Hope is Yellow

A lion's share

Hearing rustling trees and twigs snapping Jeridah froze in fear. Had the men come back for the children? She sat, paralysed to the spot, eyes wide with fear, body rigid. The sound was coming nearer and nearer until Jeridah could just make out what it was. There were no men, no guns, instead three lions, and a lioness obviously searching for food. At this point Jeridah stifled a scream and looked round realising for the first time that other children, her friends, had survived too. Now the mass of delicate brown bodies only just alive were sat helplessly, nervously looking first at the lions then at each other. Nobody knew what to do and, in any case, they were just too weak to move, their bodies had stiffened and even the air seemed to slice their throats when they inhaled.

The lions prowled around the bodies, deciding on their first victim, for such big creatures they moved with surprising grace. Mrs Tsega was the first, Mr Tsega the second and so on until at last the lions had feasted satisfactorily on their chosen prey.  The glorious beings had not eaten for several weeks due to the flooded grasslands and by chance they had wandered into the village which being on high ground had not suffered much from the floods. Tired from their long journey the lion’s paid little attention to the children, they would have to be killed before being eaten, and that took careful planning and plotting. Instead, they opted for the easier meals, feasting contentedly on the rotting flesh of the deceased people. Forced to listen to the satisfied grunts of the huge beasts tearing the limbs from family and friends apart with terrifying ease, the children remained like statues, hardly daring to breath until the lions were well fed and slowly plodded onwards in search of shelter from the rain that had begun to fall.

Soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably Jeridah struggled to her feet and stood up. She was lost amongst the rubble of bones and half eaten bodies, her own parents had not been touched and lay peacefully as if asleep either side of their orphaned daughter. Mama was no longer a wise old witch, death had captured all but one of her daughters now, and she and her husband had also fallen captive to the same immoral monster. All around her Jeridah could hear strange, muffled sounds, groaning, choking, and sobbing. The boiling sun made the sand burn her hard feet, her large green desperate eyes grew wider than her face as she scanned the mass of skeletons around her. She began to whimper as a foul taste stung the back of her throat and the reality of what had happened struck her with a flash of lightening. Gasping for air every breath tore at her lungs and she let out a painful screech as if to release some of the horrors before her.

The body has an instinct to survive and at this moment Jeridah’s kicked in, numbing her with the coolness of an ice cube.  For a reason she did not know she bent down and ran her hand through the soil repeatedly, combing it with her fingers. The earth was coarse and dry, filled with fragments of human bone, a solid river made from those who once walked upon it, a carpet of history holding secrets never told, woven from tears, laughter, and the bones of those who laughed and cried. Dust to dust.

It was getting dark, and a stale smell was taking over the atmosphere showing no shame, no mercy. She began to run to where she did not know, anywhere, somewhere. Away from it all. The wind stung her eyes as she stumbled over the bodies, tears streaming down her gaunt grey face. She did not get far, crazed with hunger her weak body collapsed beneath her and her head thundered in its own storm. The pungent smell from the street reminded her of the gruesome sight of dead, mutilated bodies and that the sanitation systems had not coped with the growth of the vast village slums.

As Jeridah lay awkwardly amongst the corpses she noticed something yellow, bright yellow beautifully dancing in the playful warm wind. Slowly she crept towards it, her legs ached, and the ground became sandpaper beneath her as she crawled towards the source of the stunning yellow blaze. It was a flower, a single yellow flower that had survived like a small brave symbol of hope. Jeridah smiled. It was just like the flowers Percivia had insisted on wearing behind one ear. Jeridah could not help but feel happy as she watched it swishing to the tune of the wind. For the first time since the death of Percivia, Jeridah felt a sense of peace wash over her, as if someone was watching out for her from the heavens. Gently she pulled the pretty flower out of the cracked earth and tucked it behind her ear feeling hopeful, almost joyful.

The horrors had not been forgotten, only stored away in a child size box until an adult chose to address them. The brain is remarkably apt at protecting the mind, Jeridah was used to filing things at the back of her memory, it came rather naturally. She was a survivor. That night she slept soundly comforted with happy, warm thoughts of her sister. Her mind was no longer focused on hunger but on her young sibling who had brought so much happiness to the family. The memories of that happiness fed Jeridah until she completely forgot that she had not eaten in days. That was the reason for her sleeping so well and the next day she awoke with a new lease of life, Mama had been right, she was a fighter and she had fought to regain hope.

