“Yes, Sister, I know what to do, what to say. One thing though; when the people of the villages learn there is someone willing to help, they offer all the information they have. They understand they are not to speak about the visit. Having their children returned to them is too important; and so they don’t talk of it to others, of this I am certain.” Jumma looked at the road ahead and nodded to confirm his information.
“Do you think any of them doubt you; that you may really be from the government?” she asked.
“I don’t know. No one has ever asked me that. There is too much fear. When I explain that I work for a nonprofit group, not affiliated with the government, they accept that. I also believe they know that the people of my tribe would not be of the government. They want to help.”
Jumma knew the nun believed this. She believed making a difference, doing something about the children was what mattered most. Doing what the church and the government will not do, they must now do.
A bump and a jolt brought Jumma’s attention back to their trip and to their mission that day. It was a warm morning, dry as always, the sun just above the horizon. A small herd of cattle stood off to the right of the track, all the color of browned butter, thin, all rib lines and pelvis bones, casting shadows on pale hides. As the Land Cruiser approached, the herd turned toward the rising sun. Jumma noted their condition with sadness. Sister Marie Claire’s head turned to watch the herd as she passed it. She asked Jumma, “Have you ever talked to Monsieur Hanley about this?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I would not without having your permission first.” Jumma wished he was sitting in the cooling shade of a large tree, writing in his notebook.
“I’m thinking about telling him of our plan,” she said.
“When?”
“Soon. We will need his help. His part will take some planning and preparation. It will be soon.”
When, exactly, is soon, Jumma wondered.
***
Aisha’s sleep was fitful, the floor under her sleeping mat hard and irregular. When awake, she concentrated on the soft rhythmic snore of the women asleep on the low cot beside her, hoping it would lull her to sleep again. One thin wool blanket was all she had to keep her warm. Even in September, the large house in Wad Madani was cold at night. Sold into slavery, she had been in the house almost a month.
The Baggara had taken Aisha to Nyala by truck where she was transferred to another truck with nine other women and two small boys and shipped to Wad Madani. There, she was taken to a home and put to work as a servant, cleaning and doing laundry on the weekend and working in an old cotton processing facility on a draw-frame during the week.
The lack of sleep was worsening her physical condition. Her fingers were constantly bandaged, her back and groin always ached. The muscles in her lower back had been badly pulled, also the product of the assault. Her period was late and she constantly prayed not to have been impregnated by one of the Baggara. Forced to sit for up to fourteen hours a day on a stool with nothing to support her, she found it impossible to remain upright after only a few hours. The result was a small man, Arabic she believed, who poked her in the back with a wooden rod while screaming threats and obscenities in her ear. The breath he bathed her in was horrible, from bad teeth, garlic and tobacco, among other things. With a face scarred by acne and a large, crooked nose, she thought the shop manager was as ugly on the outside as he must be in. When not praying to be rescued, she thought of how she might end her life. The idea of escaping on her own never entered her mind. She harbored no expectations of sympathy.
Almost daily, one woman would say Aisha should be glad she was not killed or kept for sex, to be passed around until someone, tiring of it, killed her. Another woman would occasionally stroke her head and say, “You must be strong”. There was some caring in that, she thought, some feeling other than fear. That was all, a bit of advice, a stark assessment. There would be no love, nor someone to hold. None of that.
That night, lying on the cold floor, listening to the sounds of the building and the city, Aisha wondered if anyone heard her prayers. What hope she had she put in the words she muttered, praying through that night and into the day that followed.
***
Torn and creased, the note and its contents on Sister Marie Claire’s lap had not changed with each reading over the past two weeks. It was the note that caused the nun to develop her plan.
The noted was from a man she knew, a Nur and a merchant in the town of Rumbek, where the archdiocese had offices. The man had a sister who
