Under the Same Moon

By Kelli M. Donley

Abena Udate was selling mangos on a humid market day in her Mozambican village when she caught the eye of a wandering foreigner. Kidnapped and brought to live in suburban America, the African teenager struggles with the glaring cultural and social differences of her new life. Abena is expected to play along with her kidnapper's story -- she's just another hungry child plucked from a desolate country and saved by foreign adoption -- or else. As her younger brother Kupela searches for clues to explain her disappearance, Abena must decide whether to remain with a family she doesn't love for a life of luxury, or find a way home to those she loves in a world of despair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelli M. Donley
• Release date: Aug 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452496153

Kelli M. Donley

Kelli Donley is a native Arizonan. She is the author of three novels, Under the Same Moon, Basket Baby, and Counting Coup. Inspiration for her novels comes from her work in international public health. Kelli lives with her husband Jason, in Mesa, Arizona. She works in public health, and blogs at: www.africankelli.com.

Book preview

Forward:

Thank you for purchasing this book.

Special thanks to Amanda Nemec and Brittany Wright for their stellar editing. Thanks to Colleen Mulligan and Colin Wright for their work on the cover.

I’d like to thank a steady stream of teachers in the Mesa Public School System who put great books in my hands, sent me to the library to research far-away lands I’d once explore, and gave me a hunger to do good with what I was learning. Ms. Cheri St. Arnauld, Mr. Steve Green, Mrs. Debbie Mitchell, and Mrs. Kathy Williams – thank you.

Also, many thanks to the Roca Nahle family of Torreon, Mexico for accepting me into their home once upon a time and giving me a (spicy) taste of international life. Mil gracias, queridos.

And of course, to the circle of friends who’ve surrounded me—the Ya Yas, Disbrows, Wrights, Brennans, Asbury UMC, and those incredibly persistent and loving blog readers—you are the best!

But most importantly, I’d like to note my parents who have always told their children they could do whatever the set their minds to. They even helped me pack for my first African adventure. With tears in his eyes, my father told me—we’d always be under the same moon.

Indeed, Papi.

With my complete adoration, I thank you.

The Story

1

Arthur easily convinced Abena’s mother that taking her to America was the right idea. Any doubts were calmed with crisp green bills placed firmly in the 30-year-old African woman’s hand. She had never felt such clean, new money before. In fact, the feeling would be fleeting.

One less mouth to feed. One less head to brush, Mika muttered, tucking the money into the fold of her capulana with one hand, swatting away a mosquito with the other. She watched the blood of a successful swat pool on her leg. She flicked away the crushed silvery mosquito.

Guilt was a feeling she’d long since abandoned. When fighting for survival, more than the basic set of emotions – hunger, anger, thirst, exhaustion, satisfaction – were luxuries she couldn’t afford. This money would bring answers to some of those basics, including bread and milk for the growing brood of children who always seemed to be crying at her feet.

He stared with morbid curiosity as the woman casually accepted the money. Arthur could afford to purchase Abena. At this price, he thought glancing at the hundreds of dollars folded neatly in his leather billfold, he could afford the entire village.

When the bitter guilt of buying a child bubbled in the back of his throat for a moment, he swallowed and forced a smile. He thought of blackjack tables, the gluttonous Brazilian rotisserie restaurant he loved, a new Bose radio he’d been wanting. His list of vices had changed as of late, from the alcoholic and psychedelic variety to those of material excess. He watched the African woman in front of him shrug her shoulders as she pushed her eldest daughter toward him.

This is too damn easy, he said, smiling slyly with a dimpled chin.

He had too many other details to worry about at the moment to deal with his stomach’s acidic response to the scene. Would Tío like this girl? Would she meet his dangerously unspecific demand of, "Get me a kid. Make it a girl. I don’t want to know any more."? He looked at Abena again. From her tangle of black hair to her dusty, cracked feet, his eyes traveled over every inch of her adolescent body, which was now writhing and trying to escape her mother’s firm grip. She was emoting enough for the entire village. The teenager screamed, pulled, jumped. Mika held fast. Her golden calf had arrived at last and this child wouldn’t wiggle away now.

