Prisoners

We closed our eyes to the obvious truths in front of us and never once dared ourselves to think that what they owed us was honesty; even more, it was our right. There were five of us, ten of them and five of the others with cameras and microphones in the overwhelmingly red office that morning. We had learned from living with them that they deemed red an auspicious colour. It brought them luck, they said, so they swathed themselves in it, especially in business circles. Our families had collectively raised thousands of dollars and sent us to them to work, hoping for decent financial returns on their investments.

“I am very happy here,” Jamilla went first, “I am well taken care of and have never suffered a single day since my feet touched the soil of this wonderful country.” But for the fact that she had limped as she approached the seat facing the bright light, her delivery had been pitch perfect. The shoulders on the Minister from our country relaxed slightly as Jamilla all but worshipped her string of employers.

Shailah went next. Her gait was dull but nevertheless slapped on a plastic smile. There was palpable tension before she spoke because she took her time. The rest of us glanced nervously at each other. “My employer loves me.” She finally said, softly. “He loves me the same way he loves everyone in his house.” She cast her eyes downward and placed one hand over her slightly protruding belly, barely visible under the flowing tunic we all wore. Unable to continue speaking she raised herself from the seat and allowed Amina to pass. Amina walked forcefully, her anger represented in everything but her face. “At first I hated being away from home. Now I know that home can be anywhere, even if it is only in your mind.” A few people let out suppressed laughs, unsure whether this was philosophy, humour or a covert report. Rehema’s turn came and she basically restated what the rest of us had had to say.

I was last, pulling myself up despite the sting from the fresh whip lashes on my back. I didn’t take the seat but went and knelt in front of the Minister from my country. Smiling as brightly as I could, I pulled out a small velvet box from my tunic. There were confused whispers and a little shoving to try and get to me but the Minister raised one hand to stop the advancing guards.

“I have been taught that a gift, no matter how small will always reveal the truth of someone’s heart. This is the kind of gift we give in the home where I work. Delicious dates.” My eyes implored hers and I squeezed her hands as I felt tears prick my eyes. She saw the tears and smiled graciously, leaning forward to hug me. ‘Memory card. Inside.’ I whispered as we embraced. “Ahh! Dates. I love those. Shukran!” She said audibly. Knowingly.