Heart of a Woman

I am weak. I am not made to struggle, but to resign. I am slow, stuck. I wish to be married and to raise children. I wish to be provided for. My husband does not love me, but I am not made to be loved. My children will grow under my wing and passed then to husbands of their own. I am nothing.

I am a lie.

I am Emma. Emma is strong, stronger than you'd ever be. Emma has heart, and mind, and a deep unnerving anger inside. Emma is proud of who she'll become, and who has earned respect for the woman she's been. She holds no cowardice, or fright, and though she may cry, never will her soul be a place where hatred resides. Emma is revered. Emma is me.

***

When my babies went off to college, I took the opportunity to leave too. My first move took me to Lebanon, where I cared for an elderly lady recovering from a stroke. Payments slipped through the cracks in communication, and I was soon moved to clean for a nice family in the north. The money I earned brought the children through their studies, and two years passed me by smoothly. The contract came to an end, and I came back to Kenya. That's where I'm sitting now, two steaming mugs of tea cooling on the table next to me. My knees are a little sore, and I can't quite shift this headache, but I'm content. My daughter, Maria, is driving over now, and she'll arrive before the tea's cold. I wasn't always here, though, and I wasn't always Emma. For the time between, everything was different.

I spent my twenties in Saudi Arabia. The agency that hired me was selling women across the country, trading bodies between houses of royals too rich to raise a finger. Whether I cleaned, cooked or cared, my days were longer than they'd ever been before. I understood my position as a pawn in this game, and I knew there were only a few ways I could play it. Head down, stay focused and, when the time comes, roll the dice.

The time came a few months later. I was in a new home. I was bought by a nurse, who was too busy to care for her two children. The youngest was a girl, only three years old. And her other child was seventeen and severely autistic. He was non-verbal, understanding shorter phrases but communicating only through noises and gestures. He had a kind soul, but not one that was given the care it needed.

The house was grand in every sense. Marble staircases split the central hall, curving into soft spirals that lead to each of the children's bedrooms. There were plush cream carpets that stayed sunken even after I'd lifted my feet, and I was designated a modest bedroom between the siblings. I didn't own anything but myself, though a comfortable bed was worth more than anything I'd ever owned before.

Before I knew it I'd found a routine of my own, and me and Afsar began to work well together. "Come on then, you." I told him, taking his arm to usher him into the bathroom, "Time for a quick wash, then we'll get back to the movie." His feet dragged against the floor every step, shoulders flopping his stout build from side to side. He lifted himself onto the table he's washed on, and I slipped on the latex gloves. "Okay, let's get you clean, shall we?" I asked, pulling a wipe from the container at his feet. He giggled, kicking his legs and rambling incoherently. "Someone's excited today, eh?"

After I'd washed him, he led me to the adjoining bedroom to be dressed. "What shall we wear today?" I thought aloud, but he didn't listen. He'd stayed behind me and was slowly pushing the door to a close. My hands were itching with dryness, and I used some of his moisturiser to ease the irritation. His babbles grew louder, the boy's bare body still facing away from me. "You okay, Afsar?" I checked, and he turned to pounce. He threw himself at me, his naked body grappling with my arms and legs. I pushed his head back, his tongue slapping against my palm until his jaw seized, teeth slamming into my fingers as his head wrapped back and forth. "Afsar!" I yelled, pulling my bleeding hand from his mouth, his body and mind focused only on one thing. I was being raped.

I kicked and swung, cautious not to hurt him but desperate to save myself, wriggling from underneath him until I could break for the door. As I stood, he did too, bursting ahead of me and out into the hallway. I watched for a moment, readjusting my clothes and giving my body a moment to breathe, until the boy didn't stop. He slipped out the front door and onto the street, his wailing screams fading further as he weaved through the oncoming traffic. I made it out the door as he made it through the other, reaching his uncle's across the street. In my panic I'd managed to pick up a towel, trapping it under my right arm to funnel across the street.

"Afsar!" I called out, to no avail. I rushed into the kitchen, harsh white lights beaming from overhanging spotlights. The marble island was organised into neat containers of prepared vegetables, colours diced finely in individual glass pots. The hob is still lit, sizzling oil burning off. Someone's home, and someone's found him. "It's okay, just come here." I reason with him, wherever he is, "We need to go home. Go see Mum." From the opposite side of the island, I saw his curly black hair peeking into the door frame. He was still undressed, and his breathing was laboured and lethargic. "There you are. Come on, now, let's go."

