BROKEN

Broken episode1

10/4/2006...

Tonight didn’t go well.
It was supposed to be all about the pleasure but his taste was far from it.
What turned him on wasn’t the body, but the injuries inflicted on it.
Madamme, never cared.
As long as he normally was the highest bidder of his prey, “he wouldn’t kill you, just a little bruise and he is satisfied “ she would yell.
Besides, none of the girls questioned her authority, our freedom according to her depends on the profit we made.
Pearl, the oldest of the traffic, would say she lied, but I refuse to let that part sink in. I would work until I can buy my freedom. That was the only hope I knew I had, not like I know what I would do with them life when I leave the brothel but, I had rather die to wander than spend the rest of my miserable life here.
My journey to the city of the no man’s land started off when I met Anna, the big girl on campus.
I was to be introduced to the rich guys in town, for a nightstand of worth fifty Ghana cedis, I needed any money I could come in contact with. My parents being separated and none blessed with the heart to care, I was virtually abandoned to fight my way through. Exams were around the corner, my little salary wasn’t of much help to sort the bill.
After much persuasion without ceasing reminder of my lacking support from any angle, I gave in to the offer.
I was introduced to one, who said his name was Kontar, I felt a little uneasy but at a point I just got myself to relax and enjoy the moment.
The club speakers almost made me lose my heads and ears, but after a few drinks it sounded like a pleasant noise.
It was 2 am, Kontar indicated it was time for him to go, and for our business to commence.
I was blank then, under the effect of both alcohol and drugs.
We crossed the borders without me knowing, too unconscious to know the happenings in my environment, the wasted me was enjoying the ride.
I woke up upon madame paying off Kontar.
My worth I was able to detect was 500,000 CFA franc.
Having a little knowledge of history, the currency depicted I was still in an African country, but far away from mine. Since we traveled by road, hopefully not quite far.
My attempt to move proved infertile, for I was tied to the bunk that turned out to be the space I occupied till date.
Looking around the room, my eyes met with those of terrified teen girls, some younger than I whilst some were older.
Not quite long, we saw a huge scary man drag a lady into the room, the man whose name we later learned to be Kaseem and also a Ghanaian as me, inflicting injuries on her body using what seemed like a whip. Madame said she was being punished because she wanted to escape. Prophets were not needed to get the information being passed across.
There and then I concluded, escape wouldn’t be a matter of prayers, but that of a sensible, patient, well-drafted plan.

Dwelling on the hurts, won’t take the pain away. Concentrating on the plan of escape will. I said, drifting back to my present state of pain, scrubbing off the blood and scent of the psycho off my bruised skin, whilst constructing my plan of escape.
Part of the plan was stealing from drunk morons that got me laid, I couldn’t get my hands on much, but I know surely if I keep playing my cards the best I could, my number of years in here would be limited.

2/3/ 2011...
4:15 am,West African time.

The guards were down already, snoring like overfed dogs,
I passed them with the best attempt of not making a sound.
I waited, stole and prayed for this particular day, it’s been five years since my adoption, but it seemed like an eternity, those years of planning, mapping out and taking heed to the least of information I could get hold of.
Whilst all these,none of the girls knew of my plan, I was so secretive enough and careful so as not to have one of them ruin my plan, spill the beans or plead to follow suit.
Miraculously, I got past the threats.
For five years we were locked up, never given the chance to see the environment nor know what it looked like, the only business we had aside our rooms were the troops that left their wives at home and came to feast on the body of whores.
I heard and knew that Madame got people working for her around, so I had to be careful to be at my best disguise.

I was out of the building, hopefully out of sight, I began to run, my heart pounding as it had plump out of my skin. This is my first attempt with freedom, and I hope it had been the last.
Alarm rushed through my spine when I saw a car bump out of nowhere,
Mixed feelings clouded my mind, are they after me or could this person possibly help me out? I was lost, I needed the least help I could get.
The vehicle didn’t come from behind, therefore reducing my fear of being chased.
I started waving for help.
The driver stopped in front of me and beckoned on me to hop in.
Without a second thought, and with the least care, I jumped into the vehicle and he sped off.
My lack of trust made me strain as much as possible to see the driver’s face to know if I could recognize him from the series of guards I was used to, but I couldn’t, I felt much relaxed. Not until he turned and took the same direction back to the brothel, betrayal, fear, hate, and anxiety rushed through my veins. I made an attempt of jumping off the car, but it was locked already, and if I eventually do, the speed at which he drove would make me be as good as dead.

“You brought this upon yourself, don’t know how you got here, but one thing for sure, my boss never takes an innocent passerby, just whores who he thinks would be of better use to him than back in their hometowns" He said as he parked the car in front of the brothel, surrounded by angry guards.

I recognized the voice, it was so familiar, too familiar, I didn’t want to believe the name my mind screamed to my ears.
My suspicion was confirmed when he removed his hood and turned around to face me.

“Dad!”
“Zuhrah” he said, as a note of confirmation.