Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(32)

Nena didn’t like the way unease gnawed around her edges at the mention of the shooting.

Georgia’s tone grew uncomfortable and her face shuttered. “He’s good.”

“What happened with Georgia’s dad?” A second girl, Asian, looked alarmed. Her concern for Georgia, Nena noted, was genuine. Georgia should go home with this one, not the fake Barbie.

Sasha turned to her friends. “Apparently, her dad was, like, right next to the guy who got his head blown off, Kit.”

Georgia mumbled, looking down, “Wasn’t quite like that.”

Except it kind of was. Only Nena wasn’t going to share that with the group.

The one called Kit asked, “Is he okay?” She reached out to touch Georgia’s shoulder. Nena watched Georgia seem to melt at Kit’s touch, the authenticity cutting through her defensiveness.

Georgia nodded. “Yeah.”

The anguish on Georgia’s face made Nena uncomfortable. Knowing she was the cause of the trauma both Georgia and her father were going through brought on spasms of guilt. Another new feeling Nena had never had before and didn’t care for at all. She never thought twice about a mark or a kill.

Nena took a step to leave when the one called Sasha spoke. “’Kay, we’re out then. Catch you later, Curious George.”

There was a slight breeze in the air, and yet it was as if they’d been sucked into a vacuum. Nena, having experience with all sorts, expected insecure people like this girl to make other people feel as bad as they did. She let their insecurities roll off her back like beads of water, but she caught how Georgia dipped her head, shame covering her face like a mask. Rage bubbled up within Nena, a protective type she wanted to blanket over Georgia so she’d never have to feel like she was less than again. Nena knew that feeling, that loss of self-worth, the inability to call someone out for speaking untowardly. She knew how it felt to be at the mercy of others. And there was no way she’d let it happen here when she could put an end to it, unlike she’d been able to do before.





24


BEFORE


We are on the way to some unknown location, trussed up like life-size dolls. Just as my nerves are at the point where I believe I am going to jump from the moving truck bed and fall to my death, the truck squeals to a stop. Trace scents of burning torches fueled with kerosene and a sprinkle of laughter are on the wind. The girl beside me is breathing heavily, although the breath could very well be my own.

The younger girls relax, allowing themselves to be lulled into a false sense of security. Laughter and music have always meant something good in N’nkakuwe, so it must mean good here too.

“Maybe they have changed their minds? Will return us home?” Yaa asks, sounding much younger than her twelve years.

“Our home is gone, stupid,” Constance says bitterly. Before all of this, she was going to be a runway model in America because of her height. No one will likely find her model quality again. Not with the scar that crosses her face from scalp to chin, gifted to her the night the intruders came.

Yaa blinks several times, forced to remember there is no more N’nkakuwe. “Something must still be there,” she whispers, refusing to give up entirely. “Our families have relocated to nearby towns, and the authorities are looking for us this very moment.”

Constance asks, “Then why have they not located us?”

Yaa shrugs. “Ghana is big.”

“Not that big,” Ester says.

No one argues. Ester is likely a year older than Yaa, with big round eyes and full lips that used to always curve into a smile back home. Not anymore.

In total, we are six. Ester, Mary, Yaa, Constance, and Mamie. The injuries I suffered at the hands of the guards and from the Hot Box are not entirely healed, but over the last week Essence has cared for me as best as she could. I willed myself to be well enough to be present at this ridiculous sale because I want out of the Compound, and by whatever means necessary. Thus, I grit my teeth, bear the pain, and pretend my ribs are not sore to the point of immobility, that when I urinate it does not sting and is not tinged pink. My kidneys, Essence guessed when I told her. They will heal. Perhaps they will. If Paul and his hounds permit it.

The flap to the back of the truck opens, and guards tell us to get out. A warm breeze greets us as we disembark one by one. The guards touch us enough to help us down in the uncomfortable shoes they make us wear. Paul has us dressed piously and pure, as if we are young brides. Truthfully, we are nothing but fancy whores for purchase in an even fancier brothel. No manner of white and frills can mask that.

I take in my surroundings. We are at some estate nestled in a cove of tall trees that obscures it from the travel-heavy roads. The house is brightly lit with wide windows that show everything. Through them, I see mostly men, some women, a melting pot of nationalities.

Each of us has an assigned guard to accompany her throughout the night until she becomes sponsored. Sponsored. It’s the word Paul says the buyers prefer to use. It makes them feel less like slavers and more like people “sponsoring” a new life for youth in need.

Parked amid a row of luxury cars I have only seen on the television is Paul’s forest-green BMW, an older model. He exits it, dressed in a fancy suit that likely is worth more cedis than I can imagine.

We stand at attention while Paul walks down the line, inspecting, ensuring we are presentable enough to be sold like the slaves we have become.