24
BEFORE
We are on the way to some unknown location, trussed up like life-size dolls. Just as my nerves are at the point where I believe I am going to jump from the moving truck bed and fall to my death, the truck squeals to a stop. Trace scents of burning torches fueled with kerosene and a sprinkle of laughter are on the wind. The girl beside me is breathing heavily, although the breath could very well be my own.
The younger girls relax, allowing themselves to be lulled into a false sense of security. Laughter and music have always meant something good in N’nkakuwe, so it must mean good here too.
“Maybe they have changed their minds? Will return us home?” Yaa asks, sounding much younger than her twelve years.
“Our home is gone, stupid,” Constance says bitterly. Before all of this, she was going to be a runway model in America because of her height. No one will likely find her model quality again. Not with the scar that crosses her face from scalp to chin, gifted to her the night the intruders came.
Yaa blinks several times, forced to remember there is no more N’nkakuwe. “Something must still be there,” she whispers, refusing to give up entirely. “Our families have relocated to nearby towns, and the authorities are looking for us this very moment.”
Constance asks, “Then why have they not located us?”
Yaa shrugs. “Ghana is big.”
“Not that big,” Ester says.
No one argues. Ester is likely a year older than Yaa, with big round eyes and full lips that used to always curve into a smile back home. Not anymore.
In total, we are six. Ester, Mary, Yaa, Constance, and Mamie. The injuries I suffered at the hands of the guards and from the Hot Box are not entirely healed, but over the last week Essence has cared for me as best as she could. I willed myself to be well enough to be present at this ridiculous sale because I want out of the Compound, and by whatever means necessary. Thus, I grit my teeth, bear the pain, and pretend my ribs are not sore to the point of immobility, that when I urinate it does not sting and is not tinged pink. My kidneys, Essence guessed when I told her. They will heal. Perhaps they will. If Paul and his hounds permit it.
The flap to the back of the truck opens, and guards tell us to get out. A warm breeze greets us as we disembark one by one. The guards touch us enough to help us down in the uncomfortable shoes they make us wear. Paul has us dressed piously and pure, as if we are young brides. Truthfully, we are nothing but fancy whores for purchase in an even fancier brothel. No manner of white and frills can mask that.
I take in my surroundings. We are at some estate nestled in a cove of tall trees that obscures it from the travel-heavy roads. The house is brightly lit with wide windows that show everything. Through them, I see mostly men, some women, a melting pot of nationalities.
Each of us has an assigned guard to accompany her throughout the night until she becomes sponsored. Sponsored. It’s the word Paul says the buyers prefer to use. It makes them feel less like slavers and more like people “sponsoring” a new life for youth in need.
Parked amid a row of luxury cars I have only seen on the television is Paul’s forest-green BMW, an older model. He exits it, dressed in a fancy suit that likely is worth more cedis than I can imagine.
We stand at attention while Paul walks down the line, inspecting, ensuring we are presentable enough to be sold like the slaves we have become.
Paul says, “Do not speak unless you are told. Be demure. You’re not sluts, for God’s sake.”
Is he daft? His men have made us so ten times over.
“Smile and look like you want to be here, because if I do not fetch a price for you, if you are not sponsored—”
Sponsored.
“—you will not return to the Compound.”
Paul is strictly business, smoothing his suit beneath the orange glow of the lit torches lining the premises. His words feel directed toward me, since I am the one who got a man of his killed.
He might still believe I am a valuable prize for my lineage, but I am no more than any of these girls. They are, in fact, better than me, because they hold out hope all will turn out well. However, all hopes died weeks ago back in our village. And dead is what these girls and I will be if we do not fetch a price for Paul. With the thought looming in my mind, I follow the others along the stone path toward the brightly lit house filled with our future masters.
It is hard to maneuver across the stones in the heels, but I manage. No one speaks, not even Paul, as we follow him up the steps and into the auction house. The air-conditioning is refreshing. I am immediately cold as the sheen of sweat on my skin freezes.