Open Writing

Chapter 11
Made to Order (continued)

Before dawn the next morning two men rekindled the fire. I
could hear their muffled voices. They sat in the Arab way; on their
haunches, fanning the embers with the hem of their jellabiya.

Later I was untied and given some weak coffee, and a flat bread. I must have
looked a sight as I sat hunched up in the early chill. My dress was like
a rag; the donated shirt was holy and covered in what appeared to be
spots of oil. My hair was a mess; I could feel swelling and bruising
on my face. My shoeless feet were black with dirt, and hands still
caked in Ishmail’s blood.

As the sun was coming up, I heard what should by then have
been a familiar sound. At first I mistook it for distant thunder but
soon it was all too obvious. The sound of hooves again, subdued at
first, but distinct enough and getting closer. My captives had heard it
too but seemed relaxed enough. None of them reached for their
weapons. I looked in the direction. Nothing in sight. But suddenly,
they appeared, riding hard and fast. There was a ruddy yellow glow
on the horizon behind them. For a few moments they were in silhouette.

In truth they seemed like a beautiful scene from a movie.
Yet there was something odd about this band. There were perhaps
five or six new horsemen with others in tow whom I could not immediately
define, except to observe that they seemed less than expert
in the saddle. Before they reached our camp I froze in renewed terror.

Those who sat awkwardly on their mounts, were women, bound,
as I had been.

Horses were quickly tethered. Unenthusiastic greetings were exchanged
with the newcomers. The two groups knew one another,
that was for sure. The women were hauled to the ground and
marched over to where I was sitting. We were instructed not to talk
to one another. No food or water was given to the four females but
the horsemen were offered bread and coffee. They ate and drank
with little to say to their hosts. Gabobe drew one of them aside and
spoke in conspiratorial tones.

I looked at the women now in my company. Two were very
young, perhaps only teenagers. I felt both selfish relief that others
clearly now shared my predicament, but also deep concern about our
future. Ransom had been mentioned earlier but these women bore
none of the hallmarks of wealthy individuals. Their clothes were
simple; their hands were calloused from the chores they would undoubtedly
have been accustomed to – gathering firewood, collecting
water, cooking over simple charcoal stoves. There was a connection
between the five of us but I had failed to see it.

When all the men had eaten their fill Gabobe ordered them to
pack up camp. Ironically I ‘inherited’ Ishmail’s horse. It wasn’t the
tallest of mounts (thank God) but to my untrained eye the animal
was beautiful, majestic, and tolerant of his new rider. I secretly
named him Zahara which is a Muslim word for flower. Climbing into
the saddle gave me the greatest of difficulty, and then keeping myself
from falling off. I had no idea how to ride but learned fast that the
least discomfort could be found by moving my pain-ridden loins up
and down, rising and settling back into the saddle in tandem with
Zahara’s two beat trotting gait. Both horses and camels seemed
equally suited to the difficult terrain. We kept moving at surprising
speed.

Only after four hours of weary travel in the heat were we allowed
to rest. At last I was given my promised opportunity to bathe. We
had come to a river bed where the flow was down to a trickle of
muddy water. I was sore all over but the water was such a relief.

Even the cleansing of my hands and face made me feel so much better.

The other women sat under the shade of a camel thorn tree
while I took this refreshment. For a moment I felt quite at peace.

The sound of Gabobe’s footsteps crunching on loose stones behind
me broke the spell. He came to the water’s edge. This was a
short but strongly built man. I noticed for the first time that there
was a huge scar on one side of his neck. He saw me looking at it.

‘A knife, not unlike the one you used on Ishmail,’ he informed
me. ‘My men gave you a good beating last night. You should not be
surprised by that. I’m assuming you are not dying given your ability
to ride. We need to move again. Quickly finish your wash.’

‘How much longer must I endure your uncouth company?’ I
asked defiantly.

‘Heh, heh. You may have to put up with us for some days yet. I
think you are wondering why we now have more female guests?’

He could see that I truly wanted an answer to the question. He
laughed again, perhaps at my continuing naivety.

‘You are all to be sold to Arab friends of ours. Djibouti traders
who like a good looking Somali woman. The other wretches will not
fetch much, I fear. However ........’

He leaned across to touch my hair. I smacked his hand away before
he could soil me with it. He responded immediately by slapping
me.

‘Even with your temporarily broken face, you will sell well with a
body like that. Think of it. In return for a little food and drink, you
will be their slave in a foreign place. I imagine they will want to fuck
you many times every day. You will also bear them children until, like
a dirty old engine, you are worn out. And then they will cast you into
the gutter. That is the life we have planned for you.’

‘I’m not for sale,’ I replied, simply and with unjustified bravado.

For truly I felt terrified by what he had said.

‘I’ve sold a hundred like you. Sluts, all. Be happy for me. You are
helping to make me rich. Heh, heh, heh!’

There was something vile and grating in that laugh. It went
through me like a knife. I was determined to stand up to him.

‘Laugh all you want, fish-face. This won’t end well for you. I’m
going to have a future. And hopefully it will include seeing you
skewered.’

‘Fighting talk indeed. I wonder how much of it will be left after
my friend Caliph al-Rashid has done a little wrestling with you. Not
much, I suspect. Heh, heh, heh!’