with a curse, or cure you with a spell. It didn’t matter which side you were on, you believed in the powers of the ancestors and the witchdoctors, and turned to them in times of trouble. Amie had even known of medical doctors, trained at reputable universities in Europe and America who would still visit a sangoma for a love potion. Beliefs went deep. As deep as the desires for those parents in England and other countries to follow the old practices and mutilate the genitals of their female daughters.

  19 A VISIT TO THE EMBASSY

  “Mrs Motswezi, you don’t think it is right to cut the girls do you?”

  Her friend looked shocked. “No, of course not! My people here in Togodo do not like such a thing. In Ruanga, I hear some do but for my tribe, the Kawas and even the Luebos, not for many, many years. Too many of the young girls died. But,” she continued, “for the boys it is not the same. To be a man they must be cut, it is shameful to be a boy all your life.”

  “We don’t often practice that in Europe any more, except for religious reasons,” Amie said, “and then it’s done hygienically and when they are very small, only a few days old, and the men they can still enjoy ... but it’s not the same for a girl ...” Amie paused, she had said too much. Even among close friends, sex was seldom discussed. She cleared her throat and changed the subject.

  Mrs Motswezi sat silent for a moment and Amie wondered if her mention of sexual matters had embarrassed the elderly lady. “So, you go to England too? Back to your home as well, with these children?” She asked at last.

  “No, I don’t belong anywhere now Mrs Motswezi. All the people in England think I’m dead.”

  Mrs Motswezi tut-tutted her disapproval.

  “I am afraid that if I go home then the government would be angry and ...”

  “... of course. They would have to kill you.” Mrs Motswezi’s tone was so matter of fact it startled Amie. To her friend it would be the only logical answer. What was one more life in the greater scheme of things?

  “Tell me about Ben, is he still the vice-president?”

  “Yes, the Kawas rule the country, but I think he is not here now. I hear he has gone to visit America. I do not know why.”

  “And is the government keeping all the promises they made when they got back into power – to help the poorer people?”

  In reply, the elderly lady simply shrugged her shoulders. She was of the Kawa tribe and it was never sensible to criticise the government even if your own tribe was in power.

  They passed the next few hours remembering old times, talking of Angelina, the little orphan Amie had fallen in love with and the other people who had shared their adventures.

  Out of the window, Amie saw one of the orphanage staff sitting in the shade with the four Afro-English children. Winnie had fallen asleep against the tree trunk, her thumb stuck in her mouth. Maybe an extra day relaxing in the sun would be good for them.

  At last, Amie stood up. “I must go to talk to Jean-Pierre and decide what needs to be done tomorrow.”

  Mrs Motswezi nodded. “And I must go to care for my little ones. Later, you will stay with me in my house.” She indicated a thatched hut on the far side of the compound. “You will be safe here. No one will come to hurt you.”

  Amie nodded her thanks and gave her a brief hug before walking out into the sun, glancing up at the weaver birds chattering in the acacia trees that were dotted around the compound. She noticed a line of ants scurrying across the bare, sandy soil and a few old and broken toys abandoned by little hands. She felt guilty for having left the Frenchman alone for so long, but it had been a treat to talk to someone who knew her as Amie, as she had been, as she still was inside. For a few precious hours she’d been able to be herself, to relax, not have to watch every sentence she uttered.

  But now it was time to slip back into her new persona; her new, but unwelcome reality.

  Jean-Pierre had fallen asleep in his Nissan, but when Amie opened the door he sat up and stretched. He reminded her of a little boy, his hair tousled and his clothes rumpled. He smiled and motioned her to join him inside.

  “I am thinking,” he said, when Amie passed him the cold water she’d brought with her. “I am thinking it is better that you take the children to the British Embassy. Because me, they cannot see.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Me? I too am not, how you say, a real person now. I am like you, a spy, yes?” He grinned.

  “Ok, I guess if we’re both ‘non-people’, it will have to be me. I just hope they accept the children and will send them home straight away. It’s the only solution I can think of although I have no idea what will happen to them when they return home,” Amie replied. From the corner of her eye she saw the children approaching. They’d seen her leave the office and were now coming over to the Nissan. She had a sudden but dreadful thought.

  She turned back to Jean-Pierre. “What if the kidnappers find them in Apatu and take them away from the authorities on some sort of pretext. What do we do then?”

  “If that happens, then we must go after them.” Unbidden, Jean-Pierre touched Amie’s cheek and an electric tingle zinged through her body. She blushed; that was not part of the deal.

  She jumped out of the car and picked Winnie up and hugged her, then Maisie who was heavier, but still needed reassuring.