Why, Mami? Abena howled, pulling at her mother, striking her face and clawing at her arms. What are you doing? Wake up! Stop and listen to me! I’ll be a good girl! I’ll clean the house. I’ll take care of the kids. I’ll never look at you crossly again. Just please, Mami, please! I promise I’ll be a good girl!

In sheer confusion and fear, Abena watched as her mother pried her arms apart forcefully. Mika’s eyes were dull and she didn’t look at her daughter as she pushed Abena toward Arthur and his waiting jeep. Abena’s heart raced and sweat gathered on her scalp between her dirty braids. If her mother was willing to give her to this foreigner – a man who’d just picked her out of the market like a bushel of bananas – what was left? What about the other children? Couldn’t anyone hear her crying for help? She looked around at the huts in her village, but with this visitor’s arrival it seemed everyone was suddenly busy. Violence was a frequent visitor to their home; their neighbors didn’t care for the company.

Abena had spoken to her aunties, to her neighbors, to her fat cousins. Her mama had been in a daze for months and the latest death of the babies didn’t help. Here she was, selling her oldest daughter! The scene seemed like a wicked dream. Abena wracked her brain for a quick solution. What was there to do? With instinct, she closed both eyes, put her hands behind her back and stood on one toe, hoping this sign of luck would wake her from the nightmare of that awful American man and her traitorous mama. Instead, the precarious stance made it that much easier for Arthur to grab the teenager around the waist and violently throw her into the front seat before hitting the gas. Her village quickly faded behind her as they jostled along the muddy dirt road toward the city.

Arthur and Abena hadn’t made it to Maputo before he pulled over the jeep. Traveling south from Beira on the sometimes-paved but mostly dirt road made the girl nauseous. Her head rested gently against the frame of the jeep. Abena thought about the violence and emotions of the previous week. How had the time gone by so quickly? How could this have happened? How could she get away from this sickly-sweet smelling man?

She hadn’t ridden in a private car before, but once traveled to a northern village by bus to visit her paternal grandmother. Mika reminded her for years afterward what a luxury that excursion had been. Personal vehicles were as uncommon as American businessmen in Mozambique. This odd combination of rarities turned a few curious heads as the two made the trek from the northern city into the country’s capital. It was normal to see ex-pats with house boys, but rarely girls. The exception was the growing sex trade industry, but foreigners typically went child shopping after hours, under the cover of night.

Just two days before, life in Abena’s sleepy Beira bounced along to a traditional drum’s beat. The men sat along grassy medians on the decaying streets, sunning themselves and plotting how to get their next beer. Women hustled their exhausted, skinny legs to their rice paddies, their farms, their market stalls. Older children worked for their parents and begged from the occasional tourist. Young children ran behind their mothers, crying to be suckled.

Beira is one of the poorest cities in one of the world’s poorest countries. People stopped hoping for variation to their dismal routine long ago. Mika’s generation knew no other life. To Abena, her village outside Beira was a wonderful place where she’d thought she’d one day raise her own family.

To the vacationing Westerner, Arthur found this perspective to be the perfect example of fatalism; this desolate life of dirt, hunger and disease was hard to visit, much less claim as your own. The few tourists who do come to see Mozambique rarely grasp the idea that amid the chaos, the people are truly happy. The majority of women will have children when they are still children. Their exhausted bodies will produce child after child until they cannot have another. A fourth of these children will die of AIDS before their second birthday. Many others will die painfully from malaria, cholera and leprosy. This cornucopia of infectious diseases makes those who have survived feel strangely lucky – but still not privileged.

