ONCE UPON A TIME

_source

I too, will tell my story. It is a story you have heard before, in fact you know it too well. But still, I will tell it because it is uniquely mine to tell. Other stories may resemble it, but my experiences are particular. So I purport to tell this story in the vague yet desperate hope that I might find a listening ear; a lodge for my memories.

It is the sixth day. The cell is dirty and cold. And quiet. We are quiet because the world has robbed us of our voices, and our well of tears is dry, scorched by Harmattan. We are quiet because there is no strength to talk or cry anymore. We are quiet because we want to preserve our memories; every memory of home.

The door squeaks open and a few weak eyes look up in that direction, mine included. Three guys strut in, with a middle aged woman, and suddenly, the air changes, takes on the acrid overstench of stale sweat. They walk among us, looking especially at the ladies. A hand jabs me and motions me to stand.

I obey, out of weakness rather than will. We are led, out into the open and inspected all over. They communicate, in rapid Arabic. One of the men walks over and stops right in front of me. I avert my face weakly from the aggressive smell that comes with him.

“Beautiful” he says, and I only realize several seconds later that it was English, not Arabic he spoke, or tried to speak. He reaches out to touch my shoulders. His hands are scaly, like crusty eba and a wave of repulsion engulfs me. His beards are bushy and the colour of his teeth is an unsettling yellow, like sour milk.

“You're beautiful” he says again, bringing his face closer to mine. The smell hits me forcefully and the world tilts before me. My stomach churns. In an unguarded act of retaliation I nudge him weakly, but my voice carries conviction, annoyance, irritation. “Get out.”

In the same second he retorts, almost immediately, with a blow to my temples. My head feels light and heavy at the same time. The earth spins and shakes and the cardinals points coalesce before my very eyes.

The last thing I see before the world goes black is the colour of the Libyan sky: an unnerving bright blue.