08-02-2018, 08:02 AM
Jasiri Shelter, undisclosed location in Tanzania
Late 2042
Green and yellow wooden gates marked the entrance, painted cheerful with patterns of flowers and leaves around the words kuwa jasiri* . They were hitched to a chain-link fence that surrounded the compound, but the last thing it resembled was a prison. The main building, a single story in the distance, burned like the sun amongst the trees. Natalie's head pounded. The dry heat, else the dire lack of alcohol in her veins since the departure lounge at Heathrow. She'd slept most of the flight, the guilt of the blazing argument she'd had with her mother locked somewhere deep. She didn't want to think of home. She didn't want to think of family. She didn't want to think.
The dirt eddied dust beneath her boots as she entered like a penitent. Samantha Brown's words echoed something like a mantra through her throbbing skull; the advice she needed to convince herself she wasn't simply running as far and as fast as her legs would take her. But dwelling on that twisted keys in locks she'd rather keep tight shut; fuck, but they were locks she'd rather forget she had keys for at all. She needed the change; the restlessness in her soul craved it more than the bonds of family. She'd seen first hand how easily those ties could be snapped; holding on seemed suicidal.
The building sprawled, breaking into sun-drenched courtyards alight with the patter of busy feet. She could hear children somewhere, laughing and playing. Someone singing, too, and for a moment the cadence of that squeezed a note in her chest that longed for the solace of ivory keys. She shifted the rucksack on her back, rejecting the memory.
A woman met her at the main door. She was dressed in the shade of a clear ocean, a bright white wrap about her head, and her dark eyes absorbed Natalie critically. Both brows rose a question she did not ask, but the slight purse of her lips did not make her look best pleased. Natalie knocked the ice from her bones, feeling every tired line of her body, and offered a smile and an open palm to shake. "Hujambo. You must be Amidah? I'm sorry, my Swahili leaves some to be desired. My name is Natalie Grey, I'm with the Cross."
"Speak little English here. Learn quickly, eh? Welcome, welcome."
Amidah's grip was warm and strong; she did not shake Natalie's hand, but clasped it tight in both of hers, squeezing warmly even if she appeared to find her new volunteer wanting.
The refuge was well established, a haven for women and their children fled from domestic abuse, violence, and poverty. The building itself had been produced sustainably, sky-lights relieving the reliance on air-con, bamboo and other local materials used in its construction and maintenance. She learned they did a lot of it themselves, teaching and learning the skills as they went. The shelter offered safety and education and empowerment, an oasis in a vast desert, but still one that suffered from a sore lack of funding.
Though Natalie was sure the touch of her mother's networks stretched even here, she had put little thought into her placement beyond expediency. It was humble living. She'd never considered herself overly materialistic, but her life had nonetheless been one of exquisite privilege. Jasiri scrubbed away the bias, and while the knowledge might not have done much to stitch together her own bloody wounds, her perspective of them certainly spun a new context. They no longer seemed so fatal.
She worked doggedly in those early weeks; there was something to be said for going to bed too exhausted to contemplate the bottom of a bottle. The memories burned up as surely as the papers in her father's office, and she let them scatter like ashes. Could almost convince herself she was normal.
Until it began to happen again.
The first time the light swelled in her chest it caught the slam of her heart against her ribs. But when it fanned out it only sank like droplets of water into the woman's skin; she didn't even seem to notice. It rippled, spread, until Natalie began to understand things she ought have no way of knowing. Of injuries beneath her surface. Terrible ones.
Her eyes widened, and her hand jerked away.
This new affinity unfurled over the next few months, reacting like the sudden emergence of sun behind clouds, and just as unpredictable. It was a violation, and an unfair one, even if she never shared the truths uncovered with anyone else. But she couldn't stop it either. Not even when it spiralled beyond knowing and into affecting, when the light worked to loosen the worst of tired muscles or ease the sting of old injuries.
A kinder sin than the threads that left three broken boys in a London underpass, but still.