Abena was no different. The week before Arthur surprisingly stopped at her stall in the crowded market, she helped her mother deliver twins. Mika grunted and moaned between pushes. The tiny babies were dead before they left the womb. Grunts turned to sobs as the woman watched the lifeless remains of her children lie still after Abena placed them on her belly. Now, Abena tried not to let herself think too much about those babies – how their pink skin starkly contrasted the black of her mother’s belly. How that sob was the first emotion she’d heard from her mother in weeks.

I am not having babies, she promptly told Mika after cleaning up the kitchen’s dirt floor where the sudden delivery had taken place.

Abena, shut your mouth. Do you think this is what I want to hear now? her mother growled. You’ll have babies just like the rest of us. And you’ll have dead ones too. We all do. Now help me get those dogs away from the blood.

Abena carried the placenta and the twins outside. She carefully wrapped them in banana leaves and dropped them into the latrine, away from the reach of the hungry animals at her feet. They snarled as the scent fell below. When the green bundles hit the sea water at the bottom of the pit, Abena grimaced.

"Adeus irmãs," she whispered thoughtfully. Goodbye my sisters. She remembered to tie the banana leaves closed this time.

She thought of these girls and her other siblings as she sat in her market stall the next day. Abena often spent her time daydreaming, of the life she’d lead, of the home she’d have. Things would be different for her. She wouldn’t have dead babies.

Arthur had cleared his throat to get the girl’s attention. She seemed to be the only one in the harried market not paying attention to his presence.

Um, miss? he said with a what is the chance you speak English American accent.

Abena’s head snapped toward the voice, bringing her back to her surroundings and the fruit for sale at her feet.

Do you have anything to drink?

Arthur knew better than to trust the local water supply. He had wandered aimlessly through the crowded market, sticking out as a sweaty, uncomfortable White man would. He hadn’t paid any attention to the children at his feet or the adults calling him to buy their wares. He stopped at Abena’s tarp with an overwhelming thirst for a piece of fruit. Bananas, mangoes and papaya were stacked in colorful piles. He smiled at the marketing. Even though each stall in this aisle sold the same in-season stock, the vendors arranged their piles in different ways to separate themselves from the next plastic tarp full of fruit.

Do you speak English? he tried again. He waited a moment, looking at this beautiful girl. Abena was stunning and had been told so since she was a young child. In her teenage awkwardness, she rarely bathed and often wore the same clothes day after day to make herself less noticed by men. Being beautiful in Mozambique was a curse for a young teenage girl. She didn’t want it to be a death sentence too. Here she stood before him with ratty clothes, hair that desperately needed washing and braiding, and the smarts not to look him in the eye. Arthur could see her potential behind the dusty façade.

Eh? Abena replied. She didn’t understand him, nor did she want him standing in front of her stall. There were others he could go bother. Jeru, with her shiny black Chinese extension braids, sat two stalls down. Couldn’t he go speak to her?

Realizing the girl didn’t speak English, he picked the juiciest fruit he could find and began sucking at it without a word. He lapped at the mango, biting every bit of the fruit and eventually spitting the seed on the dirt floor next to her. He had done this all without taking his eyes off of her breasts. They were little, but he had a feeling Tío would love them.

Abena knew better than to look any man in the eye. She also knew her cousins were just a few feet away, watching her every move. Each step would be reported back to her mother, as every misstep was daily.

"What does this muzungu want? she thought. Just take the mango. Walk away. I’ll pick more on my way home."

What fortune that you don’t understand me, he chuckled. You are the most beautiful girl in this market. Look at how your body is just getting its curves. Arthur sized up his surroundings as the sweet juice hit his stomach. The sudden sugar-rush made him cramp slightly. I wonder if I can get her home? he thought.

His lips moved, words floated her direction, but any cognitive link fell to the floor between them.

