Trapped Choices

Sometimes, life leaves you without an option. I'd been married before, and chosen to divorce my husband when love had left us too. I kept the children, all three of them, and had to support them on my own. There wasn't much selection regarding jobs in the village we lived, and my babies were relying on me. I had to make the decision between struggle or success, and soon the struggle had become unbearable. So, when there was nothing else to choose, I left.

***

I departed from Kenya in daylight and arrived in Saudi Arabia by the time it was dark. My travel was organised by my new agency, who'd promised that work would be secured once I arrived. A sticky van took me to the office, where my tired legs were led to a dormitory building within the same fences. "Here." He pointed me, and six other Kenyans we'd picked up at some point along the way, into the room on the left of the corridor. The wooden door squeaked into place behind him, and we surveyed our new surroundings. No beds; just mattresses. Six of them; seven of us. There was one window, nailed shut with wooden planks. The walls were lined with pink insulation, foam bursting between splintered boards. Rotten fruit was scattered between spaces where we could see the floor, and the smell seemed to sit still in the air.

"We'll share." The first voices emerged, stepping out from behind the crowd. Twins, about my height, shoulder to shoulder. They stepped through the room and sat in the back right corner, backs against the walls and knees curled into their chests. From where I stood, I couldn't understand how my choices had led me here.

We each claimed a mattress and took it upon ourselves to explore the rest of the building. Our companionship would, if nothing else, maintain our memory. The facility I was promised had individual rooms and spaces to rest peacefully, and this one didn't have bathrooms. I knew, even then, safety was not to be taken for granted.

"Excuse me?" I asked, my voice raised a little, knuckles knocking against the wood. The door opened the length of the chain, a small Filipino lady standing almost a foot beneath me. She scowled and sighed, her hair wrapped tightly around her head. "Hello," I began, "We're new here, uhm, all of us." She didn't speak, but unhooked the chain from its latch, opening the door where I could see inside. There were only three of them in the room, each with their own mattress and bed frame freshly made with neat blankets and pillows. The floor was clean and laid out with rugs and boxes of fresh fruit and juices. They had suitcases of clothes and an open window for a pulsing breeze through.

"Bye, now." She said, slamming the door in our faces and flicking the locks closed. I heard the mechanical clunks one by one as I turned back into our bedroom.

I spent another two days in that place before the agency sourced me some work. It was the middle of the night, yet again, when I arrived. It seemed only that I had seen Saudi Arabia through the lights of buildings I wasn't allowed into. The journey seemed to last hours, my body phasing in and out of sleep with my eyelids never finding the strength to open in between. I hadn't eaten since the first day I'd got to the office and my body was beginning to give in to the fatigue. We pulled into a new estate and I was taken to a side entrance, avoiding any sort of welcome. "Clothes?" He asked, the newest man I'd been told to listen to. I didn't understand, but he handed me a set of pale blue scrubs and ushered me into a bathroom. "Wash, and leave your clothes outside. You won't need them."

"My clothes? Why would you take them? What about when I'm not at work?"

"You're here to work." He answered, and shut the door before I could respond.

The shower was hot and refreshed me somewhat until a knock on the door, a different voice this time. I tucked my top into the sticky plastic trousers and opened the bathroom door enough to poke my head around the corner. I'd been travelling all day, and assumed this would be the time to take me to my own bedroom. "Yes? Can I help you?"

It was a man and his son. He was tall and weighed a lot more than me, his hands the size of my face. His beard hung beneath the collar of his blue checked shirt, a thin leather strap wrapping a golden watch face around his left arm. His voice was deep and guttural, and he spoke slowly with a manner of reassurance that seemed to transcend any language barrier. I couldn't understand a word of what he said, but I knew exactly what he meant. This was time to work, not rest. I had no choice. Him and his son, who followed him like a bodyguard, took me into the kitchen where a mound of dishes spilled out over the edges of the sink. The boy was no older than ten and smirked at me as they left, as if he enjoyed leaving me in my suffering. My knees were buckling underneath the pressure of even my most frail frame, tiredness the heaviest weight I could face.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten, and hadn't drank water since I'd left the office that morning. They'd given me nothing and taken all I had. My only choice was to use what I could find, so I drank the hot water from the dirty dishes I was cleaning. I'd seen water dispensers when I walked through the house, but now, as they watched my every move, this was no longer an option. I was a prisoner in my own body, my voice no longer for my thoughts and my muscles only for others' needs. From here, the life I had prayed for my children had never seemed further away.

