Open Writing

Chapter 10
Darkness continued

We travelled for many miles over the roughest of terrain. I had
no idea whether we were heading north, south, east or west.

The
grinding unrelenting pressure on my stomach from the horse’s jerky
motion made me sick. As a final feeble mark of defiance I directed
vomit onto my captor’s stirrup held leg. His response was to whip
my buttocks. Even the first of his blows brought searing pain. I
could take it no longer and passed out.

A jet of warm liquid in my face forced me back to consciousness.
It was nothing I would want to drink in spite of a burning thirst and
a terrible rawness in my throat. Someone was urinating on me. I tried
to wriggle away but still tied, there was nowhere to go and I had to
endure his filth. It was dark now and I could see a fire crackling a
few metres away. The men were seated around the warmth, eating.

One of them shouted, ‘how is the little lioness?’

‘Awake now,’ came the grinning reply from the pig so clearly
pleased with his achievement.

‘Bring her into the light then.’

I was hauled by my feet across the stony ground and dumped before
them. The man I assumed to be their leader stood and drew a
knife from a sheaf at his side. I knew this was not intended to do me
harm. They must have had other plans. Why else go to the trouble of
taking me with them?

They had not asked a single question back on the road where
their carefully placed obstruction had halted my progress towards
the border. They must have felt I had some worth. A plaything? This
was my greatest fear. I would rather have been dead.

My bonds were cut and I felt the circulation slowly returning to
my hands and wrists.

‘If you try to run away we will kill you. Be clear about that.’

I was sure he meant it. ‘Please, give me some water,’ I pleaded,
any trace of resistance, for the moment gone. They brought me a
small gourd filled with goat milk. I poured as much as possible into
my mouth before it was snatched away.

‘Ishmail! You have made her stink with your piss.’

‘Ahhyee. All women have a certain smell. What difference does it
make?’ Then he turned to me, sneering, ‘Hooyadaa waxay urtaa sida
malayga.’

‘Enough Ishmail. Would it make a difference to you, if I rubbed
camel shit in your ugly face?’

There was a tension in this exchange but no further riposte. It
was perfectly clear who was the boss among them. I’d read somewhere
about hostage takers. Psychologists emphasised the need to
build a rapport with captors. So at risk of further punishment, I initiated
conversation.

‘Why did you burn my car?’ I asked the leader. He was looking
into the fire and still chewing on a thick piece of muufo baraawe

‘Once we had taken your impressive supply of water and what little
money you were carrying, the vehicle was of no use to us, and
clearly is no longer of any use to you either.’

‘What do you want with me?’ I asked, dreading his reply.

‘Maybe some ransom. You are obviously a rich woman who can
drive a Mercedes. So you must come from a wealthy family. Am I
right?’

‘You are wrong.’

‘Ha! We will see. Go to sleep now, woman. You will need it. Take
this blanket. We will let you bathe tomorrow.’

You can imagine my sense of trepidation. A woman alone among
so many desperate men, miles from any kind of civilisation. They
may have their leader, but were they disciplined? If they learned that
my family were prisoners and I was trying to escape the Somali
authorities, would they simply then dispose of me as easily as they
might slit the throat of a goat? At least I was alive until morning, I
thought. As things turned out, I felt the point of a knife far sooner
than that.