When the car stopped after what Mary estimated was at least 40 minutes later, Onesmus dragged her roughly towards a crudely built but thick-walled grass thatched hut. They were in a homestead of at least four houses, she could tell by the faint lights reflected through windows. As he pushed her into the hut, she saw his driver head towards one of the homes. Once inside, her first sensation was a crushing weight, a suffocating pressure on her chest she recognized as hopelessness. Then came the smell – a thick odor of damp earth and decaying vegetation, clinging to the air like a shroud. Mary looked around and was met not by the familiar warmth of her parents’ home, but by the oppressive darkness of cement-covered walls. The one-room hut only had an old coffee table, two straight back chairs, a bucket and a covered clay port with two plastic cups. The floor was cemented but had cracks and sporadic holes. Moments later, she was lying on the cold, hard floor, her body aching, her head throbbing.
Her hands instinctively went to her head, her fingers brushing against matted hair and the rough texture of the floor. She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her shoulder, injured during the brutal force that had snatched her from her life. A low groan escaped her lips, a sound swallowed by the suffocating silence of the hut.
Onesmus walked out, leaving behind the stale scent of male sweat hanging in the air. Mary heard him locking the wooden door from the outside.
She was alone. Completely. Her parents and siblings had no idea where she was. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, sending another wave of terror through her already fragile state. The darkness was absolute, broken only by the faintest glimmer of light seeping through a crack in the cement-covered mud wall, barely enough to distinguish the rough texture of the walls from the uneven floor.
She was trapped, imprisoned in this dark, suffocating space, her freedom stolen, her future uncertain. The vibrant market, the comforting presence of her family – all seemed like a distant, fading dream. This was her reality now: a stark, desolate prison, a testament to the chilling violence that had shattered her life.
Her stomach rumbled, a hollow ache that intensified her feelings of helplessness. Hunger gnawed at her, adding another layer of misery to her already overwhelming despair. She hadn’t eaten since… when? The timeline blurred, lost in the disorientation and trauma of her abduction. Time itself seemed to have lost its meaning, stretched and warped in this dark, isolated cell.
She tried to recall the details of the abduction, searching for a glimmer of hope, a clue that might lead to her escape. But her memory was fragmented, a chaotic jumble of images and sensations: Onesmus’s cold eyes, the crushing grip of his hand, the terrifying journey through the night, the relentless pull through the tall grass. The life she led hours ago seemed like memory so far removed from her present reality that it felt unreal.
The silence pressed in on her, an oppressive weight that amplified her fear. She strained her ears, listening for any sound, any indication of life beyond the walls of her prison. But there was nothing – only the chilling silence of her confinement, broken only by the occasional mooing cow from somewhere unseen.
Thirst was a burning sensation in her throat that intensified with each passing minute. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, her tongue swollen. She braced herself, her fingers holding onto the cold floor, as she stood up to look for water in the pot. She found cold water and quenched her thirst, thankful for the mercy of her find. In another impossible but lucky find, she saw a blanket in the corner behind the floor.
Exhausted, she laid the blanket on the ground, wrapped half of it around herself, and dozed off. When she woke up a few hours later, she was grateful for the little bucket in the hut and the roll of toilet paper next to it. She hadn’t noticed it in the dark earlier.
On the table, where flies were soaking up the sun, Mary spotted a still warm cup of wheat porridge, which she quickly gobbled up. She didn’t mind that whoever had brought the porridge had invaded her personal space. After she was done, she could hear the homestead coming to life – kids answering their mom’s call, cows mooing, and men shouting what she assumed were greetings, though the sounds were too muffled to be sure. The hut had a tiny wooden window, but she couldn’t get it open. She really felt like she was in a prison.
Hours passed with no one coming to the hut until finally, the wooden door creaked open a bit and a bowl of food was slid inside. Light trickled in through the gaps in the window and a fissure where the wall met the thatched roof, but it didn’t give her any sense of time—just a shifting range of gray. When the sunlight disappeared, she realized the sun was going down. It had been a full day since her abduction. This routine became her new reality.
Days bled into nights. She didn’t know how long she had been here or how long she would remain. The endless monotony of her imprisonment began to erode her sense of self, her identity fading into the oppressive darkness. Sleep offered little respite, filled with fragmented nightmares of Onesmus and the chilling violence of her abduction. She often wondered how his family and neighbours excused her imprisonment and she wondered who cooked the porridge and food she ate daily.
She was always hungry though, a gnawing pain that weakened her already fragile body. Onesmus only fed her one meal a day, a simple bowl of ugali and sukuma wiki. Now, only emptiness echoed in her stomach, a hollowness that mirrored the emptiness in her heart. The thoughts of her family, the comforting sounds of her home, the familiar smells of her mother’s cooking – these memories became the fuel of her growing despair.
One day, a faint sound reached her ears – a muffled noise, almost imperceptible, that sent a flicker of hope through her. It was a repeated tapping, almost like someone working outside the hut. She strained her ears, trying to decipher its source, trying to determine its meaning. Was it a sign of rescue? Or was it just another cruel trick of her imagination, a phantom sound in the desolate silence of her prison?
She tried to call out, but her voice was weak, a raspy whisper that was swallowed by the cemented walls of the hut. She coughed, her throat raw and aching, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and hope. The tapping continued, growing louder, closer. With a renewed surge of hope, Mary pressed her ear against the window, listening intently, desperately trying to determine the fate that awaited her. Was this the beginning of her escape? Or a descent into further despair? The sound, faint but persistent, remained a tantalizing mystery, a beacon in the oppressive darkness of her confinement. Every tap was a drum beat, counting down to an unknown destiny in this desolate place. It was the only sound that mattered now. A sound that had the power to ignite hope in her desolate heart or condemn her to further despair in the oppressive silence.