I continued cleaning for another eight months before anything changed. "Phillis!" By then they knew my name. "Come, come." I was bungled into the back seat of their family car and kept quiet while we drove. I'd managed to pick up the basics of Arabic to understand their instructions, but from where I sat, I didn't know whether they were planning to kill me or keep me. I had no escape, and even if I could, nowhere to run to.

I was dropped at her mother's house and stayed there for another year. I worked alone, and covered the house for everything they might need. The kids stayed with me, all five of them, and even the youngest understood my role in life. I was weak, feeble. To these people, my choices were theirs to make, and they chose to make me miserable.

* * *

The change happened a few months later. One of the little ones spilled laundry detergent across the floor of the washroom and decided not to tell me. I was carrying two baskets, one on each hip, and slipped backwards on the laminate flooring. The baskets were flung into the air, my legs following, and I landed on my shoulder. "Help!" I yelled out, "Please." Tiny footsteps skipped along the corridor towards me, peaking inside the laundry room. The lights were still off, and a little hand reached around to flick the switch.

One by one, the others followed, each more dramatic in their laughter. They heaved and cackled, sprawled across the floor as I surrendered to the pain, stuck with no other option. "What?" She called out, Madam of course, to the children. "What is it?"

Her footsteps were heavier and sent worms along my spine. They wriggled and danced across my back every time she spoke. "Huh?" She was perplexed. Her face contorted into anger and she wrapped her palm across my cheek. "Is this what I'm paying you for?" Her English seemed only to exist when it was necessary to hurt me. "Is it?" Again, her hand beat against my face and swung my body around, writhing in agonising pain. She left, the kids too, and I moved only once I could.

I don't quite know how many months later I was taken to hospital, but the pain never faltered. I wasn't paid during that time, as Madam told me I wasn't working to standard. The doctors told me there was nothing they could do, and as a Black woman in Saudi Arabia, with no family and no home, there was nothing I could do either. Not until I ran away.

***

It was the same as any other morning. I woke up before anybody else to prepare the breakfasts. I didn't cook, not every day, as the food was taken care of by a chef. I was in charge of its presentation and serving. The scrambled eggs were laid across the white tablecloth, but I wasn't there.

Abaya covering my face, I left the gates and I didn't look back. I had nothing to my name, so I'd taken nothing with me. The streets were awakening and the sun had finally beaten the horizon by the time I knew where I was heading. The mosque.

They'd be welcoming and I'm sure they could help. The doors were always open, and they prayed for kindness and peace. I was hoping maybe mine had been heard. The congregation was arriving, dozens of men and women lining to enter. I slipped around the corner to the women's entrance and a black car rolled up beside me. Its windows were tinted and it slowed to meet my footsteps. "Phillis!" They were here. "Phillis! Inside!" Madam screamed, her lungs bubbling with fury. Her voice screeched into the busy streets, and I darted towards the crowd to blend in. There were bodies and bodies, each dressed like me, faces covered. I bustled between the rows to reach the entrance to the mosque. The doors rattled behind me, and soon there were arms on mine. I was pulled backwards, my legs thrashing against the tarmac for grip. I scrambled, but they were too strong. I was thrown into the boot of the car, wheels already turning to spin away from the witnesses.

After they beat me, they agreed to let me return to the office. I was there by the next morning and left in a similar room to where I was put before. The old place as a new woman. I wouldn't be able to work, not with my shoulder the way it was, and after they'd beaten their point in to me they decided to listen.

I don't know who's choice it was to let me go home, but soon I was on an Egyptian Airlines flight to Kenya.

***

I'm on the bus now, and soon I'll see my children again. My forearms stick to the plastic mould between the seats, heat sweating along the rattling windows and, as I watch each condensed drop dance its way along the glass, I understand the patience it takes to fall. The water does not understand where it's going, nor aims to be anywhere else, but still, it takes its course. It curves and bends and shakes with the shifting dirt road, ending in a place perhaps no different from where its journey was always set to reach, but never moving along a straight or simple track. Now it's hit the bottom, me along with it, and we've both ended up on the path we were always meant to. My children are waiting for me, as they always were, and though I may have taken the long way round, I'll be right there when they need me.