  Jean-Pierre alighted and gave her a long look, one of those looks Jonathan used to give her before they were married. She was thoroughly flustered.

  She needed to get back to Durban — and Simon. Or get Simon out here. Yes, Simon — what was she thinking? Jean-Pierre was attractive, devastatingly so in fact, but she was Simon’s girl, and Jean-Pierre could still be
an enemy.

  She knew the moment she walked through the gates of the British Embassy tomorrow, more problems would arise, but what choice did she have? Surrounded by four hopeful yet fearful little faces, a wave of fury swept over her. To strike at those despicable people would give her enormous pleasure, and for the first time since she’d been trained, she felt eager to dispatch as many of them as she could.

  “Are we going to sleep here tonight?” asked Maisie.

  “Yes, I think so. It’s too late to go for help today, and we will be safe.”

  “It’s not posh here though, is it?” Linda wrinkled her nose as she squinted at the half-completed buildings, the mud huts with their thatched roofs, the scruffy tents and the dusty open space in the middle.

  “No, but life is very different here, Linda. There are the very rich people and the poor people and there is nothing in between.” She stopped as Mrs Motswezi waddled outside blowing a whistle. Children appeared from every direction, scurrying towards some invisible line in the dust to stand in long queues in front of the headmistress. She blew the whistle twice more and the first column marched off to one of the tents, followed in turn by each of the others. They reminded Amie of the manoeuvres she’d seen on the television for the Trooping of the Colour in London.

  “Blimey,” exclaimed Linda, “look at that.”

  “Don’t you all line up at school? I used to,” Amie said

  “Nah, we must’ve moved on since your day.” Were Linda’s words deliberately rude? Had she seen Jean-Pierre touch Amie’s cheek? Was she jealous or was she joking? It was difficult to tell. Either way she was getting back to her old cocky self, which was a good thing.

  “So, we staying here or what?” Linda persisted.

  “At least for tonight, then we’ll see.”

  Jean-Pierre chipped in. “It may take some days to find all the papers for you to travel, so we stay here until the embassy they have the new passports and the tickets for the plane.”

  Fazia nodded slowly. “I don’t want to go back,” her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “You’re mad,” Linda stared at her. “You want to stay here in these ... these ...” she searched for the right word, “hovels?”

  “Linda, don’t be so rude. These are friends of mine and their generosity is getting you out of trouble, so be quiet, please.” Amie was furious, she liked Linda more when she wasn’t so cocky. But maybe the child was just nervous, like the rest of them. Maybe she was picking up Amie’s vibe.

  “I feel safe here,” Fazia snapped back. “You heard the lady in there, she isn’t going to cut us up and Felicity here won’t either. You don’t have friends like I have who were cut so bad and then sewn up as well. One had a terrible time when she went to have her baby. They had to cut her all over again.”

  Winnie’s eyes filled with tears, and Amie bent down to pick her up again.

  “Don’t! Yer frightening the little ones.” Linda glared at the older girl. “I’m not gonna stay in this horrible country and when I get home I’ll tell them that if they ever touch me again, I’m gonna go straight to the police so’s they’ll get locked up. They won’t dare touch me. Let them try, I’ll run away first.”

  It was sad to imagine what emotional trauma these children had already endured. At the very least, Amie might be able to help in a small way by wiping out one tentacle of the vicious organization that was in this appalling business purely for the money. Yes, she’d go with Jean-Pierre and wreak as much revenge on the kidnappers as she could.

  The evening was spent quizzing the girls again about every little detail they could remember about the kidnapping, the journey and the people they’d been in contact with. Fazia was reluctant to say much, but it was impossible to shut Linda up and she was a mine of information. She had a good memory for detail to the extent that if Amie and Jean-Pierre saw these people they would almost certainly recognize them. Linda described their faces, how tall, short, thin and fat they were, the way they walked, the clothes they wore and the timbre of their voices. She even remembered the food they ate on the ferry and on the plane.

  When Linda mentioned that one of the more unpleasant ladies wore a gold cross on a chain around her neck, Fazia remembered the same thing, both girls had thought it very strange. By the time the children had landed in Africa all pretence had disappeared and their captors had become more like sergeant majors, ordering them about and yelling at them if they didn’t do as they were told immediately. Tears and wails, complaints and objections were ignored. All four children told of their horrendous treatment, vicious beatings and how they were all crying and wailing, just wanting to go home.

  Amie glanced at Jean-Pierre. It was evident they shared the same opinion. They may get these four girls repatriated but it would be very unlikely the rest of the children brought to Africa ‘on holiday’ would ever see their homes again.