Arthur loved Beira. The men had treated the women poorly for so long, this American fit in without much notice. He’d grown up visiting the country during school vacations. His father, a physician, had long volunteered in Mozambique, managing polio campaigns. His father watched with other expats and international health officials as AIDS arrived in his rustic clinic. No one could have predicted the lethal swiftness.

Rather than seeing his father coach his little league team, Arthur watched him try to manage one international health tragedy after another. The only thing Arthur liked about his childhood trips to Mozambique was that his behavior was never questioned. As the doctor’s son, as an American, as a young White boy, he could get away with anything without having to worry about any of his babysitters breathing word of it to his father. Little did he know, his father always caught word of his malevolence.

"Quanto custa? Arthur asked in strained Portuguese. Before she could reply, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm and pumped them slowly. He purred slightly as he asked, Como se chama?"

How much does what cost? she whispered back timidly, in an equally inappropriate tone for the bustling market. She didn’t like his hand on her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and a lump gathered in her throat.

"Como se chama?" he repeated.

She pulled her arm away and continued looking at his giant feet, stuffed in tennis shoes. Abena, she said firmly, speaking up and grimacing as she heard her voice break slightly in nervousness. Nearly all girls named Abena were born on a Tuesday.

"Abena, quanto custa?"

She gave him the price, just a few cents, as he looked at her inquisitively. She was too young for his taste, he decided gratefully. Better to not get too attached anyway. He didn’t want to think of what would happen to her after Tío took control.

Arthur looked around and took in the craziness of the Beira markets. Vendors sat inside and out of their stick and stone constructed stalls. With the sun beating overhead and the ocean waves crashing two miles away, humidity glued the sweet and smoky scents of the market to the skin. Those in sight varied, but they could have been any one of a hundred Mozambicans, slowly and methodically going about their routine. One man roasted small fish over a dancing flame. The nets that had been thrown out from the sandbars this morning now rest at his feet, waiting for repair. A woman balanced kilos of rice in a large white plastic sack carefully balanced on her head. With a ballerina’s grace and posture, she swayed her hips in her capulana, a brightly died piece of fabric, bouncing the baby tied on her shoulder blades as she walked. Seemingly without effort, she kept her precious crop upright.

At 30, Arthur’s freckled tan and striking green eyes were more attractive commodities in Mozambique than Arizona. Irises of colors other than ebony were always a surprise in Beira. He had a navy-blue baseball cap pulled over his shaggy brown hair. Abena had seen men like him before in the village. Their visits were always brief. These men were usually trying to get a more rural perspective of the country before returning to their Western nation. They were government officials, oil workers and business men. They raped Mozambique of its few remaining natural resources, as the Portuguese had done bountifully for 400 years. They then had the audacity to tour before they left. They gawked and sometimes pointed at Abena and the other girls. These men brought AIDS back to their developed nations, back to their bedrooms, back to their unsuspecting wives. Abena looked back at Arthur, stealing a glance while he looked away. She couldn’t help but be curious as to why he was paying attention to her, of all people.

"Não comprendo," he finally said, turning away from the market and refocusing his cagey smirk on the girl.

He didn’t understand. She didn’t understand. Before she could respond, he was placing foreign bills in her hand and giving her that same creepy look. She looked down at a series of green dollars and shook her head. Her stomach was knotting and she knew that she needed to get away from this man. Something wasn’t right. Later, Abena would learn this was Arthur’s signature move. Money could explain the misunderstood much faster than his poor language skills.

"Dinheiro," he said, motioning with his hands for her to take it.

She knew it was money. Foreign currency was rare, but she had seen it before. Banana republics regularly host brave citizens of developed nations touring with their Nikons, seeking the perfect moment at which to pose with one of the great Blacks of Africa. This photo would later be shown to relatives and friends at home, possibly framed, more likely tossed. Typically, these adventurous vacationers left a few bills behind to pay for the native’s trouble.

