Open Writing

Chapter 13
Sordid Trade (Continued)

I was much relieved that al-Rashid did not return later that night
to try out one or more of his new acquisitions. The four of us remaining
had been taken to the dhow and forced into a small hold below
the deck. A thousand thoughts spun through my mind including,
perversely perhaps, that I’d been given no chance to say goodbye to
Zahara, the late Ishmail’s horse.

We were given no food or water until morning when the Arab
crew were clearly preparing to leave on the high tide. One of them
handed down some small mangoes floating in a pail of water. This
was to be our sustenance for the entire day.

Dhows were a common form of transport in the Indian Ocean
as far south as Lamu and Mombasa, and to the north in the Gulf of
Aden and beyond into the Red Sea. I knew them to be very seaworthy
vessels. Little did I suspect that one day I would be part of a
cargo! My assumption was that we were heading for Djibouti.

Our
new captors had switched to their native Arabic tongue. Although
we could hear them above, we understood nothing of what they
said. I was also sure I’d heard Gabobe. He wasn’t speaking Somali
but the tone of voice and his insidious laughter were by then
strongly imprinted in my memory. Why, I wondered, was he still with
us if he had already dispensed with me and the other women?

The next day our journey was interrupted by high winds so typical
of the Horn of Africa. In our confined space below, all of us
were ill as the dhow pitched and rolled with the swelling of the sea.

After many hours of discomfort and sea-sickness, at last we felt the
vessel had reached calmer waters. Later we realised that al-Rashid
had instructed his crew to make for a harbour town in the Mudog
region of Somalia. Several times we heard the familiar word ‘Hobyo’,
the translation of which means ‘water here’. From early seafaring
times the town has been a favourite port of call among sailors by virtue
of its plentiful supplies of sweet tasting fresh water. Perhaps the
crew would have called there irrespective of the storm.

When they opened the hatch to let us out, we again smelled appallingly.
I felt ashamed even though I had no control over the way I
looked, or the odours which somehow more readily assaulted my
senses now that we were above deck in the fresh air. The winds had
died but a fine drizzle came steadily down from the murky skies
above. I was able to refresh myself a little. Any unexpected bonus
such as this gave me cause for inner celebration. I felt as if it was a
small piece of good fortune in an otherwise dire situation.
Perhaps I was indeed fortunate. For unlike poor Nadifa, I was still alive.

I was right in my assumption that we had come to the small town
of Hobyo. The harbour was abuzz with the loading and unloading of
boats. The dock was crowded with traders and mainly bare chested
men toiling with cargoes. There was the usual proliferation of donkeys
and loaded carts, the animals standing patiently until the whip
was applied sharply to their backs to make them move off.

While still on board, Gabobe addressed us:
‘It would have been easy to leave you to fester below until we had
completed our business here. But your new master has seen fit to al-
low you to rest ashore, where you will be given food and drink.
Don’t even consider the possibility of inconveniencing us with an
escape attempt. You saw what happened to your sister in Bur Gavo.
Any tricks and the same will be your fate,’ he lectured.

Al-Rashid wobbled his massive frame towards us and added his
own caustic note:
‘Little bitch,’ he said to me in particular, his unshaven jowls thick
with stubble, ‘you are to be given exceptional treatment. A good bath
for starters. You will be rubbed with cocoa butter for my subsequent
pleasure. Then we will see if Gabobe has robbed me with your head
price.’

To demonstrate my revulsion I considered another gob for his fat
face but did nothing of the sort. Instead a voice on the quayside distracted
and then grabbed my attention. Somehow it seemed familiar.
It belonged to a man who stood with his back to our vessel, directing
heavy wooden crates into a small dhow tied up alongside al-
Rashid’s. He wore a gabardine raincoat. A red and white checkered
plaid was draped from its right hand epaulette and tucked into the
coat’s belt. On his head was a blue beanie hat. My God! It was Nimrod,
my Maasai friend!