By now some of the other orphaned children had died, they lay like small porcelain dolls near the bones or rotting flesh of their parents. The others had mostly left, to go where they did not know but despite their youth, they knew that if they were to survive, they must find another village and get work. Jeridah had not noticed any of the children leave but she knew they had, and she understood why. Desperately famished she rose gently and slowly to her bruised and swollen feet, it took an eternity before she stood wobbling, towering above the world like an ant. With both arms stretched out by her side to balance, she took her first agonising step forward and stopped, a huge grin spreading over her haggard face. It felt so good not to be heaped up on the floor, trapped awkwardly between the heavy, limp bodies of both parents. Taking another step she held her head up with pride, she was no longer alone, her beautiful little sister was near her, she had sent the flower as a sign of hope and for this reason Jeridah knew she must live.

She called to the fragile figure in front of her, a second time but louder and with some authority. The sound registered. Though barely ten feet from her the child stirred as though he had heard a faint noise in the distance. In slow motion he turned and investigated Jeridah’s face. His wide eyes had dissolved into his head; they told her that if he did not eat something soon, he would be dead like his younger brother and his parents. He was completely n***d and every bone in his tiny body was fighting to be seen. The sight of the lone figure with matchstick arms and legs stood in total oblivion, bought tears to Jeridah’s eyes. She thought with dread of the horrors he must have witnessed as his parents were shot before him. It was as if she had forgotten that she too had suffered more than most in her short lifetime. She hadn’t. She knew that if she was going to help him, she needed his trust; gently she held out her hand and waited patiently. The boy, weak with hunger searched her face with his wise old, sunken eyes as if reading a book through the cover. Satisfied that the girl before him was no threat he placed his hand in hers.

For a moment the two youngsters remained like this, silent questions floated noisily between them, and their honest eyes gave the answers. Jeridah reasoned that he was a mere three years old, and she suddenly felt very responsible, carrying the wisdom of her twelve years on her shoulders, and more importantly in her heart. Suddenly the boy’s eyes faded and then flickered, within seconds he was doubled up on the floor with a more than concerned Jeridah at his side. She offered him leaves, which he refused to eat as if a three-course meal might be just on its way. Stuffed chicken and garlic rice with curried sauce and cabbage. Knowing that his lifeline was a little salt, sugar and boiled water she began frantically scanning the debris for a small amount of these invaluable substances. They were both on borrowed time, something had to be done. Fast.

Just as she was giving up hope and losing energy rapidly, she stumbled across the remains of a kitchen. Shattered glass and broken tins did not attempt to hide the fact that the salt and sugar were strewn chaotically on the floor. Grabbing handfuls of each, she fumbled to extract the gravel and other bits from the salt. Next, just as efficiently she boiled some misty river water and added the rather dusty salt and sugar into the steaming jumble of liquid. Just as her own mother had down when Sylvia was unwell, she twisted some of the dry leaves into a funnel shape and slowly poured the consistency into the boy’s mouth. It was difficult getting the water to enter through his lips; the majority flowed over the sides and seeped through her sleeves. More water dripped down her arms and over the boy’s body than went in his mouth, but Jeridah was undeterred. At first it did not seem to work, the boys head still hung listless, his eyes half closed in a lethargic manner. Slowly she managed to coax him to drink the mixture as she wrung it from her sleeve, dark with the moisture and sweat. 

Then, after a lifetime, it happened. The miracle that she had seen so often performed by many an anxious mother, the child’s life was returning, if a little cautiously but it was certainly coming back. His eyes brightened the brown that they were and Jeridah watched intensely as they began to sparkle in the sunlight. Joash was just three. On his third birthday, he watched what most children could not conjure up in their worst nightmares. Both his mother and father were shot in front of him, he had stood helplessly as they fell to the ground in slow motion, their warm blood oozing from the deep wounds, a red army fleeing its territory. Then, just two days later his only brother died from diarrhoea aged a mere one and a half. Life had been tough for Joash, yet like Jeridah he too was a fighter.

