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forty-nine f

Bedtime

D id I say bed? Dirt floor was more like it. As the new kids and the only white women in the prison, we were the target of the most violent and insane prisoners. We cowered in one corner, breathing into our tiny circle to lessen the stench of unwashed bodies and excrement. Rough hands roamed along our bodies until a guard clapped two boards together as a warning to stop.

I recited the words from Psalm 34:4, hoping they would ease me into sleep. I’d begun to doze when I felt something crawl up my arm. A scream escaped my mouth as I swatted the creature toward another prisoner. What freak of nature was sharing the space with me?

“ Nyamaza! ” a guard commanded.

Exhaustion finally overcame me, and I slept. By morning, my body ached and was as filthy as the other prisoners’. A series of red bites littered my one arm.

“ Kuoga! ” A guard pushed us outdoors and led us to the showers. Toilets consisted of holes in the ground and were located throughout the prison. I almost cried when I saw modern showers. We were instructed to strip and wait our turn. The water was lukewarm with a brownish tint and a faint metallic odor. I didn’t care. I removed the bar of soap from my head and scrubbed the best I could in the few minutes before the water shut off. We’d been given a comb and tooth-brush but no shampoo or toothpaste. I dressed in yesterday’s underwear and dress and waited for the next horror.

Breakfast consisted of porridge with the consistency of mucous. An occasional lump kept the meal interesting. I expected each lump to be a worm, insect, or worse. To the prison’s credit, the lumps were nothing more than poorly cooked grain. The three of us retched as we ate but kept it down, knowing we needed our strength for the day ahead. The day we hoped would be our last in this hellhole.

After breakfast, we joined the rest of the women in the sewing room. Small windows set high in the walls let in the morning light. The doors were kept open to keep the air circulating and lessen the stench. We sat on wooden benches and made sure our tablecloths didn’t touch the dirt floor. Soft Swahili conversation surrounded us, then some of the women broke into song. If I closed my eyes and held my breath, I could almost believe I’d joined a sewing circle in Amara’s village.

Lunch was a repeat of yesterday’s meal. We choked on the vegetable scraps and gave our meat to other prisoners.

Back in the sewing room, one of the prisoners smiled and asked in English if she could sit next to me. I squeezed closer to Tina to make room for her.

“My name is Elizabeth,” she said.

“I’m Ava. These are my friends Tina and Edie.”

“Americans?”

I nodded.

“I think you are the first white women to enter our prison. You must have committed a terrible crime.”

“We don’t belong here,” Edie said.

“Everyone says they are innocent.” Elizabeth laughed.

“But we really are,” I said. “We were charged with international smuggling of bangi , but it was a mistake. Our lawyer’s coming soon to get us out.”

Elizabeth cackled until tears rolled down her cheeks. “My lawyer said the same thing. Once you are here, they forget about you.”

Edie and Tina looked up from their sewing. Panic spread across their faces.

I took slow deep breaths to stay calm. It didn’t work.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Embezzlement. Fraud. Not like most prisoners.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Some are prostitutes, thieves, or murderers.”

The more Elizabeth spoke, the more frightened I became. “All of them?”

“No. Most are here for brewing and selling alcohol. You know, busaa and chang’aa ,” she laughed. “They are poor and trying to feed their families.”

“They’re victims like us,” Tina said.

“Yes, we are all victims,” Elizabeth replied. “My boyfriend and I stole the money. He paid the judge to stay out of prison. But no money was left to pay for me.”

Just like Mike.

“ Kukaa! Kukaa! ” We stopped our conversation, stood, then dropped to a squat.

“To be continued,” Elizabeth whispered.

At the end of the workday, Tina, Edie, and I comforted each other with words of support and uplifting psalms.

“Something must have gone wrong,” Edie said. “Ben must be away for Thanksgiving, or maybe the money got held up because of the holiday.”

“There’s always somebody at Ben’s house who’d know where to reach him,” I said. “Mike screwed up.”

Tina began to cry. “We’re gonna die in here!” Exactly what I’d been thinking.

“Mike wouldn’t desert us,” Edie said.

“Let’s take it one day at a time,” I said.

w

Over the next week I came to the realization that we’d been abandoned. I spent my days in a malnourished, sleep-deprived fog. Each night, we’d fend off other prisoners and oversized insects. Each day, we gagged on porridge and vegetable scraps. We did our best to conduct ourselves like model prisoners, hoping we’d be released early for good behavior.

By the second week we learned who of the eighty-two prisoners and fifty-two guards we could trust. Elizabeth was the only prisoner we’d met who spoke English, but we learned to communicate with others through smiles and gestures.

“I don’t like to criticize,” Elizabeth said, “but the back of your tablecloth is a mess. You will get two more days in jail for each mistake.”

The look on my face said it all.

“Let me help you,” she said. “Carefully tear out your work, and I will show you how to make it perfect.”

“Thank you.” I hugged my friend.

“ No touching! ” a guard yelled.

“ Kukaa! Kukaa! ”

The entire room was punished for my transgression.

That evening after dinner, we sat outdoors reading the Bible until the light faded.

“This little blue Bible is the only thing keeping me sane,” I told Edie and Tina. “I promised God if we ever get out of here, I’m going straight. No more drugs. No more booze. I’m gonna make it up to my kids.”

“Do you really think there is a God?” Tina asked.

“This has gotta be God’s punishment for the mess I’ve made of my life,” I said.

“Ava, you’d have to be a mass murderer for punishment like this. And what about me and Edie?” Tina asked.

Our conversation ended abruptly as we heard the guards shouting in Swahili. The only word I understood was “Elizabeth.”

One guard grabbed Elizabeth by the arm and dragged her into the center of the courtyard. The guard kicked the back of Elizabeth’s legs, forcing her onto the ground. We watched in stunned silence as four guards beat the crap out of my friend. One of Elizabeth’s Kenyan friends moved to help. A guard slapped her face and kicked her into submission.

Elizabeth lay curled in a fetal position. Her friend and another woman we’d become friendly with were taken into the center and beaten. The three received final kicks to the head. The guards retreated, laughing, and congratulating each other for a job well done.

Elizabeth and the other women weren’t at breakfast or in the sewing room the next day. Did the prison have an infirmary? Had they survived?

A woman I’d never seen before sat next to me. “You did Elizabeth.”

“ Sielewi . I don’t understand.”

“You. Friend. Bad,” she said.

“ Sielewi .”

“No touch American. Touch friend.” A guard hit two sticks in warning. She moved away from me.

Now I understood. The guards couldn’t touch us because we were Americans, so they punished us by hurting our friends.