Still, Abena couldn’t understand why this man was pushing so many bills into her palm. Mango season was in full bloom – the trees around the market held dozens of the green tear-shaped fruit, just waiting for a tall passerby to reap the harvest. A mango cost nothing more than a few American cents. He was handing her whole dollars.

Before she could get her answer, he had placed the rest of the fruit in a basket and was folding up the tarp. He gently took her hand in one of his and carried the basket in the other. Abena stood there in shock, unsure of how to respond. Her mother needed this money; she didn’t want to return it. Then again, she knew she needed to get away. Her cousins stared, open mouthed from a neighboring market stall. Everyone was watching. If it hadn’t been for the fowl and children making typical noise, you would have been able to hear her heartbeat as the marketplace came to a stop.

He’d made this trip to Mozambique with exactly this purpose in mind. "Get me a kid. Make it a girl. I don’t want to know any more." His parents, staying in Maputo, were pleasantly surprised when he said he was coming with them to southeastern Africa for a long Thanksgiving break. He hadn’t been in the country for 20 years – since they’d stopped forcing him. They were happy to spend every second with him now that he was out of rehab. His father was quite open about his lack of trust post-rehab. His mother, on the other hand, welcomed him home after his latest stint to detox with a tumbler of Jack Daniels in hand. Africa provided less access to the evils of home that had nearly killed their son – or so they thought.

You are going to like your new home, he said, trying to convince her as much as himself. It’s not going to be fun getting you there, but my father will have a prescription to help with that. His voice trailed off and he began muttering to himself. Tío will get off my back. I will get out of my parent’s house. I will get away from all of this. He continued speaking to himself as his grip on the young girl tightened. By the time they reached his nearby jeep, he was dragging her slightly.

She couldn’t ask what he was doing, but she couldn’t let this happen either. She wasn’t supposed to speak to men! If her mother caught her talking to this foreign man, she’d be stuck out in the rice fields for months. Nonetheless, she let out a high-pitched squeak of fear as he pulled her along. The noise was fear conquering silence. Her cousins peered from their stall, moving their hands back and forth suggesting they too were confused.

What do I do? Where is he taking me? Why doesn’t someone stop him! she screamed inwardly.

She felt the embarrassed blood rush to her face from the attention the odd pair was gathering. Everyone was staring and a few of the older boys, her previous attempted suitors, were beginning to suck air noisily through their teeth – their form of cat calls.

"Cha Abena, don’t come crying back to me once you take it from that White man!" one called.

"Traidor!" another one screamed.

Traitor? Am I a traitor? Who are they screaming at? This crazy man? she thought. What is happening? Why won’t he let go of me? Why don’t they stop him? Her mind raced. The colors around her suddenly seemed too bright. Her arm was hurting where he was holding on to her. Her feet shuffled through the dusty grains of sand rubbing between her toes and she hesitantly moved forward.

She would never forget that day -- 11 of December, 2000. Malaika and Chula, her gossiping cows of cousins, did nothing to stop the abduction. How could they just sit there? Couldn’t they see she didn’t know what was going to happen? How naïve she had been.

He pushed her gently into the jeep, making a shushing noise as he did so. She had been standing in the mud next to the vehicle looking at him through the window. He had filing folders full of papers on the seat and an empty canteen. A small orange dog sat on the back seat, peering out the window. She climbed in and Arthur reached across her to slam the heavy door closed. His arm briefly brushed past her breasts as he fiddled with the door handle.

Suddenly, she was in his car. Where were they going? What was happening! Abena looked at the handle of the unfamiliar vehicle. In a moment of clarity, she realized she had to get out of here and she had to get out now! She reached toward the door and jiggled the window lever. The window started coming down and Arthur smiled.