The two of them, with troubled expressions joined the faceless millions desperate to find food, shelter and most importantly, love. Jeridah had taken it upon herself to play mothers; it was proving more than just a little difficult. Joash was a silent and unresponsive child, unhappy, undersized, and unloved until now. She struggled to feed him and keep him warm; maybe she should have left for the city without him. Now living on the streets, she had to learn fast if she were going to survive in a world that treated street children with contempt.

Many of the children had experienced severe poverty, living in shantytowns, abused by those they trusted they had left home, sometimes by necessity sometimes by choice seeking refuge under bridges and in shop doorways. Like Jeridah they were hoping to find a life better than the one they had left behind. It was a dog-eat-dog existence and only the toughest survived. Stealing and begging became a way of life for them all. Lying under the railway bridge with Joash curled up beside her Jeridah let the tears flow freely down her dry cheeks but she made no sound. It was all too much, and she felt so small and hopeless, at this point in time she needed her Mama more than ever. She tried so hard to be brave, to hold the pictures of Mama and the others alive but however hard she fought to stop it, the gruesome night when they were all killed flooded, without invitation into her memory destroying any once happy thoughts. All her dreams were crushed; the streets did not provide refuge or the police protection, when she closed her eyes embracing sleep she wondered if she would see another day.

Some comfort was sought by sniffing glue, it numbed the harsh reality that was her childhood, but Joash needed her, like she needed her Mama and high on glue Jeridah was in no fit state to tend to the little boy. She had never had a brother yet Joash was so precious to her, she was responsible for him now, he had nobody else and she was not going to let him become used to being rejected or deprived of tenderness, love and most of all hope.  When there was nothing else, there was always hope, a gift for those who chose to accept it. Bringing up Joash would be her life as her Mama’s life had been bringing up her. A stream of salty tears holding all her life’s ambitions flowed down the two brown cheeks running to an unknown destination, unsure of their purpose.

Used to passers by treating her with indifference as she sat holding Joash in her arms it came as no surprise when one girl stopped and stared right into her face. Jeridah blinked and offered a friendly smile, which went unnoticed. As if admiring a newly crafted china doll, the girl cupped Jeridah’s sodden face in her smooth, ringed hands. It was unusual for people to take so much interest in a street child; most adults were not moved by the hard insolence of the pestering beggars. They failed to see that their faces were hiding trauma, rejection, and loss, rather they believed each child to be no better than vicious little vermin.

The girl spoke softly after the silence became uneasy and Jeridah replied shyly. A gentle symphony rudely interrupted by a clashing symbol. Jeridah had not spoken to anyone other than Joash since the night she fled from home, and she was unsure of what was going to happen next. Would she be beaten for ruining the beautiful song? The young girl, perhaps in her early twenties sat down beside Jeridah and began tenderly stroking Joash’s dark hair. She was smartly dressed and smelt wonderfully clean, like a summer’s day when the grass has just been cropped. Her skin was soft, lighter than most and green jewels shone from her ears and throat. Jeridah suddenly felt very inadequate, her own skin was dry, cracked, and full of scabs, her hair the home of many lice. She covered her legs with a bit of cardboard that was being used as a blanket to shield the angel from her terrible condition. 

The girl smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes as she watched Jeridah cover herself.  She then put a painted hand into the pocket of her neatly pressed skirt and bought out several shiny, new coins. Firmly shoving a clenched fist full of shillings under Jeridah’s nose she beamed delightedly, watching for a response. Jeridah felt faint with shock, for months now she had been begging for money, but nobody was keen to part with it, after all there was always the need for petrol for their third car, just in case. Now someone was offering a handful of shillings just like that, she could not believe her luck.

Clutching at the valuable coins her words stumbled over each other as she grinned merrily, thanking the angel. Whooping with delight Jeridah counted her winnings, there was enough to buy food for the next week, she could hardly contain her gratitude as she threw her arms around the girl and slapped her back in thanks. The young lady recoiled slightly, wincing at the prospect of catching something rather unpleasant, her eyes sill not matching the smile across her face. Seeing Jeridah’s response the girl knew she had stumbled upon an easy target, she had only given the child forty shillings but she looked like she had found a million. Almost tiredly, the lady watched as the pitiful figure nodded, sick with excitement at the offer of more money yet unseen. Jeridah had no reason to doubt the girl’s motives, after all she had just given them a life saving gift. Obligingly she followed the girl, Joash ambled on behind unaware of his new fortune.