  And yet, Amie was still uncertain whether they were doing the right thing. Would the frustrated parents simply find another way to get their daughters mutilated in this way? While she had no control over their future, they’d been in her care for several days and she had grown fond of them, even Linda with her bumptious personality. It was going to be especially hard to part with Winnie; so like Angelina it made her want to weep. She drew her fingers through the tight curls on the little girl’s head as she cuddled her. Tomorrow they would part and yet another person Amie had grown to love would be lost to her forever.

  Once Amie and Jean-Pierre were satisfied there was no more information to glean from the children, Amie explained what they were going to do. “Tomorrow, I am going to take you into the British Embassy. They’ll ask a lot of questions, but then they’ll help you to get home again.”

  “You are coming with us?” Linda wanted to know. “You will stay with us all the time, won’t you?”

  “I’ll be with you as much as I can, but I don’t have any papers either, so I’m not sure I will be flying home with you. Jean-Pierre and I have work to do here.”

  “You’re going after the bad guys, ain’t you?” Linda was sharp.

  “I didn’t say that.” Amie shook her head. “I only said we had work to do. We’ll be helping other little girls just like you to get away from the bad guys.”

  “Yeah, well give it to them good and proper.” Linda’s face lit up. “Kill the bastards, them what don’t deserve to live.”

  Amie wasn’t going to agree with her openly, but Linda had a good point.

  Amie wanted to leave early the next morning. Embassies worldwide were rarely open in the afternoon. But there was one delay after another.

  Jean-Pierre was nowhere to be seen and the children ran off to look for him. They came back to report that there was something wrong with the Nissan and he was underneath it trying to make it go again.

  Next, Mrs Motswezi said if they were going into town there were several things she wanted to buy, and Amie could hardly refuse her. Her hospitality had been invaluable.

  Amie hopped into the Land Rover drumming her fingers on the steering wheel trying to contain her impatience. The children had climbed in too, but as the temperature inside the vehicle rose, they got hot and bored, jumped out and ran off to explore the orphanage.

  Jean-Pierre finally wandered over, oil spattered over his clothes and hands. “There is a big problem. I will need to get parts in town. We all go in the Land Rover, yes?”

  “It will be a bit of a squeeze, but I guess the older ones can scrunch up in the boot area.” Amie sighed.

  “I go to get a little clean.” Jean-Pierre wandered off in the direction of the water tank by the slowly-turning wind vane.

  She could see Mrs Motswezi talking to one of her assistants and then they both disappeared as well back inside the building. She groaned. Time meant nothing in Africa. They needed to get into town, find parking, and get inside the embassy before it closed, she glanced at her watch, in less than two hours.

  Even Amie couldn’t stand the heat in the Land Rover
and got out to sit in the shade under the blue-flowering Jacaranda tree. She waited as patiently as she could, tormenting the ants with a twig to send them scurrying in all directions. Another half hour passed. She went in search of the children and found them in the cooking area, gazing at the women with large wooden paddles stirring the food in huge black pots set above burning logs.

  “Look at this!” exclaimed Linda when Amie caught up to them. “Told you they wus primitive, only seen those on old films before.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t notice them in the village,” Amie threw back. She was hot, annoyed and itching to leave for town. “Come along,” she spoke more sharply than she intended and poor Winnie looked on the verge of tears again.

  She felt guilty as she herded them back to the Land Rover, taking Winnie in one hand and Maisie in the other, giving them both a reassuring squeeze.

  She was relieved to see Jean-Pierre waiting for them and they all piled into the truck. Now, the only person missing was Mrs Motswezi. They sat for another ten minutes or so and Jean-Pierre volunteered to go and look for her.

  “Yes, please do,” Amie told him. “If we don’t leave in the next few minutes, we’re not going to make it in time.”

  Minutes passed. Then Mrs Motswezi, decked in a delicate shade of lavender, waddled towards them. To her relief Jean-Pierre was close behind, and with true Gallic flair, he opened the passenger door and ushered the elderly headmistress into the front seat.

  The moment everyone was settled, Amie drove towards the gates.

  The roads were busier than she had remembered from before. Large buses from out of town, less than road-worthy vehicles vied for space with the battered and dented mini bus taxis stuck behind the occasional donkey cart piled high with goods and people. The odd scooter and bicycle weaved dangerously in and out of any available gap between vehicles, while pedestrians, oblivious to the dangers, wandered across the roads without looking either way. Horns blared, people shouted obscenities and at least two junctions became totally gridlocked.

 

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