"Before the Duhur [noon] prayers, she always managed to sneak
out and place those purple flowers... what do they call them? They randomly
sprout at various times of the year..."
"Hibiscus?" echoed Nahed.
"Yes, hibiscus. She plucked them from our garden and from the
sides of the street, or wherever she found them growing along her path. Then
she would untie the ribbon that held her hair together and she would clumsily
wrap them together and place them on my brother’s grave. My mother always came
home with larger, unwound hair under her scarf. We all knew what she was up to,
of course. But no one ever said anything, because we all mourned in our own
ways. My father loved her, and he did not like these visits she made to
the cemetery so you could say she mourned in secret. She was never
the same after he..."
The bars that held them within their cell clanked loudly at the
command of a tall man with an outflowing belly above a protesting belt.
"You, Scumbag in the corner! The investigator wants you.
Quick, get off your ass ya bit al
haram [bastard child]”
Without another second to gather her thoughts, Samara stood and
hopped her way through the gaps between lazily strewn bodies, half asleep. She
took a deep breath at the altar of the cell, as if she was gathering every
ounce of courage floating about in the air with the thick aroma of cigarettes
and body wastes.
“I am not bit haram! You
on the other hand must not have had parents to teach you how to treat a lady.”
Samara said, in a calm, even voice.
Just as she spat the words out of her mouth, a large hand heavily
dropped itself on her face, creating a loud clap that echoed through the bare
walls of the cell. Nahed gasped and chanted a prayer under her breath, wishing
Samara would take her advice and control her witty tongue.
“Know your place traitor! Or, by God, I will teach you it and the
skin on your bones will be begging to fall off! Yalla! In front of me, WALK!”
The officer bellowed with furious authority.
She did as she was told. Samara had been through worse during the
war, and she had learned that nothing was more valuable than her dignity. He tugged
her arm, and she tugged back. She knew she shouldn’t have, just like she knew
she could walk without the forceful, hovering guidance he offered. They came to
a stop in front of a white door, swaying off rusty hinges, with a nonexistent
knob. There was a small glass frame, crisscrossed with transparent grey lines.
Samara peeked through it for a nanosecond and caught a glance of the
investigator, before she was shoved through the door.
She landed on her knees. Without
looking up, she quickly bounced up to her feet and shot the officer who shoved her
with a benevolent smile. This was how she had been taught to kill, with
intimidation. Never look up at your oppressors
when you’re on your knees, that is a satisfaction you should never give your
enemies. Always smile at those who use force because they are angry they cannot
retaliate your sharp words with smarter ones. They will use more force, but
that is because they know you are at an advantage. These were the words she
lived by, the words of Sargent Garan Joe who taught her all she knew about
The Struggle.
“Samara Salah. Ahln Ahln [hello]! Come in, have a seat. Tea? Coffee? Afribian
cookies? Tell me, how can I make you more comfortable?” The investigator
smirked.
“You can put some rat poison in all
three, and serve yourself some of it, Sir.” Samara was not one to take smirks
lightly.
Another blow to her head attacked
her from the back and her forehead met the tin table in front of her with a
hard bang!
“Mohamed, ya zift [you dirt bag]! Contain yourself, let the lady speak.” The
investigator ordered his inferior.
The investigator was not tall, nor
short. His hairline was two inches away from the folds of fat that constructed the back of his neck. He had a smooth voice, full of authority. Surprisingly, his belt met
his belly button as it circled his small beer belly with ease. He wore
frameless glasses that rested on the button-like nose towering the bushiest
mustache known to man. He looked odd and out of place, too respectable for this
jailhouse setting. Samara could tell he probably looked handsome in his prime, well
groomed and all. If only his head were a little flatter, a little more Afribian
than Cup-like she would have been a little bit more at ease with him. Here he came, limping off his seat and around the table that
separated him from Samara. He sat on the edge of the table and held out his
hand,
“Lieutenant Ali, at your service.”
