Chimamanda

Chapter 2

The journey from Nkemmiri to the port of Arochukwu took about three hours, but for Chimamanda, it felt much longer — as though days had passed.

She had stopped trying to scream her lungs out; she had accepted the truth that it wouldn’t help. Somewhere along the way, the men had blindfolded her, making sure she would never be able to find her way back.

They tied her hands and feet together with wet ropes, as though the fragile fourteen-year-old could ever escape them. Chimamanda prayed, shouting Amadioha in her mind, like she had seen the elders in her village do — but there was no response.

The strong smell of tabba, mixed with sweat, clouded her nose as the men spoke in a dialect that blended the Igbo she was accustomed to with another tongue — one she didn’t understand.

By the time they reached Arochukwu, the sun had begun to hide behind the trees. The men untied the ropes around her legs, leaving only her hands bound, and one of them lifted her onto his shoulder. They walked through the bushes at the far end of the port until they reached a small clearing.

When they finally removed the blindfold, Chimamanda’s breath caught. Before her were people — women and children mostly — locked inside cages made of bamboo sticks and dried palm fronds. Outside the cages stood men with red marks on their chests, identical to those of the men who had taken her.

Seeing this, Chimamanda tried to slow her steps, dragging her feet against the ground. She didn’t want to end up like those children, who looked as though they hadn’t eaten in days.

The men untied her hands and shoved her forward into one of the cages — one that held seven girls about her age. Some lay quietly on the ground, others just sat still, eyes blank and heavy. Once she was inside, they locked the cage with a thick iron bar.

The air was thick with the stench of fresh and rotting human waste, dried blood, and sweat. Chimamanda covered her nose, gagging. The other girls didn’t even flinch. It was as if they had grown used to it.

She found a small space near the edge of the cage and sat down, resting her head against the rough bamboo poles. All the shouting, kicking, and twisting had drained her completely. Sleep tugged at her eyes, but the foul air made it hard to breathe, let alone rest.

By the time the sun had fully disappeared, hunger began to gnaw at her stomach.

As if on cue, two men appeared, carrying a large wooden bowl filled with eight roasted yam cuts — one for each child — and a smaller bowl of palm oil.

Tears welled in Chimamanda’s eyes as she thought of Mama Akwaeke, her father’s second wife after her mother. Mama Akwaeke who had loved her like a daughter — probably worried out of her mind now, searching for her. She used to give Chimamanda roasted yam cutlets whenever she was sad or had quarreled with her father.

Her mind wandered to her father too — had he noticed her absence yet? Was he wondering why she hadn’t returned with the water?

The sight of food stirred the children. Some rose from their sitting positions; others crawled up weakly from where they lay. Chimamanda, sitting closest to the bowl, grabbed a piece and began to chew. It was tasteless — nothing like what she was used to, almost raw — but her hungry stomach didn’t care. She didn’t even bother dipping it in oil.

When the hunger eased, thirst followed. Chimamanda wanted to ask for water, but one look from the scary-looking man guarding the cage silenced her. She swallowed hard, forcing down her saliva instead.

By the time the men came back for the plates, darkness had completely swallowed the surroundings. Only the narrow paths were lit by fire torches carried by the men.

Chimamanda was tired, her eyes heavy. She leaned her head against the cage once more. Maybe the stench had become bearable, or maybe her body was simply too exhausted to care, because the moment she rested her head, she drifted into the arms of sleep.

Chimamanda woke with a start. She had just had a nightmare — the first in a long time. In it, she saw her father standing beside the very men who had taken her away, speaking to them as she cried for help, watching as they dragged her off without lifting a finger.

It was still dark, but the moon was faint, its dim light hinting that dawn was near. Some men wandered about, while others — the ones guarding the cages — were just waking from their slumber.

A sharp pain shot through Chimamanda’s neck. She had slept in an awkward position, and her muscles ached from it. She stretched, yawning softly, twisting her neck to ease the stiffness.

Then came another discomfort — the urge to relieve herself. She clenched her legs together, looking around helplessly. There was nowhere to go, not in a tightly locked cage.

“Biko... I need to urinate,” she whispered in Igbo, her voice barely audible. The guard, now alert and standing, didn’t respond. She tried again, but he remained silent, his eyes fixed ahead.

“Shhh... you have to urinate here,” one of the girls — about sixteen — whispered back in Igbo, pointing toward a large bowl at the far end of the cage, half-filled with yellowish liquid. Chimamanda hadn’t noticed it before.

A wave of disgust rose inside her as her mind registered what the bowl contained. But her bladder ached, and she had no choice. She muttered, “Daalu,” a quiet thank you to the girl, and hurried over to relieve herself, adding to the foul-smelling pool.

The sun was already rising when one of the men — who seemed to be their leader — shouted an order. One by one, the captives were dragged out of the cages: men, women, and children, more than forty in total.

They stood before him in trembling silence as he walked through the line, his cold eyes studying each of them. Then, with a wave of his hand, he began to separate them into two groups — one on his left, the other on his right.

Chimamanda looked around — really looked. They were surrounded by bushes, six cages in all, and three huts for the men. She was small in size and certain she could escape, but the bigger question was — where would she go? They had blindfolded her on the way, so she had no idea which path led home.

She was still thinking when the man reached her — a chewing stick between his teeth, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. The look made Chimamanda’s skin crawl.

He gestured to one of his men, who grabbed her roughly and dragged her to the group on the right, her heart almost leaping out of her chest.

When every captive had been sorted, those on the left were shoved back into the cages, while those on the right — thirty-two in number — were given just enough food to last two days. Their wrists were tied with ropes, and they were joined together in a long human chain.

Chimamanda had no idea what was happening. She could only watch as she was bound together with the others — the girl from earlier standing before her, and a woman she didn’t recognize behind.

Her heart was in chaos, yet she knew better than to scream or struggle.

Six men, armed with whips, ropes, chains, and guns, were assigned by their leader to accompany the captives on their journey through the evergreen forest — as they made their way toward the misty coast of Calabar.