The tapping intensified, becoming a persistent drumbeat against the walls of her prison. Hope, fragile as a butterfly’s wing, fluttered in Mary’s chest. Then, a harsh voice shattered the fragile peace, a voice that sent a fresh wave of terror surging through her. It was Onesmus.
The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of harsh sunlight that sliced through the oppressive darkness of the hut, momentarily blinding her. Onesmus stood silhouetted in the doorway, his face obscured by the shadow, but his presence radiating a chilling menace that made her shrink back against the cold, damp earth. He carried a rusty kerosene lamp, its flickering flame casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock her fear.
He didn’t speak immediately, his silence more terrifying than any words could have been. He simply stood there, his dark eyes, like chips of obsidian, boring into her, assessing her, cataloging her fear. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the erratic breaths she couldn’t control and the incessant drip, drip, drip of water from somewhere unseen within the confines of her makeshift cell.
Finally, he spoke, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. “You are a stubborn one, Mary,” he said, his words laced with a chilling amusement. “I expected you to be weeping, begging for mercy. Instead, you sit here, defiant.”
Mary didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Fear had choked her, stolen her voice, leaving her only with the pounding of her heart in her ears and the desperate hope that flickered, a tiny ember against the overwhelming darkness. She knew, instinctively, that this was not a rescue. This was something far worse.
Onesmus moved closer, the lamplight illuminating his face, revealing the cruel satisfaction etched in his features. He was a man consumed by power, by the thrill of wielding control over another human being. His gaze was predatory, devoid of any empathy or compassion, and Mary felt a sickening wave of dread wash over her.
“I have come to explain your situation,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You are here because I need you. You are going to be my wife.”
His words hit her like a physical blow. Marriage? This wasn’t a proposal of love, not a declaration of affection. This was a proclamation of ownership, a statement of dominance. A chilling, terrifying assertion of his power over her life. The thought was so abhorrent, so utterly repulsive, that she felt a surge of fury that momentarily eclipsed her fear.
“No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the word itself held a surprising strength. A defiant whisper against the storm of his cruelty. Her refusal, however slight, seemed to anger him.
“No?” he sneered, stepping even closer, until she could almost feel his breath on her face. “You dare refuse me? Do you know who I am? Do you know what I am capable of?”
He advanced, his shadow looming over her like a predator about to strike. She tried to scramble away, but her body was weak, her muscles aching from confinement. He seized her arm, his grip like iron, the pain shooting through her body a searing reminder of her helplessness. He yanked her to her feet, and the world spun around her, the fear choking her like a vise.
He spoke again, his voice low and menacing. He outlined his “plan”. He spoke about demanding money from her family, about securing his family’s future through her. He revealed his contempt for her family because they had been unable to come up with the amount of money he demanded, his utter disregard for her dreams, and his complete disregard for her humanity. He spoke of his intentions to make her his. To force her. To break her. To own her.
Each word was a blow, stripping away the last vestiges of her dignity, leaving her feeling raw, exposed, violated. The fury she had felt earlier was being replaced by a desperate and paralyzing fear. This was not a mere abduction. This was a rape. A rape of her body, of her spirit, of her very future. She braced herself.
The assault was brutal, swift, and violent. It was a harrowing display of his power, his cruelty, his utter disregard for her personhood. Mary fought back instinctively, scratching, biting, struggling with all the strength she could muster, but it was a futile effort against his overwhelming power. Her screams were swallowed by the walls of the hut, her cries for help lost in the desolate silence of her prison. The world became a vortex of pain, her body a battleground, her spirit a shattered thing, ripped apart and violated.
She felt the violation not only in her body but in the crushing weight of her helplessness, in the brutal knowledge that her very freedom had been stolen from her, replaced by a chilling, unyielding reality. The despair was profound, a crushing weight threatening to extinguish her last ember of hope. She hadn’t washed her body in days but the aftermath left her dirtier than the dirt she was forced to sit and sleep in.
When it was over, when his rage was spent, she lay on the cold, hard ground, her body trembling, her spirit broken. But even in her abject despair, a stubborn ember of defiance flickered within her. She would survive this. She would find a way. She would fight to reclaim her life, her dignity, her future. She would live to tell her story. This assault would not break her spirit. It would fuel her strength and her determination to fight for freedom and justice. She would never forget what he did to her. She would never forgive. And she would never give up hope.
The days and nights that followed were a blur of pain, exhaustion, and a deep, overwhelming sorrow. Onesmus kept her confined, his cruelty a constant reminder of her powerlessness. He provided her with food and water, but his actions were devoid of any kindness, his presence a constant source of dread. He would return at intervals, his presence a cold and heavy shadow that extinguished any spark of hope that dared to bloom.
She didn’t know how long she had been there. Time had lost all meaning, reduced to a sequence of relentless pain and crushing despair. Sleep offered little respite, filled with fragmented nightmares, replays of the violent assault. Her body ached, every touch, every movement, a reminder of what had transpired.
But in the depths of her despair, a quiet resolve hardened within her. Mary would not succumb. She would not allow this experience to define her. She would not surrender to the darkness that threatened to engulf her. She clung to the memory of her family, their love, their laughter, the comforting warmth of her home. These memories became her anchors, the forces that kept her alive, that prevented her from sinking completely into the abyss of her despair.
She was a survivor. She would not only endure, but she would overcome. The first assault might have broken her body but it had not broken her spirit. This was her promise to herself. The burning ember of hope, so nearly extinguished, flickered again, stronger than before. She would find her way out. She would live.
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