“You no suppose slap her,” the driver said.
“Wetin I suppose do? She no gree comot.”
The station was on a busy road. The swish of passing cars reached us. Were they going to kill me?
“Get up.”
The second man’s foot was by my head. With one kick he could damage my brain permanently. I had not spoken loudly enough for Abena and now there was no one to speak for me. In a country where a child could be chained, a woman could be killed before she reached her jail cell. I stood and dusted my skirt, like I had lain on the ground by choice instead of being dragged there.
Inside, my handbag and duty-free shopping were taken from me. It was too late to charge me. They gave me a cell of my own, perhaps my last vestige of obroni privilege. Around me, other prisoners were sleeping, breathing evenly. There was rustling in one corner of the cell, another creature trapped here with me. I held on to the bars and waited for morning.
27
I am kneeling with my head against the bars when I wake up. My cheek stings where it touches the iron. There are prisoners in the opposite cell, all men. I can smell them. The windows are small and close to the ceiling. I feel faint, on the verge of passing out. I am sweating, even behind my ears is damp. I stand up slowly.
“Hello,” I say.
“Obroni, you’re awake,” a prisoner calls out. In the low light I can’t see his face clearly. I look at him and look away.
“Obroni, are you deaf? I’m talking to you.”
I recoil from the force of his voice and then remember we are both caged. He rattles the bars and grabs his crotch but he cannot bend metal. It is the men outside I must be wary of.
“Hello! I need to speak to someone. I need water!” A door creaks open. Fresh air gusts into the cells.
“Who is making noise?”
The officer looks like he has also slept in a cell. His hair is disheveled, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone.
“Good morning, sir. I need some water. I have not drunk anything since yesterday. I also need to make a phone call. Please.”
“Who are you?”
My hands tremble and I clench them.
“It is my right to have water and it is my right to make a phone call.”
We stare at each other, and then he turns and leaves. There is laughter in the opposite cell.
“Obroni, you think this is a hotel?”
I put my hands to my temples. My skin is warm and clammy. I am breathless, even though all I have done is stand up. The door creaks open again. It is the officer, returning with water, a large plastic bottle dusted with frost. It catches the light, sparkling. The prisoners are drawn to it. Their hands stretch out between the bars.
“No cold water for us.”
“Only water for obroni?”
“Second-class citizens in our own country.”
The officer passes the bottle through the bars. It is burning cold.
“Thank you. And my phone call, please.”
“One at a time,” he says, and leaves.
I rest the bottle against my forehead. I am under arrest but I have not been charged, which means I may be released soon. Or I may never be released. I steady my breathing. Someone outside must be working on my behalf. Sule will have seen my missed calls. Or if the worst happens and I am not released soon, I will call Rose in England, and she and Robert will devise a plan to rescue me.
I break the seal and drink. The other prisoners watch me.
“I can’t finish it all,” I say, when I am full.
“Give us, please.” It is my taunter. His voice is wheedling now.
I throw the bottle and it lands in the space between our cells.
“Skeleton. Come and do your work.”
A thin man pushes his way to the front and slips a leg through the bars. It extends like a retractable pole, longer and longer until his foot touches the bottle. The prisoners cheer as he guides it to them. They all drink, a secular communion. The first sip goes to the oldest, a grizzled man, then the bottle is passed around until it is empty.
“Thank you,” the old man says to me. “My name is Samuel.”
Samuel wears his hair in thick, silver locks.
“I’m Anna.”
“You have grass?”
“No.”
“You’re not from here. Where from?”
“Actually, my father is Bamanaian.”
“Me, I’m a foreigner. Nigerian.”
“Don’t they give you water?” I asked.
“They do, but not till the afternoon. We eat twice a day, zero one one.”
“What does that mean?”