Broken System

The flight to Malaysia is comfortable and I'm using the time to plan. The changeover is in Delhi, but I should only be here for two hours. It's quarter to nine at night and the sunset is burning through the airport's glass ceiling. The walls above departures are decorated with bronze plates and huge symbolic palms, as if they're telling me to stop. I stand and stare, only for a second, until a hand is rested gently on my shoulder. "Hello," he says, with a warm smile. There's four of them, and they're all about my age. "Sorry to bother you, we're a bit lost."

"Makes two of us. Where are you trying to go?" I chuckle, happy to help.

Tentatively, the same man speaks, first looking to the others for back up. "Malaysia. For work."

"Malaysia? I'm going to Malaysia. Where do you work?"

He retorts, "Are you Kenyan?"

"I am, why?"

"Are you working for Sanjay?" I'm not alone.

"I am."

For the first time, someone else speaks. He's short and his hair is too, merely a thin film across his head.

"I'm Igor, nice to meet you." His hand extends to meet mine, and I feel reassured by his presence. It's nice to know I'm not the only one who's lost here. "What's your name?"

"Peter," I confirm, "Peter Chege."

We board the second flight and soon we're in Kuala Lumpur. Once we've landed, my phone dings awake and it's a message from Sanjay, our new boss. I've met up with the group again and we've been given a set of instructions, which Igor is reading aloud.

"Otherwise, work starts tomorrow morning. 4am."

***

We've been here for eight days now, I think. It's hard to count the days when you don't see the sun. We've been working from 4am daily, loading and unloading boxes from one place to another. We've got no idea what it is we're moving, but that's not my issue to raise. Nobody is accountable here. I tend to wake up earliest as I find peace in moments alone. We're sleeping in a hostel close to the warehouse, likely built for purpose. There's sixteen of us in here, bunkbeds lined like prison cells and a failing fluorescent flicker clicking intermittently. Most people won't speak, though I'm sure they have plenty to say.

"Pete, I can't do this." It was Igor. His skin is flaky and pale and his shoulders no longer fill out the fabric of his jumpsuit.

"What's wrong, what's up?"

He stumbles next to me, "I'm so hungry, Pete." His words interrupted by dry coughs, "I asked him, the boss."

"Sanjay?"

"Yeah, I asked for more food, something to help us through the day." He scrunches his fist into his pocket, retrieving a ruffled note.

I know he's going to tell me, but I'm too impatient not to ask. "What did he say?"

He shows me the paper: Any more questions, they'll never find you. Malaysia is mine.

"What...?" He sniffles, "What do we do? We don't work, we're not paid. We don't have our passports, our phones. They want us dead, we're dead."

***

The day passed by and once again we find ourselves slumped into the wiry bunkbed mattress. My fingers trace along my protruding ribcage, stomach a sunken crater beneath it.. "Peter," Igor whispers, "I spoke to Marinelle."

"Yes?"

"We're leaving."

"Eh?" I roll onto my side. "We can't just leave."

"We'll refuse to work. What will they do? Kill me? Peter, that'd be a relief."

"They won't kill you, not here anyway. There's too many of us. They'd take you somewhere first, somewhere you can escape from there. Either way, you're not doing it alone. I'm coming with you."

His whispers scratch into a broken hum, "What? You can't do that. Think of your family."

"And what will they do with me here? We're all rotting, something's got to change." I'm ready.

The plan's coming together. The workers here clearly aren't legal, and the guards won't be either. Their system may hold them back, too. If we cause enough commotion, enough noise, there'll have to be somebody who intervenes. Once they arrive, we run.

By the time 4am came around, the five of us were prepared. Igor tells us he's going to be the first to refuse to work, as it was his idea in the first place. Marinelle stands behind me now as we're getting ready to make our move.

"No!" We can hear Igor shouting, his feet scuffling against the warehouse floor. We can't see him, but something's going on. "Kill me then! Kill me!" His body bursts through the door into the main loading bay, two guards and a dog wrestling with his writhing body. He's beaten and bruised, and the rest of us rush over to help.

"Get off! Out, out!" They yell over the dog's crunching barks. Steel black toes rattle off of his ribcage, Marinelle's attempts to release him proving useless, until their attention is suddenly switched. They look between each other, darting out from the door they entered and into the darkness.

"What?" Asks Marinelle. Sirens wail through the silence, blue flashes cutting underneath gaps in the warehouse shutters. "Police!" The metal rolls up, our salvation arriving. I drop to my knees, relief tangible through my veins.

A booming voice crackles through a loudspeaker. "Sanjay, are these the criminals?" They shout, charging towards us. Malaysia is his. We turn, running in the same direction as the guards. Batons swing as we pile through the corridors and out the back exit. Igor's at the back, his body already broken, and I lead the way. "Stop where you are! We are police!" The system to save us is swinging for our necks.