He squeezed through the door and sprinted to the hob. I dove in the same direction, and we gripped the handle together. He wrestled, fighting to throw the oil over me. "Stop!" I scream, squatting down to his level, "Look, Afsar, it's Emma." Maybe, in his crisis, he'd forgotten. "I understand, okay? We can go home, yes?" I panicked, sizzling oil spitting onto my skin. He thrusted again, flipping the pan over my shoulder, splashes catching my wrist and singeing into my skin. I writhed in pain, releasing my grip and sinking to the floor, until the rest of the household arrived.

"Afsar!" The first man shouted, stomping towards me. There were two more behind, thick beards and thicker necks bounding ever closer, my body scrambling to stand. I make it onto my feet as they reach me, and I start to explain. "He tried to-" a thumping punch slumps into my gut, heaving my stomach over as another man kicks my knees from behind until I'm back on the floor. Even now, I'm the villain, and it's never a man's job to explain himself.

Through their fists, I leap towards the smallest, an arm around his neck and a slinging pump into his chest. He collapses onto his back, blood coughing from his throat, spluttering onto the cold kitchen floor. "It's not me!" I yell, thrashing around between the standing two. Afsar's gone, now, and it's between me and them. A foot thumps into my stomach, the blood rushing to my head. One steps back, and I wrap my leg around the back of his to trip him, using the moment to break away. I run, and don't look back, not until I'm inside the police station.

***

Once I'd recovered, I was sent to a different house. Fridays in Imran's were for family. Everyone arrived back from the mosque a few hours ago, and they'd just started eating. The garden was shaded and the banquet laid out in full flourish. Children, parents, cousins, all sharing a beautiful moment of community, and from the kitchen where I stood, there was no feeling I missed more. My babies were home, missing me too, and I couldn't wait to get back to them. I'd been living in Imran's for a few months, and I was treated as I was used to. My communication with the outside was restricted and the working hours were arduous, but nothing particularly harming. I was reorganising the cupboards, peaceful in my own flow, when a small girl approached me.

"Hello." She began. Her face was small, her brown eyes wide, and she smiled gently.

"Oh! You speak English?" I asked, almost retreating with surprise. It'd been a long time since I'd not had to stumble through understanding Arabic.

"Yes," she nodded, "I go to an international school. Could I have some water, please?" I turned to fill a glass, and she sidled closer to me. Her neck curved around the kitchen island, cautious. "Do you have a phone?"

"I do, but not here."

She checked behind her again. "Would you get it? Could you?"

I crouch to her level, handing her the water. "I don't think- I'm working, I'm not allowed to." Her eyes soften, her tiny hands taking hold of mine.

"Please? Could you?"

By the time I arrived back from the bedroom, she'd made her way to the stairs. I slipped my phone in my pocket, and handed it to her when I reached the bottom. "What do you need? I pleaded for clues, but she didn't answer. I followed until we reached the basement, and she struggled with the heavy door. I pushed it and we entered, lines of frozen meat spices organised neatly in freezers. The girl, whose name I still didn't know, opened the camera on my phone, filming me.

"Open it," she pointed, "that one there!" Her voice trembled, hands too. I crunched the freezer open, chunks of ice breaking off in heavy chunks. "Lift it." She instructed. Inside a pig, dissected by body part, frozen in plastic bags, was laid out over a sheet of cardboard.

"All of it? Why?" I asked, careful not to take too long away from the kitchen. If they noticed I'm gone, I would be too, and I couldn't afford to lose it. "Take it all out?"

She nodded, and I did. One by one, chunks of animal placed onto the floor beside me, her shaking hands still filming. Only the cardboard left, I turn for her next instruction. We'd been too long, and she's not shown me anything. "What are we doing?"

She moved in closer, changing her focus from me to the freezer. "Keep going." She whispered, and I listened. I pulled back the cardboard, and there was more beneath. I lifted it out, tossed it behind, and there, facing me, a woman. A dead woman, frozen, crammed into the ice. Her face was scorched and disfigured. She'd been beaten, bruised, her body contorted out of shape, her eyes still open. I didn't scream, didn't cry, didn't move. The child had found her before me, and she'd come for help. She was my priority. Above all, I'm a mother.

"Go, give me the phone." I told her, and her quivering lips finally broke. A tear rolled from her eyes and she began to silently sob. "It's okay, I promise. Thank you, thank you so much." I ushered her back upstairs and she ran out of the basement, leaving me with the dead body. I looked back to her, and she is all I could've been. A black woman, alone, scared, and now gone. Taken from her family, stolen from the path God had placed her on. I had to leave. Not for me, but for all the others who may come after me.

***

Maria's just come through the front door, and the tea has cooled. I wrap her in my arms and hold on, a second longer than I used to. We'll sit, and we'll talk about things that don't matter. Spending time together because we've earnt it. For going through what I did, I know she won't ever have to. And though I came back here, nothing to my name, at least now I understand its meaning. Emma is a woman, and that woman is me.