Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(26)

Nena turned from the screen and gave Elin her undivided attention. If she could make Elin understand the machinations of her mind when she’d seen the man through the lenses of her scope without having to explain her feelings, it would be much easier. It would be too difficult to explain how easily she’d been snatched back to the darkest time of her life, how easily she’d been taken back to her burning village, how quickly she’d felt small again, like nothing, made to fear, introduced to terror, married to grief and loss, just at the mere sight of that man. No, Nena wished not to explain any of it to anyone.

“What’s going on with you? It’s not like you to not follow directives. Smith was the wrong man. He was not the mark.”

But he was not the wrong man, Nena thought, though she remained quiet for the moment. Smith was the right one, the absolute right mark. She’d thought he’d died long ago.

And if he was around, then Paul and Kwabena were not far behind him.





20


BEFORE


The journey from what used to be N’nkakuwe takes the rest of the night. As we travel down the mountain in a caravan of trucks, each jostle over unpaved roads awakens new blooms of pain. They make me drift in and out of consciousness. Unconsciousness is better than having to think about what and who we left behind.

The sun is at the highest point in the sky when we arrive at an encampment, what I soon learn is the Compound. It is to be our prison, a large, sprawling facility comprising numerous cement buildings of different sizes enclosed by walls of cement and iron gates.

Our long line of autos enters through the massive front gates, which open electronically. Atop all the gates and walls are thick razor-covered wires so that even if we were able to climb, we would tear ourselves on the sharp needles. The gates grind to a close and lock behind us, sealing us in, confirming to us there is no escape. Dotting the outer perimeter of the walls are small towers—guard towers where the men currently on patrol duty look down at us with indifference, their automatic rifles pointing in our direction as they watch our arrival and whisper to their mates, sometimes gesturing at us. They are already picking out who they might like to visit once Paul has broken us in.

We drive into a circular clearing, where the men disembark from the trucks, open the back doors, and demand we get out. They corral us in the middle of the circle and tell us to sit. We do, huddled together, and wait.

Paul appears from a building dressed in an army-green shirt and camo pants with black combat boots. It is the basic uniform of the men here. He looks fresh, rested, and clean from the bath he undoubtedly took, while the rest of us wallow in filth. Attah Walrus and Kwabena flank him.

He begins, “I believe in being transparent about what comes next for you.” He paces in front of us, while Kwabena stands at attention and the Walrus looks bored, swatting flies and spitting on the ground.

“You are scared, of course. Understandable. But life for you can be relatively easy.” He grins. “If you follow the rules. No trying to flee, no fighting us, no wishing you’ll be saved.” His minions laugh around him. “There is no saving. This, my dears, is your new reality. Embrace it.”

The girls with me are the same ones from school. Lived in homes next to mine. Socialized with me just yesterday. We were playing a guessing game about which boys we would marry—boys probably burned to crisps now. It seems eons ago. Childish and superficial.

“N’nkakuwe is gone. It was unfortunate, true. However, there is no use dwelling over—what do Americans say—spilled milk?” The chuckling around him increases.

Raping, pillaging, beheading, hacking people to pieces is not spilled milk.

Paul continues his sales pitch. “When you leave here, you will be sold—”

Sold! My heart thumps violently in my chest, and my fingers go numb. My mind reels. Like slaves! A murmur rises from the abducted, the blasphemous word awakening us like the paddle of a defibrillator.

“—to the highest bidder. Take care of yourselves.”

The grounds of the Compound resemble a bull’s-eye, the clearing at its center. Surrounding it is medical, the mess hall, the latrines, and Paul’s quarters. He stays close to the main and perimeter gates, which are the only real ways in or out. The next ring consists of our quarters, small, cramped one-level buildings. Tin roofs that jut out and connect to the buildings on either side cover them. We are lucky to have small windows in our quarters, so at least there is that.

Behind our quarters is a lower chain-link fence that serves more to slow any attempted escapes than to stop them. Behind that fence are the guard quarters, and behind those are the perimeter gates and the walls with those strategically placed guard towers. Beyond them are the carports housing the trucks used to transport us. Every inch reaffirms there is no getting out and no going back.

Paul continues to pace, slowing in front of me, hands on his hips. “Behave. Keep clean and be presentable.”

I zoom in on the dark stain on his boot toe, wondering if it is blood from when he poked Papa’s head.

“Because if you break any of those rules, we will kill you.”



We are nothing but entertainment for the men, who are cruel, gluttonous children. The Compound is their candy store, with a bounty of young, nubile confection ready for selection every night.

Our quarters consist of maybe ten to twelve girls. We speak infrequently and only in whispers. We abhor attention because it brings nothing good. Every night, we are listening for approaching boot steps, knowing when the door bangs open, an intruder, maybe two, will be there to peruse the candy aisles.