Over the next two months, Jeridah was sold to three different brothels. The ‘angel’ had tricked her into p**********n and for delivering fresh, young blood she was rewarded $150 by her pimp. Jeridah was taken to a house where she was introduced to a man; he was the one who would provide the money so long as she behaved. The house was large and had red bricked walls and a smartly tiled roof, it was like the houses she had often dreamed of. Only this was not a dream. She was given new clothes, a too-small white blouse, which was missing the middle button and a brown pleated knee-length skirt with a pink patch at the side. Clothes found in rich people’s bins, once expensive and new making a white child proud, the envy of their friends, now material worn from years of work, stained by blood and milk.

There were no underpants given to her and she felt a little embarrassed with the knowledge that if she were to bend down her backside would not be covered. The blouse smelt of vomit and made her retch; this earned her a short, sharp slap across the back of the head by the man with the money. He put his hand up her skirt, in between her legs and stroked the downy blanket of soft, coiled hairs. Was he checking for underwear? She started to explain that she had not been given any only to be greeted with another slap, this time across the back of her legs. Having had both breasts examined, was he a doctor? she was instructed to do as she was told before Joash was taken from her and she was led upstairs. 

She was taken into a beautifully decorated bedroom, a feeling of terror sped through her as she was left by the man with money. Alone. Or so she thought, an old man on the bed began to undress and it did not take long for her to realise what she had got herself into to. She was part of a s****l treadmill expected to service eight to ten clients a day. The man bellowed and cursed angrily for her to come towards him as she stood, rooted to the spot, super glue on the soles of her scabby feet. He sounded so fierce that she did not dare to disobey him; slowly she pulled her feet up off the floor, one at time, fighting with the strength of the glue as she walked towards him. 

He was completely n***d now; rolls of flesh spilled onto the sheets, lumpy mounds of wet sand, his legs were wide open. Jeridah’s eyes followed his ankle up to his thick, black bush where an ugly erect brown p***s stood to attention, greedily throbbing from amongst the trees. She had never seen anybody’s manhood before; it fascinated her in a way that morbidity has the power to do so. She wondered if her father had manhood like this, she knew her uncle had although it had never been on display like this. She had only felt it press up against her thigh each time he hugged and kissed her but it always remained under cover, a secret spy operating illegally but safe in the knowledge that few people cared and even less could do anything to protect his niece from his own lustful desires.  Jeridah took a deep breath and with her heart pounding in her chest, she sat down next to the stranger, after all, she was desperate for the money. His large, powerfully sweaty hand pulled her towards him and without a word she obediently obliged to his every order. This became the norm but no matter how hard she worked, no money ever came her way.                     

She shared a tiny, bare dormitory with fourteen other girls, at night she, like the rest wept tears of anger and shame. They were woken every morning at five thirty to pray, sometimes she prayed with her face in the bible so she could sleep a little bit longer. After a gruelling hour of bending over, knees pressed against the hard, cold floor tiles breakfast was served. The first customers arrived at 7am and the rest filtered in at hourly intervals. Once her days work was done, she was made to thoroughly scrub the walls of her ‘special room’, sweep the floor and change the bedding ready for the next day as if a clean room made for a less seedy practice.

The room had to be spotless otherwise they were forced to sleep n***d, chained in the garden to the gatepost. This had happened to Jeridah on more occasions than she could count and when it did, she wanted to die. She did not know that the gifts of money flowing into the poor, rural community were a powerful economic reason to turn a blind eye to the relationships between children and rich, male foreigners. Even the police made no attempt to put an end to the horrors that the children entailed, they were just as quick to use the unjust, immoral service. 

Tired and angry that the promise of bigger money was a lie, Jeridah began to remember what her Mama used to say. Children are precious, not just, because they are young, appealing or happen to be your own, rather because they are people. However, they are vulnerable, in a world becoming more dangerous every day. The words echoed around her clustered, weary mind as she imagined her Mama sighing, the weight of the world on her shoulders. What in the world is happening to children? Mama would weep, hugging her knees to her chest and gazing lovingly into her small daughter’s eyes.

