The Zanzibar Wife by Deborah Rodriguez
“Harakaka! Hurry, hurry! I do not have all day to wait for you to finish your bread.” Sabra watched as her little cousin rolled the dough between his fingers, his round eyes seeming to dare his angry mother into taking action. The woman instead turned her attention to Sabra. “You are to finish your chores and go to your room and stay there until I return. Do you understand me?”
Sabra nodded her assent as she stood by the bucket, washing the plates and cups.
“I did not hear you! What did you say?”
“Yes, Auntie,” she muttered to the rough rag in her hand. On the other side of the house her uncle’s broad back was silhouetted in the open doorway as he squatted in the early sun, smoking his cigarettes and watching over the morning comings and goings of the people of his village, the vibrant greens and yellows and reds and blues of the women’s clothing in sharp contrast to the dullness of the cinderblock homes and dusty road. They looked like a sisterhood of peacocks as they descended to the market, their parade scattered with a handful of men heading down to the fruit stand to gather for a morning of idle chatter. Some would pause to say a quick hello to the straggling train of weary fishermen—the unlucky ones who had returned empty-handed from a night bobbing around on the water in their little wooden canoes, and the luckier ones who had already made their bargains at the market—all of them heading toward home. No matter who they were or which way they were going, all would be sure to stop and offer polite greetings to Sabra’s uncle and give pats to the heads of her cousins, already busy at play in the sandy soil.
“And don’t forget to put the laundry to dry on the line!” her aunt snarled.
Sabra lifted the last plate from the mat on the floor and slowly wiped it clean, anxious for her aunt to scoop up the children and head out to the market herself. She inched around her uncle’s unyielding frame and out the door with the heavy basket held firmly atop her head, dropping it down beneath the rope strung taught between two palm trees. As she bent and stretched to fill the line with damp clothes that flapped like bright flags in the ocean breeze, Sabra’s eyes remained wide and alert, scanning the distance for any sign of Bi-Zena. It wasn’t until after her aunt and cousins had rounded the path and were finally out of sight that she saw the woman approaching, her steps heavy and deliberate against the dusty road.
“Ninakusihi salamu. I bid you greetings,” she heard Bi-Zena call out in a voice thick with sweetness. Her uncle grumbled a greeting in return as he ground the remains of a cigarette into the soil.
“And how are you feeling this fine morning? I trust all is good?”
“All is good, Bi-Zena,” her uncle answered without looking up.
“I have heard she was back,” the woman said as she cast her eyes dismissively toward Sabra. “It is a shame that her sister does not choose to care for her.”
Her uncle swatted at a fly with his hand. “Yes, isn’t it? But it is no surprise.”
Bi-Zena nodded. “No. No surprise. And it is even more of a shame for you, and your poor wife, having yet another mouth to feed.”
The laundry basket empty, Sabra lowered her eyes and hurried past the two of them and back inside. She could almost hear her own heart pounding as she took a broom to the ashes from the fire that still smoldered beneath the kettle. She had been emboldened by Bi-Zena’s visit the morning before, feeling hope at last that she might find a way out of this horrible prison. But by the time darkness fell, her courage seemed to have disappeared with the sun, down below the horizon into the depths of the sea. Then, long after the other children were fast asleep, she heard her name spoken, her uncle’s sharp voice bouncing off the walls of the patio and through the flimsy curtain covering the bedroom doorway.
“But it will be all taken care of. I promise you.”
“And when? When exactly is this astonishing windfall supposed to arrive?” her aunt hissed.
“Soon. It will be soon. Sunday I will be going to Stone Town to meet with the brokers to make the deal.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Call them yourself. I will give you their number.”
“I have heard your crazy plans before. If you are so smart, then why are we not yet rich? You are a fool.”
“Do not doubt me, my dear wife. I am no fool. This time it is for sure. Do you know how many there are in the Middle East looking for ‘household help’?”
Her aunt spat out a laugh. “As if that girl could be a help in any house.”
Sabra knew that housekeeping was not the real future for the girls who were sold to those in other countries. She had heard the terrible stories of girls who became slaves to rich Arab women or, worse, playthings for their husbands. She had been warned not to get involved in talking with strangers, to never wander the streets alone. The thought of being sold like a cow or a chicken made her meager breakfast rise to her throat.
Sabra peered from the doorway to see her uncle still holding court from the threshold. Bi-Zena remained before him, her heavy arms crossed at her belly. “Of course, it won’t be easy, getting a spoiled girl like that to put in a hard day’s work.”
Her uncle laughed. “You sound like my wife.”
Bi-Zena clucked and shook her head back and forth. “That poor woman, with her hands already full with your beautiful children,” she sighed. “But this, it is something I can do, a small way for me to thank you for all you have done for our village.”
Sabra now understood Bi-Zena’s plan. Just to be free of this prison for a few hours a day, to be out in the salty air and clear blue sea within the comforting reach of the watchful woman, that would be enough to make each day bearable. But what Bi-Zena didn’t know was that those days might be few, and that Sabra was facing a future even more devastating than the one inside her uncle’s house. She held her breath and waited for her uncle’s reply.
