1667 - Cold rice

 She didn't want to think about tomorrow, the trial. She had a choice deny she had it all or stand tall and speak her truth. Consequences be damned. 

Was being a martyr, the only choice, was there a way she could be herself stand in her truth and not lose her head? She had spent weeks calling on friends and relatives, seeking advice and support. But with every phone call she felt the hangman's noose tightening. 

They were all so polite her friends, so understanding, so  well meaning those who has bothered to answer their phones. Saying nothing, whole sentences of platitudes. Was her pride hurt? Was it more ego than physical hurt? Tomorrow would she do anything to prevent the physical hurting?

Just say you were coerced the one brave friend told her. Tell them you wanted no part of it but you had no choice. You had to do your part. Just do not call my name in it. Do not mention my family or say I had anything to do with it. I am doing this to protect my family. My children.

She had flashes of this friend's hands between her thighs, of her mouth on her neck. Of the persistence of her chase when this reality was a distant possibility. In an incense filled party, full of women of all shapes and sizes loving each other, touching each other, dancing to the rhythm of forbidden love with abandon. 

There were other women, more politically minded, sitting in corners while hot tea and hookah was served, talking quietly earnestly about actions that had to be taken to change the status quo. Smoke and alcohol making their pronouncements bold and daring. 

There were single and married women, young school leaver and old matrons, house wives and professional women, ministers and wives of ministers. Religious leaders and university scholars. Nollywood stars, TV personalities and musicians. 

There was laughter, music and merriment tomorrow turned into wails, denial and accusations. Someone has gone too far, an now the authorities had been let loose. 

It could have been anybody, a jilted lover, a rival spying, a loose lipped conversation, a disgruntled staff. It could have been a power hungry move, or a deep rooted self loathing. Someone had made a list. There was a recording out there and tomorrow was the trial. 

She wondered if her phone line was being tapped, if all their lines where being tapped. What had been heard, who had the recordings if any. 

How salacious it all was, a misogynist's wet dream. Instead of bandying together taking strength in numbers it was each pussy to itself. 

She imagined some begging their spouses for compassion understanding, some seeking a way out this public humiliation in anyway possible. Could she be that person? Could she do anything for a chance of freedom. 

She heard foots steps, and lay down still pretending to be asleep. She felt the sickness in her stomach and cold sweats on her damp skin. She could please ill health, the swarming mosquito and the welts on her skin would give credence to her complaint. 

She could try to reach out to the international community, to human rights groups. Most times they made thing worse, with their posturing and ultimatums and holier than thou pretence. This was not the time to be picky, but who did she know? 

She did not have a mobile phone to make a compelling video and hope it went viral. She did not have a name except some unknown handle, who knew when it would all blow up? After she the trial was done and she was convicted? 

Why did this have to be her life, she wailed for the numbered times. This was one time it was ok to wallow in self pity because she pitied herself. What was she going to do. 

If only they had just stuck together. If only they were organised enough to foresee this ending. With hindsight it was obvious. They should have had a plan, a strategy. 

There was no leader as the medial liked to think there was. They were not a cult of lesbian devil worshippers. They were just a loose group of women seeking a safe place for women who liked women. Pleasure and refuge was most in their minds. There was not strategy, no organisation, no rallies, no plan. 

She could not sleep, she had not slept in weeks it seemed to her. Would she be summoned to a room or hall? Would it be public or a dingy squalid hall. Would there be a judge or just the security services?

She had heard rumours of some women sleeping with the guards, ostensibly to prove they where straight and no pervert. With sexually transmitted diseases and pregnancy a small price for freedom. If prostitution was a the currency that guaranteed freedom she may have considered it. 

But these guard had no power except for the power of the now, maybe that was enough. Maybe the women needed to convince themselves as well that their attraction was an aberration. That is was just a jolly, a way to bring excitement to their dull lives. 

There were woman on the list that were not even gay, or at least not that she knew of. This was 2021, there was meant to be freedom of choice, we were meant to self identify and be respected for it. 

It was as if the American's electing Trump from a second term rang the bell loud at clear. All that queer talk must regress. Strongwomen must be gay and are threat. Women must be subjugated. A woman without a man is half a woman. The talk was there in this world before, the election. 

It did not matter that just the previous year, Thailand held the first gay pride election in Asia. Or that Pete Buttigieg ran for the presidency, or that Pope Benedict did not disavow same sex marriages. The world has ended as we know it and women must know their place. 

It started with the WhatsApp messages, the group text spewing more and more hate and conspiracy theories about a group of powerful women in the country would seek to emasculates men and turn young men into women. How we were the cause of the country's corruption and poverty. 

Duniya! Duniya! its me! 

She heard the voice she never thought she would hear again call out her name. Her instincts was to deny it was real and lay still. 

Duniya, Duniya get up we do not have anytime. 

She opened her lids slowly, her eyes taking their time to adjust to the dry contact lenses that had been in there for days. They were daily disposables, without them she would have been blind in this dark depressing cell. 

Duniya, get up, we have to go. 

Go where, her muddled mind trying to believe, had she been drugged? Her limbs felt lethargic and heavy, she tried to sit up her head swam. Maybe she did have malaria. She had been dry heaving and stooling in the bucket in the corner of the room. Typhoid her mind clung to the word like light. Proud it could be lucid. 

Duniya! Why wouldn't the voice leave her alone. Her spirit was sure it was a trap. She felt the door open wider and Kyakyawa walk into the room covered in a large burka. It was a shapeless dark material with slits for eyes. It reminded her of when she was a child using the bedsheets as ghost, instead of making the bed as her step mother reprimanded her.

She was a bad child. Had she always been a bad child?  Had she always rebelled and done things her own way? She hand't meant to she did not think. But she remembered always being in trouble. Always getting in trouble for minor things. How she spoke, what she wore or didn't wear. How she ate, how she played but especially how she answered back. 

She could never tell what she was meant to say, so she began lying at the age of nine or ten and kept on lying until her seventeenth year when she escaped or so she thought. 

Was this a lie, waiting for her? Was this a test. 

The burka shaped Kyakyawa reached out to her, she shrunk away. She was hallucinating. She has not heard from Kyakyawa for months. There was no way this was her. How had she found her. Why was she not in custody? Was she the one who gave her away, who gave them all away?

I am not going to hurt you the voice under the Burka said. 

I am not going to hurt you, that was what the security officer had said before he had back handed her. Tell me the name of all your co-conspirators and I will let you go. If not, anything that happens is your fault. 

Duniya had looked into his kind eyes, he looked so much like her cousins, her family she could trust him. 

There are no co- conspirators, she whispered. I don't understand what you are talking about. I don't know why  I am here. This is a mistake, please help me. Tell me what am I accused of? 

The eyes changed, the body language so rapid it was like he was another human being, not the same kind eyes. She screamed. 

I suppose, my cousins have more than one side, her mind said to her. She had developed a habit of talking to herself inside her head. Talking to herself was a thing she used to do as a child, playing alone. Not allowed to play with her half siblings because she was too rough. 

I wonder if I have turned crazy, lost my mind.

She felt the Burka, tough her skin as it was lifted. She felt familiar arms pull her close and hold her tightly. I need you to stand and walk slowly. Move you right leg when I move my right leg. Move your left leg when I move my left leg. We will go slowly. Try and be as one with me.