First time in a car? You aren’t going anywhere. So, sit back and be quiet. You’ll make this easier for everyone if you don’t fight. He spoke in fast American English that she couldn’t understand any more than Arabic. She stared at him in utter confusion and desperation. He reached back on the seat and pulled out a tiny medical kit. Unzipping it, he quickly flashed a series of syringes. Then he raised one finger to his lips. The message was clear: shut up or be drugged. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the needles. She wasn’t familiar with many modern technologies, but needles she knew. They’d gone for countless immunizations as young children. She looked at Arthur in horror. Who was this man?

Abena felt defenseless. She was wearing an old cotton t-shirt that had been given to her by a neighbor. It read: St. Andrew’s Eagles, but she didn’t know it at the time. Worn shirts with unknown messages were common. They came in droves to markets with their Chinese, Russian and American misprinted logos. They all wore these holey hand-me-down shirts. The elastic cotton shorts she wore were torn on the edges and her flip flops were close to their demise. In his eyes, she was a mess; a dirty and dispensable African girl. To her village, she was perfect. There was no room for insecurities when life-threatening concerns were every day. They were all dressed this way and she did not find it abnormal to have gone several days without washing. She didn’t want to have to find, much less boil, the water. Without boiling, worms that bred on the surface of the water barrel would bite through her skin and quickly make her too tired to move.

"Cha! Not again! her mother had screamed countless times after noticing her children’s bellies growing noticeably larger. A bloated stomach was one of the first sign of worms. I have to drag you down to the muzungu post for medicine again!" Mika hated standing in the long queues in front of the Dutch health outpost. The blonde sunburned nurse always had tears in her eyes and kept shaking her head and muttering to herself during exams. Her beautiful soft skin and polite bedside manner wasn’t made for harsh African soil and sickness. Abena thought of the nurse, of her delicate white linen handkerchiefs that she used to blot her eyes and wipe her nose.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Abena’s head banged against the jeep’s interior window frame.

Your country needs asphalt, Arthur commented dryly. Couldn’t the Portuguese have taught this country how to repair roads before high-tailing it back to Europe? Arthur began to yell at no one in particular out the window as the jeep slowly moved over large dirt holes on the market’s worn road.

As he drove the jeep through the market Abena placed her open palm on the passenger-side window when they passed Malaika and Chula. The girls continued to stare with confusion and began pointing with fright. Their alarm was contagious. Abena suddenly knew more than ever she should not be in this car.

Please sir, I must go back to the market, she said firmly in rolling Portuguese.

Ah! Overcoming our timidity, I see. I still don’t know what you are saying. I wonder where you live? It will make it easier on us if we can get your parents’ permission to take you. Wouldn’t that be fun? I wonder if they will actually be willing to give you to me? Oh, Hugo and Cynthia will love that. This might actually speed up the process of getting you to Chandler. Let’s venture a guess and just see what happens. Worst case scenario, I go back to the market and pick up another girl.

Please! Just let me out. I’ll walk back to the market! She repeated herself to no avail.

Agitated, she began pulling on the door handle.

What do you think you are doing? he asked, accelerating. Are you going to jump from a moving car? I’m not kidding about those sedatives. I should use them on you regardless. If my father catches me within a mile of a needle these days I’m going to be shipped back to that damn rehab anyway. You’d best just sit still. Arthur’s mind raced for something to pacify the girl.

Where do you live? I’ll take you home, he asked in broken Portuguese and a good bit of pointing to the car and himself to get the point across. I’ve bought everything you had to sell. There is no reason for you to go back to the market. Let me take you home. Perhaps the childhood summers of being chased by frustrated Mozambican tutors weren’t entirely for naught. He was surprised that he could get his point across in the foreign language he hadn’t spoken in years.

Home! My mother is home. I’ll get in the house. Yes, take me home! she squealed. Perhaps this man was just a philanthropist? A charity worker? Her mind optimistically raced. Her stomach must be wrong. He was taking her home!

She led him through the maze of circling roads in Beira toward her village, Munhava. He drove the jeep over the muddy bumps and ruts in the road to the door of the leaning stick shack. There were eight people living in the tiny house at the time. Abena happily raced toward the door when they arrived.