“But the girl will be paid for her labor, am I right?”
“Hakuna matata, chief. Of course. I assure you that I will bring her wages directly to your door, every day.”
“And she can start today?”
Sabra could almost see her uncle’s greedy brain at work as he tallied the money she’d reap from a few days in the ocean.
“Of course. I will take her with me now.”
“Sabra!” her uncle shouted. But Sabra was already at the door, her sleeves pushed up past her elbows, her worn orange and blue kanga draped loosely over her head.
31
The shadows were growing long in the afternoon sun as the Lexus wove through lanes thick with trucks and cars that had been sidelined by the storm the day before. Everything seemed to have happened so fast. One minute Rachel was waking from the best sleep she’d had in her life, and the next she was in an adrenalin-fueled race to the airport, just like the old days.
At first Miza had shown little surprise at the images in Rachel’s camera. “That is the road in the village, the village in Zanzibar where I was living before I married Tariq,” she explained, her eyes narrowing, as if trying to make more detail appear in the frame.
“Are you sure? Look again,” Rachel insisted.
“It is my village,” Miza replied.
“But that makes absolutely no sense!” Rachel swiped to the next image.
“And that is the fruit market, near to where I brought seaweed in from the ocean. I am sure of it. Do you see the orange wall behind the tables? And the man sitting there, behind the scales? I would go there every morning before I went to work. I would buy a mango or a citrus fruit. We would say hello. I know it is him.”
Rachel took the camera back for another look. “What the fuck? I’ve never even been to Zanzibar!” Out of the corner of her eye she could see Hani’s father smiling a little. “So this,” she persisted, shoving the Leica back toward Miza, “what’s this picture?”
At the sight of the following image Miza seemed to stiffen. “That is the house,” she said, pointing to the screen. “The house of my uncle.” She raised her head up toward Rachel. “But where is my sis
Rachel pulled the camera toward her and frantically searched for more. But the screen displayed only those three images of the village. The remaining shots were of the factory and the old potters and the souk and the sandstorm and the room they now sat in—the only photos she remembered taking since they first arrived in Bahla, which now seemed so very long ago.
“Let me see that one again.” Miza held out her hand for the Leica. “The one of my uncle’s house.”
Rachel returned the image to the little screen.
“Can you make it bigger?” Miza watched as Rachel zoomed in on a tighter frame of the little cinderblock building. “Lower.” Miza poked at a button with her finger. “On the ground. To the side of the doorway. That is what I want to see.”
Rachel made an adjustment, this time focusing on the bottom part of the frame, and again handed the camera to Miza.
Miza gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“What?” Rachel grabbed the camera and looked again. “I don’t see anything.”
“There. The lion, drawn in the sand. My sister and I used to leave that as a sign for each other, right there beneath the window, when something was wrong inside the house.”
“A lion?”
“From the old tales. The lion was always the boss, the bully. He would demand that the other animals bow down to him. He would terrorize their villages, just like our uncle. So if our uncle was in a mood to take out his anger on us, we would give the other a warning.”
Rachel looked at the image again. “But I don’t even see a lion.”
“Look,” Miza insisted as she pointed to the screen. “There is one leg. And there is another. And the tail.”
“I still don’t quite—”
“Nobody knew about the lion but us. My sister is there, in that house. I know it. And something is very wrong.” The tears began to escape from Miza’s eyes. “I have not been able to reach Sabra for days. I know something terrible has happened.”
Ariana pulled a handful of tissues from the box at her side. “I’m sure everything is fine, Miza. It must be difficult being so far away, am I right?”
Miza shook her head. “My uncle is a very bad person. He has done unspeakable things to me. And Sabra, she is only fourteen.”
Ariana paled a little as she tucked her arm around the weeping woman’s shoulders. “I’m sure there is some sort of an explanation for all this,” she said with a rocky confidence that wouldn’t fool even a child. “Honestly, you really do need to calm down a bit.”
Rachel turned her eyes to Hani’s father, who remained silent on the sofa, his attention riveted to the screen of his phone, either oblivious or indifferent to the drama around him. Rachel wasn’t sure which.
“What if Miza’s right?” she asked Ariana.
“Rachel!” Ariana glared at her from behind Miza’s back.
“No, really. I can’t totally explain it, but I have a feeling that what Miza says might be true. Her sister needs help.”
“Please, Rachel.” Ariana cocked her head toward Miza, who was clutching her belly as she slowly rocked back and forth.
“I’m serious, Ariana. And you can’t tell me I’m wrong, or crazy. You said it yourself that there have to be things in life that can’t be explained, that we can’t necessarily see, didn’t you?”
A soft moaning from Miza silenced both women. Rachel flipped quickly through the shots in the Leica once again and then shut her eyes, struggling to summon an image of the girl she had seen the night before. After a minute a spindly form appeared in sharp focus, as clearly as if it were a photo. Rachel zoomed in on the girl’s ebon face, her skin smooth and creamy, her teeth straight and white. How young she looked. And then a close-up, her eyes filling the frame like two deep, dark pools that seemed to lead into a sea of despair.