Samara scoffed. She couldn’t tell if
he was trying to be funny, or if he believed he was of service to anyone within
the borders of Afribia. She stared at his hand, ashy and scarred, and then
glanced at the edge of the tin table where his bum threatened to leave an
indent. She hated people who sat on the sides of things. They made her
uncomfortable, and she couldn’t accurately analyze their body language because
one would assume siting like that interrupted your natural flow, and gave mixed
messages. She took his hand, and shook it firmly, acknowledging the
bewilderment in his eyes that came with unanticipated strength from a tiny
Afribian lady such as herself.
“I suppose you know my name, should
we move on to discussing the weather now or was I brought here for more serious
matters?” Samara said, gazing at the man till he dropped his hand.
“No nonsense!” He laughed, a little
too merrily. “I like this one ya Mohamed. They don’t make them this smart
anymore. No darling, you are here under serious charges, I was just trying to
make you feel more comfortable so that we can have a nice honest little chat.
But I see you are not responding too well to my chivalry. Shame.” As he walked
back to his position across the table, he drew a loop in the air with his index
finger. Mohamed understood the signal and brought out a thick baobab rope with
which he began to tie Samara to her chair.
“So tell me Samara, being a traitor,
killing my brothers like a traitor, and then breathing my nice, fresh Afribian
air; what is one reason I should stop Mohamed from tightening that pretty rope
around your neck, hmm?”
“Then I would die a martyr for my
country, an honorable death and you would be the reason I go straight to
heaven. Which is not a reason he should stop, I would love to go to heaven.
Tighter ya Mohamed, I want your two heads to be the last Cup-Heads I see.” She
was testing Ali’s patience, and something in her gut told her he had an
abundance of it because he enjoyed her reply more than she expected.
“Did you hear that ya Mohamed? She
said she was going to heaven,” Ali said between chuckles. “Please, show this
misinformed soul where it is really going.”
In one swift movement, Mohamed
tipped the chair Samara was seated upon, before he kicked its legs and had the
chair spill on the floor dragging Samara down with it. Before Samara could
comprehend the metal chair’s blow to her spine, she felt the weight of
something warm pouring over her body. She opened her eyes and stared as Mohamed
poured what looked like soil, but smelled like manure, out of a bucket and onto
her restrained body.
“Now you are closer to the place beneath
the earth where you are really going. Speaking of heaven and hell, before the coming
of our dear prophet, peace be upon him, they used to bury girls like you alive.
Of course, a lot of them didn’t deserve to die. But their fathers feared the
shame of having their daughters grow up to become prostitutes, breathing only
to drag a good man’s name through the dirt. Anyhow, here you are because of the
mercy of the prophet, who put an end to such barbaric traditions, dragging your
old man Salah’s name through the dirt. Aren’t you ashamed, whore?” Ali spoke in
a matter-of-fact tone.
Now he was trying to get under
Samara’s skin. She spat. “The only person who would be ashamed is the prophet
himself, peace be upon him, as you stand there claiming to know of his ways by
daylight, and then resorting to the barbaric ways he condemned as soon as night
falls.”
The words fell out of her mouth
softly, compared to the following wails that escaped her larynx next. Mohamed
had found the beast within him, and he had let it take control. Whipping Samara
mercilessly, as the dirt spilled over her body and poured down to her sides.
“We are patient ya bit, but we can only take so much disrespect. Enough with the
chatter.” Ali put his hand up and signaled for Mohamed to stop. “Tell me, where
is your camp? And which traitor do you answer to?!”
“I come from an Afribian camp that
answers to God, just like you will for your horrendous actions.”
The beast lashed out again.
The night dragged on and the prison
rang with Samara’s piercing cries. The ladies in her cell could no longer pretend to sleep. There was a monotonous chant of prayers that eluded the
air, and Nahed’s were especially persistent. Nahed prayed that Samara would
live, she had a warrior’s spirit, she had to live! Nahed had warmed up to the
young girl as soon as she began talking, and now each of Samara’s yelps struck
Nahed with unfaltering sympathy. She prayed to God that Samara would
come back and complete the rest of her story. Samara had to tell her story, she
had to be remembered in case the rain poured harder tomorrow, and swept with it
Samara’s resilient soul.
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