Less than an hour later, after he had given Mika the remaining mangoes and tarp and dollars in his wallet, the two left for Maputo.

Mami! she’d screamed, choking on sobs of anger and fear. What are you doing? What have I done? Her shrill voice rose as she clawed at her mother. Why?

Mika stood in the doorway, keeping the other children in the house, although several peeked between her legs to view the commotion. With her hands on her hips, the woman stood tall, but refused to look at her daughter being taken away. Shamefully, she stared at the red dirt before her, watching her daughter’s tears soak into the earth.

Rationally, Abena could understand why her mother needed the money. It was several hundred dollars – more than she would make in five years selling the family’s crops. The house always needed repair. Her philandering father returned only when he needed some attention; never with money or goods for his expanding family. Abena’s four sisters and one brother were constantly hungry. So, Mika needed the money, but Abena needed her.

When Abena left, it wasn’t willingly. Anyone watching saw as she flailed, her arms waving up and down, her feet kicking Arthur in the belly and the ribs. He simply threw her over his shoulder and let her wail away until he could force her in the jeep and strap her into the seat. After doing so, he gave her a hearty slap across the face and bent down to look her in the eye.

Don’t make this harder than it has to be. If you cry, you’ll ruin the last look you’re going to get of this shit hole. She didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye before they were back in the jeep, leaving again.

As they drove away, Kupela, her youngest sibling, threw stones at the jeep. He kept tripping as he ran down the path after his favorite sister.

Abena! Stop! Come home Abena!

Mika’s head snapped upward and she ran into the house. Quickly she began chasing after the young boy with her sole metal pan. With her capulana bunched in one hand and the skillet in the other, she ran after him nimbly on the dirt road. The neighbors peeked out of openings in their huts. The small black square holes were full of small black heads, watching tentatively as drama ensued. They were used to watching this violent family entertainment from the shadows of their own home; they’d long since resigned themselves from being able to make any permanent peaceful changes in the Udate hut.

Both Abena and Kupela gasped for breath between sobs; he continued to wail ABENA! The voyeurs quickly retreated into their homes, recoiling from the horror they were witnessing. No one could remember the last time a vehicle had been in Munhava. Beatings were common, but no one wanted to see this disaster. You didn’t sell your children and somehow, they knew what Mika had done. She brought shame to them all.

Kupela, I am not leaving you! she cried out as they rounded the last turn, slapping her palm on the window. The orange dog began to growl from the back seat.

Okay. That is enough out of both of you. My ears are ringing! Arthur argued with the cacophony of noise in the small jeep. The rush of getting what he wanted was fleeting. Now he just wanted silence. Arthur was the only child of a wealthy family. He’d been raised attending private schools and countless conservative churches. Emotion expressed in public was against his nature and constitution. He remembered crying as a young child and watching his mother simply walk away. He’d been coddled by the help, never by blood. In turn, the blathering scene he’d just watched unfold turned his stomach and made him incredibly uncomfortable. He just wanted to be at home, in front of his television, in comfort. "Get me a kid. Make it a girl. I don’t want to know any more."

Arthur looked at Abena, wet, crumpled and physically defeated. You’d better be what Tío wants, kid. Or we are both dead.

Kupela turned the corner just in time to see the vehicle pulling on to the highway toward Maputo. As he bent to his knees to catch his breath, he continued to clutch the handful of rocks and mud clumps he had meant to throw at the man who had just purchased his sister. At the kidnapper.

Clang!

Before the small African boy could get back to his feet, a metal skillet came crashing down on him.

2

Abena watched from her seat as they left Beira. Arthur had pulled into the one gas station in the small city to refuel. He pointed again at the syringe case and gave her a slight smack across the cheek to emphasize his threat that she’d better stay in the car.

I don’t want to drug you, he growled, but I will. Be calm, or else.

