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Story: Lookin’ for Love

fifty f

Hope

I ’d lost so much weight I never expected to have a period, but Mother Nature surprised me after nearly three weeks in prison. Fortunately, I was taking a shower at the time. I asked a guard for a pad.

“It goes on ground. Use scarf from head.” Her laugh was evil.

I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, knowing it wouldn’t last long.

When the guard turned away, another prisoner motioned to me. I followed her outside where she showed me a pile of rags—discards from the sewing room.

“ Asante . Thank you.” She disappeared before my words reached her.

The next day the matron approached us at lunch.

“Come with me,” she said with her usual scowl.

We exchanged looks of concern as we followed her to the concrete cubicle that served as her office. What new punishment was she about to inflict on us?

I almost fainted when I saw Rajiv. He stood as we entered the room. I stared at him without speaking.

“Please, sit,” Rajiv said. His expression spoke volumes about our appearance and odor.

The three of us squeezed onto a splintered wooden bench across from him.

“I am here to give you an update on your situation.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I have heard nothing from Mike. When no money arrived, I expected him to return to Mombasa. Something has happened to him.”

“We’ll die if we stay here much longer,” I cried.

“I see that,” Rajiv said. “Mike promised he would wire your boss for money the day of your hearing. When none came, I thought he would fly back to the States and send money in a day or two. My intention was never to have you stay in prison.”

Your intention? I had suspected Mike and Rajiv had conspired against us. Now I knew it to be true.

“Is there anything you can do for us?” Edie asked.

“I can find a new judge and schedule a new trial,” he continued. “I will ask to drop the exportation charges and charge you with possession, a misdemeanor. It will be expensive.”

“We exported nothing,” I said. “Our crops are gone. You know that.”

“I know,” Rajiv said. “Until this incident, you were fair and generous with me. I believe I can trust you.”

“Once we’re free, we’ll wire our boss for money,” I said.

“I’m sure you will. Be advised if anything goes wrong, you may end up back here.”

“Will you help Carl, too?” Edie asked.

“Of course.”

“How long will it take?” I asked.

“I will make phone calls when I return to Mombasa,” Rajiv said.

Tina, Edie, and I extended our filthy hands to him. He winced, hesitantly clasped each one, and promised to stay in touch.

As we walked back to the sewing room, I said, “I don’t know how much he’ll do for us if we can’t come up with some cash.”

“But he promised—” Edie replied.

“Maybe I’m being too negative.” Or maybe I’m being realistic.

That evening, it was Tina’s turn to find a Bible passage to lift our spirits. She read to us from Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”

“See,” Tina said, “we gotta trust.”

A week later the matron summoned us to her office.

“Your lawyer left message.” She handed us a scrap of paper.

I read her chicken scratch to my friends. “Court appearance Tuesday, December 20, 10:00 a.m. Come for you at 8:00 a.m. Wear street clothes and bring possessions. Rajiv Desi.”

It was the first bright moment in almost a month. We kept our cool in front of the matron but screamed for joy once we were out in the yard. Immediately, a guard yelled, “ Kukaa! Kukaa! ”

We squatted and nearly passed out, but our smiles stayed plastered to our faces.

We skipped breakfast on December 20 and changed into our own clothes while the matron watched. Our ribs and hip bones protruded through our loosely fitting dresses.

Carl was in the car with Rajiv when they arrived at the prison gate. Edie ran to greet her husband, who looked as emaciated and downtrodden as we did.

Rajiv explained he had found a new judge and requested our charges be dropped to possession. With no crops and no history of exportation, he was confident we’d be fined and freed from prison.

I remembered our last court appearance and how Rajiv made the same promise. Could we trust him this time with no money behind us?

“Will we still be deported?” Tina asked.

“I’ve asked to have the deportation charge dropped. I am not sure how the judge will rule,” he said.

I didn’t care. I’d seen enough of Kenya to last a lifetime.

We sat in silence for the rest of the drive.

As we entered the courthouse, I prayed this time would be different. Tina, Edie, and I stopped at the restroom. For the first time in nearly a month, we used real toilets and soft toilet paper, washed our hands with hot water, and saw ourselves in actual mirrors.

No makeup could disguise who we’d become. Our hair was knotted and filthy. Our rough, scabbed cheekbones protruded beneath sunken eyes. Red swollen insect bites covered our arms and legs.

I opened my handbag for a comb and lipstick, hoping to improve my appearance. My cash, jewelry, watch, and makeup—everything was gone.

“The matron stole all my stuff,” I said.

Tina and Edie’s belongings were gone, too. “One more indignity to add to our collection,” Tina said.

Everyone stared as we made our way to the front of the courtroom. We took our seats behind Rajiv.

The judge summoned us. “Carl O’Reilly, Edith O’Reilly, Ava Novak, Christina DaSilva, approach the bench. Mr. Desi, I understand you have requested a reduced sentence for the defendants.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“After careful consideration, the court accepts your request. The defendants are now charged with possession of five pounds of marijuana. All charges of exportation are dropped.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Rajiv said.

“Your clients have served nearly a month in prison,” the judge continued. “No fine will be imposed. Deportation charges are dropped. You are free to go.”

“Congratulations,” Rajiv said.

We stood, stunned and unable to move.

“Next case,” the judge bellowed.

“Time to go.” Rajiv escorted us through the courtroom to freedom.

I shuffled down the aisle, devoid of thought and feeling.

Once outside, I told Rajiv we had no money.

“Not a problem. I will pay for your taxi ride home and call you in a few days.”

“Thank you,” we mumbled in unison.