Pondering thoughtfully over her Mama’s wise words, Jeridah realised that she too was special and more importantly, Joash was special. The truth dawned on her, these adults who came to her were intelligent, powerful, and wealthy and they knew what they were doing with these small children was wrong. Very wrong. They were not caring men attempting to save children from starvation on the streets; they were deliberately employing them illegally for their own s****l gratification. There was nothing in it for the girls, apart from a searing pain in the groin and a constant feeling of being dirty, violated, and worthless. She felt an incredible sense of hatred towards these perverted men, as she lay squashed between the sweating bodies of her roommates. None of them had a bed; they slept in the cellar on the sodden, stinking carpet soaked with urine and vomit. 

Jeridah began to imagine her clients going home to their rich, cosy houses and sleeping warm and comfortable between satin sheets and their wives.  Any one of the men she knew from her past life could have darkened her doorway.  On the inside they were riddled with vile matter, made from a different material than most but they looked the same as everyone else on the outside.  Jeridah wondered if her Uncle had ever been to the property.  She became restless, being here was no better than being on the streets, in fact, the streets were better, and at least then, she had some pride. Here she had sunk lower than low. Money was important but there were other, more respectable ways of obtaining it. 

It was three in the morning when she was woken instantly by two unfamiliar men calling her everything but her name. They ordered her out of the house, stripping her from her tattered night cloth that did not deserve to be called a nightdress. There was nobody to help her as she was forced to walk, n***d into the cold night air. Outside were other girls, some she knew some she did not, all roped together, n***d, terrified and a few half dead. Jeridah noticed that all the giant men had guns, large, black, ugly, intimidating guns and she let the tears roll freely down her withered cheeks. This was surely to be the end; she had known it was coming.    

At times in her young life death had felt like a welcomed friend, gently sapping the badness from her comrade’s weak bodies, leaving them peaceful, their spirit free to dance. It was true that she had often watched the motions of death with a fascination she could not fathom. It struck in different ways yet always resulted in the same. It brought freedom from pain and offered release from the burden of life. Jeridah had often considered what it would be like to let up her breath and allow this unknown but very real force, take her too. She missed her friends, her sisters with a deep searing loss that had knotted the strings of her heart; at times taking her own life was a seriously contemplated option.  She had seen people do it in all manner of fashions, the fierce rope around the neck being the favourite, it required little resources. Only the rich died in the dramatic style having first overdosed on expensive pills and potions or driven their posh cars over cliffs. Jeridah had known where a rope was and this knowledge used to comfort her, there was always a way out.

The splintered, blistering rope bound round both bony wrists offered no comfort to Jeridah now. It was wrapped so ferociously tight that her skin and the rope were almost one, thick, warm blood dribbled like a scarlet stream from the deep wounds. Forced to march to an unknown destination the children were silent creating an eerie sense of solitude despite the mass of skeletal figures. Not one of the ghostly silhouettes cried out as the stones embedded themselves in the soles of their feet, shattered glass slicing skin and puddles of monsoon rain like ice beneath their toes. Complaints would have been futile, falling on deaf ears and rewarded simply with a lash across the thigh with whatever object came to hand. Anyway complaining meant summoning up the energy to part ones lips and for the majority of the children, this was enough to deter them. They needed to concentrate what little resources they had and focus on moving one foot in front of the other, a task that required all their might in this instance. All hope had gone, Jeridah fantasised about the rope working its way up her body, encompassing the flesh like a hungry Boa, finally arriving at her neck, slowly but deliberately squeezing, strangling.

She awoke; if indeed she had been asleep, she was confused and disoriented, heaped awkwardly in a tiny dark concrete cell. The only light source entered timidly through a purpose built hole no bigger than Jeridah’s own hand. Squinting her blackened eyes, she accustomed herself to her new surroundings, there was a bucket in the corner, for what she was unsure. As she searched the room with aching eyes and a dull heart her breathing quickened as she heard footsteps. Breath now coming in short, painstakingly rapid bursts she feared her lungs would collapse under the weight of the still air. The footsteps got louder, her breathing faster with the realisation that there was nowhere to hide. They passed by and became distant until the only sound was a long continuous sigh as Jeridah’s lungs deflated like a balloon with a hole. Whoever it was had gone but although physically more comfortable she felt neither relieved nor afraid. Perhaps she was dead. The hope that death had finally come kept her from insanity throughout the night. She did not know it was night, she did not know if she slept all knowledge of anything other than the searing pain in her feet and wrists had vanished. She was surely dead.