His tone of voice was intimidating enough to have her stay still. He could see her the entire time anyway and she knew outrunning him would be difficult, if not impossible.

They drove the broken Estrada National (EN1), toward the capital. The road headed straight through the tropical terrain. As Arthur drove on the right side of the car, Abena watched the palms sway in the coastal breeze from the left. Every few minutes women would appear. They precariously balanced loads of long sticks on their heads as they walked on the highway’s narrow margins. At the occasional speed bump, children would run to the jeep with coconuts and machetes yelling, "Hey muzungu, menina, buy this!" Neither bothered to even look at the children. They screamed disappointed cries as the jeep continued. Farther down the road, children from a different village tried a different marketing pitch, of sorts.

One ran in front of their truck to slow it down, while several others appeared out of the bush with tiny buckets of sand. They filled each pot hole for a quarter-mile, running back and forth to get materials so the truck wouldn’t jerk down the rough pavement. Their plan worked. Arthur handed the eldest a fistful of meticais before they finally ran back toward their homes, screaming with glee.

Meticais for pot hole repair, dollars for a daughter, Abena thought. Her stomach hurt and the lump in her throat grew. Her tears had dried in salty streaks down her face and she was simply exhausted.

While Abena was consumed with questions about her apparent kidnapping, Arthur kept close watch on the road; Mozambique is infamous for its road bandits. They are witty and they can spot a foreigner driving from miles away. Well-known schemes include rolling large logs into the middle of the road to bring any passing car to a stop, or having men lay down in the pathway. When the driver exits to inspect the delay, thieves emerge from the brush with their rudimentary weapons and brute strength to pillage anything available.

Arthur stared, watching EN1 curve ahead in the distance. The 1200 kilometers and poor road conditions made the Beira-Maputo trek a two-day, wary journey. Occasionally, a Land Cruiser filled with sunburned South Afrikaners noisily streamed by. The beaches along this route were some of the world’s best preserved. Civil war, disease, and lack of quality transportation kept the sand glaringly white and the ocean a breath-taking blue. Dolphins, shark, and sea turtle were daily staples for fishing villages along the coast. Missing limbs were also a common sight. Beach goers and adventurers of all types knew their curiosity may very well be rewarded by amputation. The country is littered with land mines, violent reminders of a long, brutal civil war.

That chaos was ridiculous, he began, in his jagged Portuguese. Abena quickly turned her head away. Arthur coughed awkwardly, thinking perhaps his poor language skills had again failed him. Rambling in English would at least calm his nerves.

Hey, at least you know you’ll be missed by that little spunky one – the rock thrower. You’ll forget him soon enough. Hell, you’ll forget this entire shit box of a country. Hopefully you’ll like your new home. He switched to English, thinking aloud and not wanting to alarm the girl and cause more of a headache. Once you get to Tío’s, this life will be quickly erased.

She didn’t know what to say to him. He continued babbling in his own tongue, clueless to her feelings or presence. She wondered what he could possibly be smiling about? Eventually he stopped grinning and grimaced into the late afternoon sun, trudging forward on the dipping road.

After several hours of silence, she felt her eyes close just for a moment and her stomach relax. As quickly as she’d closed them and tried to enjoy the warm sun coming through the windshield, visions of Kupela running along the side of the jeep came rushing at her. His little feet pounded the path as his screams brought her to tears again.

Why are you taking me? she asked slowly, praying he would understand her. Tears unabashedly fell from her face, pooling in her lap. She didn’t think she’d had any left to cry.

Don’t worry about that now, he responded after a few seconds.

If not now, then when? she thought? How far away is he planning on taking me?

She pumped her fists into the seat and let out one last long wail. Arthur jumped and braked at the noise, surprised, and then just shook his head.

Look, it isn’t like life here is so great. I mean, look around. You people drop like flies. There are better ways to live than these little dirt huts. How could it get worse? he mustered.

The sun was just beginning to