Suddenly Rachel jerked back with a start, the eyes of a thousand children and women, men and boys, each soldier and refugee and prisoner, all the wounded and the hungry, every desperate person she’d ever seen through the lens of her camera looking right back at her through the eyes of this young girl.
“I need to go to her,” she heard Miza say.
“No, love, you really can’t.” Ariana took Miza’s hand in her own. “There’s no way you should be flying in your condition.”
Rachel turned again to Hani’s father, her heart pounding. “Can’t you do anything about this?”
Hani’s father looked up from his phone. “Me?” He smoothed the front of his white robe with one large hand. “I am not the one who can be of help in this situation.”
“What do you mean?”
Hani’s father didn’t answer.
“Tell me. What do you mean?” Rachel pleaded. “There’s something I’m not getting here.”
“What’s to get?” he responded.
Rachel looked up at the ceiling, her head and her heart still reeling. But even as those images from her past began to slowly fade away, she was left with one that remained in crisp, sharp focus—the tall, dark girl wrapped in the orange and blue cloth. The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to think.
“I’m going.”
“You’re going where?” Ariana asked. “I hardly think this is the time for us to be dealing with your issues, Rachel.” She pointed her chin toward Miza.
Rachel felt Miza’s hand clamp down on her wrist. She turned to face the woman and slowly nodded. For the first time in ages she could feel the fire that came with a sense of purpose. And for the first time ever, it wasn’t about the attention and admiration that came from appearing brave or noble, it wasn’t about the accolades that came with landing a front page. It wasn’t even about her at all.
“You must go to the village, to the ocean, and look for the seaweed women,” Miza told her. “Ask for Bi-Zena. She will help you.”
“What?” Ariana’s head turned from Rachel to Miza and back again. “What’s going on?”
“Ariana.” Rachel stood and reached for her backpack, wrapped the strap around her camera and placed it carefully inside. “It looks like I’m going to Zanzibar.”
The traffic slowed as they approached the outskirts of Muscat. “Hani, can you explain it?” Rachel asked.
“What is it that you would like me to explain for you?” He checked his watch and craned his neck to peer over the lanes ahead.
“How did those images get in my camera? How could I be in a place, let alone a place that’s a five-hour flight away, without even knowing?”
Hani shifted his eyes from the road to Rachel for just a quick second, as if debating whether to answer.
“Seriously, how long was it between when we left your house and you guys found me? A half-hour? Maybe a little more?”
“It was two hours.”
“Two hours? Where the hell was I, Hani? I mean, if I had gotten hit in the head or something, if I had been unconscious or dreaming, I could maybe understand imagining a place I’d never seen. But the images are right here!” She patted the backpack on the seat beside her. “Tell me how that happens.”
The traffic had come to a standstill. “There are some things we cannot completely understand.”
“Apparently.” The hairs on Rachel’s arms rose a little just thinking about her experience with the man’s father the night before. “But I can’t help but wonder.”
“It is good to wonder.” Hani took a deep breath. “It is like this, Rachel. One cannot live their life with everything in black and white, right or wrong, true or not true. A life like that, what is its purpose? If we think we know everything, then we know nothing. And we think there is nothing left to learn.”
“I guess. But shouldn’t we try to figure out the things we don’t understand?”
“Who knows? Maybe not. Sometimes it is the things we cannot explain that make life beautiful. Because you never know what might happen.”
Rachel stared into the trail of red lights ahead.
“Think about it. Yo
“I’m not sure, but—”
“And what is it,” Hani continued, “that causes a person to connect with another, what makes them determined to do something they never dreamed of doing before, even if it makes no sense, even if it goes against everything they ever believed? What makes a heart say one thing when the head is saying another?”
Hani turned off toward the airport exit and again checked his watch. “You should be fine. The last flight for Zanzibar City leaves in one hour.”
“You’re going back to see Ariana, aren’t you?”
Hani smiled.
“Ha! I knew it!”
Hani’s smile grew wider.
“I’m rooting for you, Hani. I want you to know that.”
“And I am rooting for you as well, Rachel,” he said. “But somehow I think you will be fine without my roots.”
32
Ariana barely had a chance to say goodbye as Hani rushed Rachel out the door and into the car. Everyone had assumed that she would be traveling with them back to Muscat airport and straight home to Dubai. But the sight of Miza had held her back, and she simply could not imagine leaving the woman behind.
And then the pains began.
Hani’s father had taken control, asking Miza to show him exactly where it hurt.
“Here,” she said, pointing to her lower abdomen.
He went to summon his wife. The woman brushed past Ariana as if she weren’t even there before sitting herself down on the other side of Miza. Hani’s father sat with his phone in his hand, noting out loud the time of Miza’s every wince as his wife spoke quietly into the anxious woman’s ear. As Miza calmed and the pain seemed to lessen, Hani’s mother turned her attention to Ariana with a question lobbed at her husband in a contemptuous snarl. Though she spoke in Arabic, the meaning of the woman’s words was clear on her face.