Irene Sabatini - An Act of Defiance

THE INDIGO PRESS

50 Albemarle Street

London W1S 4BD

www.theindigopress.com

Gabrielle Busisiwa Langa steps out from the darkness into the light. Her eyes are at first blind but then they see. Flashes of images stun her in the dizzying sunlight until her eyes stop blinking and settle. There, bearing down on her, a swollen, pitted face, glistening with sweat, a grubby Youth League T-shirt straining at the belly, thick fingers plucking at patches of wetness. A panga, its blade rusting, raised, slices through the air, once, twice. A movement on her left, metal scraping the ground, stones flying, a hoe swinging from one thin hand to the other and then back again. She looks up to see a khaki, military-style shirt, unbuttoned, exposing ribs, cheap sunglasses lying askew on a gaunt face, the lenses pitch-black. This one she knows. Hure, she hears, the voice low and thick. Her eyes swoop to the right a figure bent over, spitting. She registers the torn, dark green string vest hanging off the sloping shoulders, the tree branch sweeping the ground, the shaven head raised, spit dribbling, the eyes, bloodshot, bulging from their sockets, fixed on her. His lips form the word again. Huuureh. Whore.

There are others around Ben, who has been knocked to the ground. All she catches are snatches of him, fingers splayed, a foot shuffling in the dirt; a glint of metal in his palm, the keys to the red car.

Im Im a diplomat. Youre making

The words straggling out, as if his mouth might be full of blood, loose teeth the flurry of blows falling on him in the moments before she stepped out.

I I have my papers

He coughs, hawks up phlegm.

Here, wait a

Shut up!

The men move so that in the shift of spaces and light she sees him there struggling to get up, his hand bloodied, reaching out, red seeping through the white and green of his shirt. It is the same shirt he wore the first time she set eyes on him, over a month ago now, when hed strode breezily into that vets surgery. Hello folks, hed said, his voice sonorous and foreign,Im Ben, its good to be here.

Idiot! Idiot! We know you are American. We are not interested.

Gabrielle Ga are you?

Shrill laughter slashes through his words. Her name is a cacophony of sounds in their mouths, mimicking his accent, taunting him. In an instant, her fear gives way to something else. She lifts her gaze, faces them, sets her eyes on the pitch-black lenses.

Please, let us go. We

The slap sears through her cheek the burning, stinging imprint of it is alive on her skin. It is so hard she staggers backwards. Stars zing around her as if she is a cartoon character.

Hure. A shove on her back fells her.

Listen to me. Ben, trying again to get through to them. The embassy

Shut up!

A boot-clad foot rising over him; shouts, dull thuds, slaps, a crack.

She feels the heavy prod of a hand on her elbow, and then rough metal against her chin. Her body this is what she thinks, her body, as if what is happening is happening out of herself, to some other poor girl who finds herself in this particular horror is dragged to the run-down Peugeot. Her feet trail the ground, kicking up stones, dust.

The boot is already open, a gaping mouth waiting to swallow her. She lets out a sound a whimper, a strangulated cry, a choked shout. The hands are on her, gripping and pulling, pushing her inside. Her head shoved between her knees, her body, foetal, pressing tight against the metal floor; the stench of home-brew, sharp, pungent. The slam of the boot. The sputter and stutter of the engine misfiring. The smell of fuel making her gag, the fumes stinging her eyes. She shifts, tries to straighten her arms and legs, presses her feet up against the metal, gives a kick, ineffectual, her limbs cramped, weak, the boot solidly shut.

The car moves, the chassis vibrating wildly as if, at any moment, it will give way. Her head slams against an edge, the pulse and hum of something in her ears. A sharp turn, the wheels bumping along the dry scrub grass, the car rattling up the verge of the road, and then a screech, tyres on asphalt. She feels the trickle of blood from her arm. Her breathing is at first fast and deep, a wheezing that hurts her chest, and then ragged, spent, an effort, until all that seems to come out of her is the stillness of dead air. As the car speeds along, away, she pictures him there, left behind, lying on the hard earth, broken.