THIRTY……….

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Bottomline: So why had these guys picked me? This particular vigilante of a group is owned by one Mr. Adruiz Aranguiz an international sex trafficker. Their business entails shipment of minor girls across borders into Miami, New York, Texas, Mexico and Panama.This was the sex trafficking story we were working on….
If chronology is something to go by strictly, I had been married once… Long ago. I had a beautiful life,one awesome family somewhere in my mid thirties.
My daily routine was simple then. Drive my 5 year old daughter to school just after taking breakfast with my two beautiful girls. My next stop would be at GTO. I’d later come back home for lunch from during those days when the work load was light.
The mid afternoon traffic jam along most routes in Ethiopia’s capital, Addis Ababa made me to have a personal cajole to walk back to work after the midday meal rather than drive around the beastly Land cruiser Tx. I am approaching forties and complacency over exercises and rigorous work outs can’t afford being condoned. Not by the self.
I work at Gleemaniac Trade Organization in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. A much feminist state and a beautiful place with a rich culture. The Sahle – Work’s country really made me a staunch believer of James Baldwin. a stickler of his mantra, “People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.” I am head of communication department here at GTO.
One charismatic lady, Shazi Ruzihina, is a ‘housewife’ at the moment as she is on maternal leave now that our 2 week old daughter Enzi has come amid a nice, “get whatever you want” kind of life. Porsche one in precision.
“My love, I made you tea. I need to know if you are fine with a breakfast in bed,” she smiles gleefully as she quickly curtsy down to peck me on the left cheek. ” sure, but do remember I am leaving for an urgent meeting. Don’t delay my arrival, babe,” I say in progressive pitch as she walks towards the kitchen,barely allowing me wind up my phrase.
I am on some green tweeted jacket with patched elbows and cuffs, over a woolen checked shirt. Squeezing smoothly against my neck is a well knitted brown tie worn on almost all occasions. This Briton outfit is matched with camon – green Wellington boots that my daddy got me during my graduation dinner at University of the West Indies, Mona campus.
I am now in some dungeon of a place. Cuffed and mouth – taped. The room has got wide acoustics to match its large surface area. The lighting is partial and faint while the place’s status quo on matters hygiene is way below pathetic. I am the only one inside I think.
I have been abducted by some mercenaries who are demanding for some valuable information contained on a 1 terabyte,Transcend external hard disk from my employer.
” We are the invincible. You have exactly thirty minutes to show up at Ziraina hotel 2nd floor, room 286J. Only one person with the gadget well secured in briefcase. Do as directed to avoid any unwanted repercussions,” this was the last phone call I could recall. Picked by one amidst the terror inflicting masculine big boys as I was preciously restrained. This was almost 30 minutes ago.The guys had hit me hard with some metallic bar. My forehead took the concussion as I passed out only to come around. Waking up now, I’m slowly regaining consciousness, humbly and patiently scrapping my brain for boomerang ideas.
Ideas that ostensibly could set me free. But how am I to uncuff myself yet I have no military training?
Grinding and grilling through the floor is a poorly fitted door as a gigantic black guy with a black face paint and boots soldered his way towards the door. I raise my head as the lad walks in, shutting the rigid door behind him.
Thread veins sprays his forehead. He has a ruddy cheek on the left and a hooked nose. His thin lips were a purplish color with clefts at each side. He wore some queer baggy brown corduroy pants.
“Your company doesn’t care about you. Dem leave you stranded like a likkle boy . Dem no care zero about yah. Dem wan let you fi die on yuh own poor son… Your own family fi stress pon yuh whereabouts. You haffi 10 minutes left before we blow some brains from a likkle yard man. Mak you recite yuh final Bibilical verse kid. Au revoir.” the beast of a human blurts out confidently as his loaded AK 47 rests against his back.
No sooner had this particular guy with an accent that wowed me left than another one swaps place. ” Small boy, small rat. Do you know how dey go call rat in spanish?… La rataaa! And dat exactly what you are, lemme spend less time on you and more on my smart hell of a phone,” the guy whose name I overhead as Killian almost whispers close to my ear.
The other hit men for hire have nicknamed him “Kill” and the shortened version ain’t as pleasing to the ear since it sends multiple spikes of goosebumps all over my scared body, gallons of blood pumping fast through my entire body. Transfixed on the ground way more than baffled.
A slender screen I hadn’t recognized as television set from the corner immediately comes to life and the picture of my wife in a white top sipping some milkshake pops up. I am scared out of my ordinary whits, trying hard to free myself but all my efforts hit a snag.
So the Kill of a guy is busy shinning bright fluorescent light upon his face. He has gone offline for a brief hiatus then online again. I notice the reflection of his screen against the TV at the corner as he is sat on the floor with the 40 inch television set behind him.
So why had these guys picked me? This particular vigilante of a group is owned by one Mr. Adruiz Aranguiz. an international sex trafficker. Their business entails shipment of minor girls across borders into Miami, New York, Texas, Mexico and Panama.This was the sex trafficking story we were working on….
Initially, I had done a story back at GTO. The documented piece, in both print and video formats, that was what is making these restless individuals even more restless. They would torture me. Beat me up. Stub me. Tub drown me… Until I give in. They will only stop only if I sell out my own organization.
15 minutes afterwards, after about 45 minutes of online chatting, the guy uncuffs me. The grey tape from my mouth is swiftly withdrawn, stealing my mustache a couple strands of hair. Painfully it is. But I am a man and pain is my way. Maybe the only thing am used to.
Kill hands me some new pair of three piece suit. Charcoal grey in color with a maroon tie to compliment the awe strut. “get freshened up big boss. It is about to get nasty. But we want you clean before either your death or your rescue comes to meet you!”
He guides me to a bath tub in the adjacent room. I take no time as my wounds immerse inside the ice cold water. I am knees and shoulders above the waterline.
If Kill needed reminding he was still a convalescent, then the busy day had ultimately done the trick. He was too exhausted not to sleep. Choosing a unique spot at the entrance, he sits legs apart atop the cold floor, his gun beautifully held against his left shoulder.
Should I take my chances, should I cease bath and clad to kill only to flee away? Will they still haunt me for the piece of information if I escape? Why am I dressing up if they are to kill me. Has ‘divine’ intervention from GTO come to my much awaited rescue?
I am dressed from boot to tie. Head to toe. Some Bumbu whiskey bottle lies on the table. I decide to sip some copious amounts of the alcoholic drink only to brace myself for the great escape.Walt Whitman opined Life is the tillage and death is the harvest. Being cork sure I wasn’t ready to get harvested. Not now.
“My love, it is 10:40 am… Won’t you be late for the urgent meeting?” my wife spoke gently against my right ear. She is seated by the bedside watching me rest soundly. “30”…” Just for 30 more minutes love and I will be up with you. ” I answer vaguely as I toss my fatigued body over the 6 by 6 spotlessly clean bed. My forehead is wet as I realize my wife had an ice bucked on my forehead to counter the swollen area just below my front cut line.

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