The Sand Scuttler

Chapter 2

2

“Strip.”

They had been taken to the slave quarters at the Rasheed villa, a fenced and gated estate. In the centre stood one mud brick, sandy coloured building with tiny air slits in the walls. Around it sat several huts made from wooden frames and woven palm fronds and then, closest to the fence, tents of various sizes and strips of cloth. All open spaces were covered by cloth to keep out the scorching sun. Jakira stared at a small patch of grass outside the main villa, about the size of her slum tent home. This is a wealthy family.

She stood next to the slave boy in the dust, under a cloth between a hut and tents with Big Bulai and the male slave. Their chains had been removed, but the wrist cuffs stayed on, rubbing her skin raw. The weight dragged her down. I am a slave now, I will always wear these.

“Where is everyone?” she whispered to the boy.

“Going about their business of course,” he whispered back.

“I said strip!” Big Bulai bellowed. “Don’t make me whip you.”

The slave boy stripped off the tattered cloth around his waist, but Jakira refused.

“These are my only rags! Mama says I can’t lose them.”

“Your mama doesn’t exist anymore, stupid bitch.” Big Bulai punched Jakira in the gut and she doubled over, gasping for air. “Get me my whip, Kalal.”

The male slave, Kalal, handed the whip to the mannish woman and she snapped it in the dust. Jakira stumbled backwards as the cord cracked again, pulled her tunic from over her head and stood, legs quivering, next to the boy. Kalal brought two buckets of water and placed them at their feet.

“Wash. Master hates any kind of stench or filth in his villa and he has money enough to spend on water to clean his slaves and not to drink.”

The boy stepped in the bucket and started to splash the water on his body. Jakira’s mouth fell open. She had never seen water used this way. It was precious, it was not to be wasted.

“Wash, stupid b***h!”

Big Bulai flicked the whip around Jakira’s legs. She yelped and stepped forward into the bucket.

“Do what I’m doing,” whispered the boy to her. She watched him cup the water and bring it up to his face and move his palms up and down. She did the same, the sensation of water on her skin was exquisite. She wetted her arms, chest and neck and up her legs and squished it between her toes. For a brief moment, she did feel blessed.

Big Bulai watched her with a smirk. “Feels good, doesn’t it.”

Jakira marvelled at the true colour of her skin, a light, sheeny brown, as ten scorch seasons of slum dust washed away.

“Enough. Come over here, you two. Get the razors, Kalal. You do the boy, and I’ll do the girl. We can’t have no lice here.”

The boy stepped towards Kalal and lowered his head. The scraping sound of blade on scalp sent shivers down Jakira’s spine. Jakira shrank back from Big Bulai’s outstretched, scarred arms. She loved her hair, because her mother loved her hair. Each night, before sleep, her mother would comb it through with her fingers, plait it and stroke it, and pick the lice out of it.

“You can’t shave my head,” Jakira screamed. She plunged under a low table and crouched there, kicking away Big Bulai’s grabbing fingers.

Kalal seized her hair, her beautiful hair, and tugged her out, holding her tight under her armpits facing him. The boy stood, head shaved and wide eyed, and shook his head at Jakira. Big Bulai came up behind her.

The first flog was the worst. The whip cut right across her hump and seared a line in her flesh. She screamed out as Kalal laughed and Big Bulai whipped and whipped.

“You’ll kill her!” The boy ran forward and tried to push Big Bulai, who turned and elbowed him in the ribs. She raised her whip, ready to crack it against his back.

“Bulai!”

The mannish woman’s arm came down and she turned, panting, to the voice.

A round, short woman stood with hands on hips, a stained strip of cloth tied around her front over her slave tunic. Her head was shaved. Taut, furrowed skin covered the lower half of her face, down her neck and to her collarbone. Her lips were stretched in places and puckered in others and one side pulled down to her chin. But her brown eyes were large and kind.

Her huge, misshapen hump poked out, indicating she had come from an extremely poor Affarah clan family. The smaller, neater the hump, the wealthier the clan. The smallest on the backs of the Wakrime royal clan, the first to find the crater water source, and over generations the humps grew smaller as water was plentiful. The largest, most crooked humps belonged to the Yuurnan clan, who had never made it to the crater and still lived in ramshackle villages across the Drome desert and could survive for many days without water.

“Bulai, are these my new kitchen-slaves? I’m sure you’re having plenty of fun but I need them now, Master has guests arriving within the hour! Get them cleaned up and dressed and brought to me immediately. You know he’ll be mad with you, as overseer of slaves in this household, if the refreshments don’t come out on time.”

Big Bulai waved a hand at Kalal. He dropped Jakira, picked up a bucket and chucked the remaining water on her bleeding back. He threw her and the boy the collarless, sleeveless, rough-hewn tunics that all slaves wore. The tunics fell to above the knees and had two large pockets in the front. Made from the cheapest fabric, and known as a sack, it made Jakira itch as soon as it touched her skin, and pricked at her wounds.

“What are your names?” the round woman asked, through her hideous, deformed lips.

“Jakira.”

“Medi,” said the boy.

“They look alike. Are they brother and sister, Bulai?”

Big Bulai shrugged. Jakira looked at Medi. Is that what I look like? She had never seen her own face. He had large golden brown eyes, a small nose, full lips and high cheekbones. His body was lean and he was the same height as her.

“Shave the girl’s head later, she looks clean enough for now. Come on then, brother and sister.”

Although they knew they weren’t related, Medi and Jakira did not disagree.