"Run! Don't stop!" I encourage, and turn left to lose them. Their heavy uniforms slow them down, but our bodies are fighting their last battle. I reach a gate, about fifteen feet high, and I've got no idea where they are. I slip my fingers through the wired mesh and throw myself upwards, clambering over the top and collapsing off the other edge. Sugar cane. My landing is cushioned, and the stalks are tall enough to hide my crouching body. I stop, catching my breath and listening for any of the others. Silence.

I woke up later in the same field I'd fallen in. The sun has risen now, so I must've slept for a few hours. I don't know where the others are, or where I am myself, but I'm alive. Right now, that's a success in itself. Something's moving. Slowly, in the sugar cane. Rustling crunches creep towards me, and I lift onto my knees, fists lifted. My heart folds into a lump in my throat. The shadows crawl closer again.

"Stop!" They scream, clambering on top of me, their bodyweight throwing me onto my back.

"Igor!" Thank goodness. It's him. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay." He peels off of me, kneeling. "Marinelle's at the river. I haven't seen Joseph and James." They're the other two in our group, the twins who don't quite look alike. "I'm sure they'll be okay."

"Let's go, let's get out of here. Have you seen the police anywhere?"

"I think we lost them, I don't know."

We're walking through the sugar cane, snapping and chewing as we go. Their sweetness tastes fresh and sends tingles to the back of my throat like I haven't tasted them before. My body is craving nutrients of any kind, and this will keep me going for a short while.

"Pete!" Shouts James, who's joined by Marinelle and his brother. He's dropping pebbles into the river to check its depth, and Marinelle is rolling her trouser legs to her knees.

"I'm so glad to see you all. Is this the right way?"

Igor speaks. "Look up there, on the hill. There's a hospital. They'll help, no?"

"If anything," adds Marinelle, "they'll have a phone."

***

The doors to the hospital sweep open, drowning my tired pupils in clinical white precision. The harsh lights filing through the ridges of my brain into a sharp headache. My knees bleed from the crawling, and the five pairs of footsteps behind me smudge it into the vinyl flooring. We make it to the reception and I greet them with a smile.

"Hello, we need your he-"

"Out!" She screams, almost elastically snapping to her feet. "Out! You! Out!" Her arms thrash in the air as she continues to shout in what I can only assume is Malay. I don't understand her, so I don't move. She clambers out from behind the desk, her height merely half of mine, threatening us still. We're hurting, they're a hospital. I don't see an issue. "Black!" She pierces a glare into my eyes. "Black. Out!" The security gather behind us, our tired bodies pulled wherever they please. We're thrown onto the pavement, discarded.

"Well," says Igor, "what now?"

James, for the first time in a while, speaks, "Let's not lose hope. The only thing that matters now is staying alive. Everything else can wait." He stops, thinking for the moment. "Why don't we go to the embassy?"

***

White marble pillars either side of heavy steel doors, a proud Kenyan flag plastered across the front, though I don't know what that means anymore. The walk here only took an hour or two, thanks to the directions of some farmers and a lift in the back of a horse cart. I've knocked once already, and I'm impatient to do it again.

"Oh, come on!" Storms Marinelle, barging through the doors. "It's our embassy, that's how they work." The floors are plush with cushioning carpets, red velvet panels flooding the room in luxury. "I'll speak to someone, come on." She stomps through the corridors and beats her fist against the closest office. An elderly man, hairs greying along the edges, opens it ajar.

"Can I help you?" He looks over the glasses resting on his upturned nose and speaks with an eloquence reserved for those who resent the idea of offering help.

"We've been trafficked; we're dying. Please help us."

Igor adds. "We just need to get home to Kenya." The man gently pushes his glasses closer to his eyes, looking intently at each of us. He sighs, clears his throat, and closes the door.

"What?" Marinelle yells, slamming her palm against the wood. "We're Kenyan! We need help!" With that, a different official steps out to speak to us. She's got a calmer, gentle demeanour and holds more grace with her words. I turn to greet her.

"Excuse me, miss. Are you a mother?" The group step back, confused.

"I am," she smiles, "my baby boy is nearly four."

"Mine too, Miss. He's called Tim. And right now he's all the way in Kenya and I have no way to see him." My voice splits into pieces in my suffocating throat. "We need your help." Stepping out from behind me, Igor's hand reaches into his pocket. He unfurls it, and it's the note from Sanjay. She takes it, reads, and pauses. Her pupils scan across our faces, and she opens the door behind her.

"We can't fund your flights," she explains, in a softly diplomatic tone, "but we can let you stay here. I've spoken to the others and there's a dormitory available for the next three weeks. If you can raise enough money to get home, we'll organise the rest."

"And how do we do that?" Questions Igor, tired and frustrated. She pulls open a drawer to her right, lifting envelopes to hand to us. It's heavy in my hand and I peel back the paper to open it. A phone.

She stands, almost military in nature. "Tell the world your story."