---
* be brave
Late 2042
Green and yellow wooden gates marked the entrance, painted cheerful with patterns of flowers and leaves around the words kuwa jasiri* . They were hitched to a chain-link fence that surrounded the compound, but the last thing it resembled was a prison. The main building, a single story in the distance, burned like the sun amongst the trees. Natalie's head pounded. The dry heat, else the dire lack of alcohol in her veins since the departure lounge at Heathrow. She'd slept most of the flight, the guilt of the blazing argument she'd had with her mother locked somewhere deep. She didn't want to think of home. She didn't want to think of family. She didn't want to think.
The dirt eddied dust beneath her boots as she entered like a penitent. Samantha Brown's words echoed something like a mantra through her throbbing skull; the advice she needed to convince herself she wasn't simply running as far and as fast as her legs would take her. But dwelling on that twisted keys in locks she'd rather keep tight shut; fuck, but they were locks she'd rather forget she had keys for at all. She needed the change; the restlessness in her soul craved it more than the bonds of family. She'd seen first hand how easily those ties could be snapped; holding on seemed suicidal.
The building sprawled, breaking into sun-drenched courtyards alight with the patter of busy feet. She could hear children somewhere, laughing and playing. Someone singing, too, and for a moment the cadence of that squeezed a note in her chest that longed for the solace of ivory keys. She shifted the rucksack on her back, rejecting the memory.
A woman met her at the main door. She was dressed in the shade of a clear ocean, a bright white wrap about her head, and her dark eyes absorbed Natalie critically. Both brows rose a question she did not ask, but the slight purse of her lips did not make her look best pleased. Natalie knocked the ice from her bones, feeling every tired line of her body, and offered a smile and an open palm to shake. "Hujambo. You must be Amidah? I'm sorry, my Swahili leaves some to be desired. My name is Natalie Grey, I'm with the Cross."
"Speak little English here. Learn quickly, eh? Welcome, welcome."
Amidah's grip was warm and strong; she did not shake Natalie's hand, but clasped it tight in both of hers, squeezing warmly even if she appeared to find her new volunteer wanting.
The refuge was well established, a haven for women and their children fled from domestic abuse, violence, and poverty. The building itself had been produced sustainably, sky-lights relieving the reliance on air-con, bamboo and other local materials used in its construction and maintenance. She learned they did a lot of it themselves, teaching and learning the skills as they went. The shelter offered safety and education and empowerment, an oasis in a vast desert, but still one that suffered from a sore lack of funding.
Though Natalie was sure the touch of her mother's networks stretched even here, she had put little thought into her placement beyond expediency. It was humble living. She'd never considered herself overly materialistic, but her life had nonetheless been one of exquisite privilege. Jasiri scrubbed away the bias, and while the knowledge might not have done much to stitch together her own bloody wounds, her perspective of them certainly spun a new context. They no longer seemed so fatal.
She worked doggedly in those early weeks; there was something to be said for going to bed too exhausted to contemplate the bottom of a bottle. The memories burned up as surely as the papers in her father's office, and she let them scatter like ashes. Could almost convince herself she was normal.
Until it began to happen again.
The first time the light swelled in her chest it caught the slam of her heart against her ribs. But when it fanned out it only sank like droplets of water into the woman's skin; she didn't even seem to notice. It rippled, spread, until Natalie began to understand things she ought have no way of knowing. Of injuries beneath her surface. Terrible ones.
Her eyes widened, and her hand jerked away.
This new affinity unfurled over the next few months, reacting like the sudden emergence of sun behind clouds, and just as unpredictable. It was a violation, and an unfair one, even if she never shared the truths uncovered with anyone else. But she couldn't stop it either. Not even when it spiralled beyond knowing and into affecting, when the light worked to loosen the worst of tired muscles or ease the sting of old injuries.
A kinder sin than the threads that left three broken boys in a London underpass, but still.
---
* be brave