Esoteric Life (mugshots)

Esoteric Life: African Jihad

PART I  They came at fifteen-year-old Zola Awolowo with rifles and chains.
Eyes burning behind black mask, Zola had no doubt that these men could only have cruel intentions for her body.

Shoved into the dust, Zola hurried hands over her tears as they tore at her clothing. The beads around her neck tore loos, bouncing against her bare, black chest.

"Allah is great! Holy jihad!" The chants were like the rhythm for each blow onto Zola. She staggered, being pushed to the next man in the circle. He ripped in and out of her over and over. Blood and tears streaming down her face, she was thrown to the next man.

Fifteen.
Zola had chosen it as her lucky one.
Fifteen times she was thrown around the circle.
Just like the number, Zola's parents abandoned her as screams sliced through the afternoon sun.

Zola panted with her face in the ground. Thirsty, she longer for water. Her insides and outside burned with pain and shame. Curling slightly, Zola tried to cover herself from the masked men avidly discussing every part of her with disgusting laughter.

"Laat my asseblief gaan."
Zola slumped to begging as one of the younger men shoved her up by the wrist. His eyes burned like flames as he demanded she join their 'holy war'. If it meant the pain and humiliation would stop, Zola opened her mouth to agreed. Behind the young warrior with a red turban and black mask, a gleaming sword slashed the head off of her sister. Would Zola be forced to kill other's daughters?
No.

The man released all his furry into Zola. She screamed back with evident hatred. But it was not loud enough to stop the chains from whipping her stomach.
Or the guns to stop hitting her.
Not enough to keep her blood off the walls.
Or to keep her from being sold as a seventh wife.

Zola's hands trembled, and she dropped the bowl of beans.
Her... husband reached across the mat and slapped her face.
After two years his eyes grazing her body still brought frightening shivers.
It was like being raped all over again, by one man.
But it was every night. For two years.
Theo other wives were jealous and treated Zola horridly, tattling on every action she did. Even trying to get word for help.
And her husband beat her severely.
As she huddled under the bed, sobbing as his footsteps found her, Zola would gladly have given his 'affections' to the other six.

One day she missed the blood.
Two months formed to three.
This child is not hers, but Zola's oppressor.
Why should she carry it? He's left a cruel joke in her.

A knife to her stomach will end it all.
For both of them.
Both products of an unjust horror.

PART II  Nineteen-year-old Ade Asaju still still remembers the gunshots exploding orange, and he saw them still, surrounding his bride.
Clearing focus,  Ade forced himself to look at his bride's wedding gown and headless. Her eyes twinkled at him from under flowers, and he felt special to have been the one to restore the merry to her eyes.

Ade took her hand as his bride smiled, sliding next to him at the feat sung table. Drums struck a beat, and Ade crashed to the ground as drumsticks beat against leather.
Cradling head in hands, Ade forced himself not to cry out. Already guests were flooding in around him. One of them; his bride.
Smooth, cool hands listed his head up. Ade saw merry lights twinkling in the background. Food, and smiling faces. He concussed in her face, understanding of That Night flickering across her eyes.
And hope of a new life to start Tonight.

Midnight's wind blew the veils of the marriage tent slowly.
Ade watched as his bride's dress slipped down her shoulders. Engraved by her creamy, dark skin; Ade took a moment to relize her hands shaking with effort not to cover herself.
Capturing her in his arms, Ade kissed her dark lips. He hoped his touch was gentle. And told his bride, you are mine, Zola. Nothing, and no one, will ever hurt you. Not even I.