Chimamanda

chapter 4

Lucien walked with calculated steps along the corridor, the familiar weight of his signature frown settled firmly on his face. Some of the traders stood as he passed, greeting him with stiff respect. His subordinates followed a few steps behind, silent out of habit. He and Celeste had argued once again that morning — just another reason for the deep crease between his brows.

Antonio, a young man of about thirty-two dressed in a dark suit far too dignified for the trade he handled, sat waiting. His eyes carried the weary sharpness of someone who had witnessed far more than his years should allow.

“General,” Antonio greeted, placing his right hand over his chest and bowing slightly.

Lucien waved him off and sat across from him. The room was dim and sparse — three chairs, a short table, nothing more. He had no interest in pleasantries and went straight to the point.

Celeste loved control — a trait he had once admired deeply. He had come to the area on business concerning rumors of French-speaking spies hiding among the natives. On his way back, he had stopped by the market to select a new girl for Celeste, something she could add to her growing collection of household laborers. He would not bring himself to hand the gift to her personally, but he could at least see it before it was delivered.

The last “gift,” a young woman of about twenty-two chosen by his subordinates, had been executed after being accused of stealing one of Celeste’s pieces of jewelry. But whispered conversations claimed another motive entirely — that the young woman happened to possess the kind of beauty Celeste found threatening.

Celeste had not always been insecure about their marriage. They had once cared for each other, or at least lived as if they did. But everything had changed after that day. Now they drifted like strangers sharing the same home: sharp words replacing gentle ones, arguments replacing understanding. Yet, Lucien still preferred those arguments to the long, quiet weeks of avoidance that had once followed the incident.

The twenty-minute wait for the commodities to assemble sent Lucien’s thoughts wandering far from the dim room. He remembered the battles he had fought, the people he had sworn to protect, and the near-fatal wound that left a long scar below his chest. By the time someone arrived to inform him that the girls were ready, his mind had already traveled miles beyond the market.

He rose wordlessly and followed the young trader down a narrow hallway into a wide room. One by one he inspected the assembled girls — hands that looked strong enough to work, legs steady enough to endure long hours of standing, and most importantly, features that would not stir any jealousy or insecurity. He needed a gift that would not be discarded as quickly as the last.

He kept inspecting them until he reached her — a mildly skinny girl, but what struck him most were her eyes: pure, curious, unbroken, despite all that she had endured. He was not ignorant of what had occurred during the long voyages and how cruel the world could be. Lucien felt he had found the perfect gift for Celeste. He imagined the thrill she would feel when she slowly dimmed that light in the girl’s eyes, and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to buy her. He wasted no time in doing so.

***

Chimamanda was blindfolded and thrown into one of the carriages. She couldn’t see through the cloth, but she could feel the presence of the men sitting opposite her, their intimidation almost choking her.

When the carriage finally stopped moving, Chimamanda released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, relief washing over her like a pot of cold, evening stream water. But the relief didn’t last long, because in the next moment she was dragged out and forced to follow wherever they directed her, their grips so strong she feared her hands might break.

When the blindfold was finally removed, Chimamanda could not believe her eyes. The huge hut before her was beautiful, unlike anything she had ever seen before, and it didn’t seem to be made of the usual clay. It looked like it was made of something else entirely, something Chimamanda longed to touch but refrained from out of fear of the unknown.

She was led through a large corridor, lit by lamps so exquisite that she was tempted to reach out and feel them. But before her chained hands could react, she was shoved forward, apparently walking too slowly.

Chimamanda knew the man she had seen earlier hadn’t gone with them — the coldness emanating from him was unmistakable, unthinkable even.

When they reached the end of the corridor, one of the men knocked so quietly that Chimamanda wondered if anyone inside would even hear. There was no pounding, no repeated knock, knock, no pam, pam, pam — just a single, almost silent tap, shocking her intensely.

With every passing minute, Chimamanda’s anxiety multiplied, a subconscious fear of opening doors growing within her, a phobia she didn’t even recognize in herself.