Hostage Chronicles I…

Hands tied, blindfolded and a sweat-drenched, foul smelling sack cloth which I am sure has a lot of dried blood stains on it covers my head. My feet are immobilized; placed under house arrest by the gigantic fetters that weigh on my ankles. Seriously, who did these people think they were coming to abduct when they chose these fetters, Kratos? I am sure I look like a toddler wearing Kareem Abdul Jabar’s shoes. I pray no one has taken a pic of this and tweeted or grammed it. This should like be filed under child endangerment…I don’t know. And I am not saying this because I am 17 years old; it is also because I am thoroughly embarrassed.

I flow in and out of consciousness; partly due to the massive blood loss from the wound on my lower abdomen and also due to dehydration and hunger. I have been in transit for two days in which, I have neither eaten nor had a single drop of water. Not much, just a single drop. Is that too much for a brother to ask? Sheesh! These people are poor at hostage service (You know, kidnapper’s version of room service). I mean the main reason you abduct someone is so that you can ransom them for something valuable; for that you need them healthy, or at least, alive. You fatten a cow before slaughtering it; you don’t make it go on a compulsory fast. If I was a slave trader, I would not buy a slave that looks like a hairless cat; it is not worth for money. So Mr. Kidnapper (I just capitalized that so that you know I have nothing but respect for you and your profession. It really takes a man of steel taye-tayes to get into this line of work), please, a melted mozzarella coated pepperoni pizza roll, I believe, is not too disrespectful a request. I assure you, I am worth more than all the pizza rolls that will be made in the northern hemisphere in the next 1000 years.

And to think that just two days ago, I woke up in my semi palatial bed chambers, expecting it to be just another boring, uneventful Thursday. I was gonna be made to go to school and maybe later hang out with Kyle and Non at the consulate as we waited for the free ride home courtesy of my dad. It was all good at the consulate and the mood was just right. This was because Majitha had just returned from her maternity leave, which she spent in her native village, South East of the Pakistani border, a small village that was not on google maps and so I never bothered to know its name. She came back with goodies and stories for days; both of which were part of the reason for her being my favorite person that day.

It was as I was thoroughly hitting on my dad’s new English administrative assistant that weird things started happening. Guards were running up and down, hurling words in Arabic (I did not know what they were saying as I am not very prolific in my linguistics). My father had tried (in futility) to get me to learn my native language and culture but I never had time for that. I loved America too much and since I was born here, it was my culture (whatever it was) and my native language was whatever the rock n roll and pop greats said it was. The only area where the Arabic gods got me was that I have been unable to shake off my heavy Arabic accent. I have tried everything but nothing has worked, so I embraced it.

“What if I threatened them?” I wondered at one point on the journey. “I have watched too many shows on Netflix and enough of King Geoffrey to not know how a threat sounds like. I have really been practicing on my accent and in sounding like The Rock and I think I can pull it off. Here goes nothing;”

“Erm, what time is it and who are you? Do you know who I am? I am Ambassador Sheikh Mafidhi’s son. You have messed with powers beyond your level of security clearance. Wait till the cavalry comes, I will have all your heads on spikes with your tongues cut off and pinned to your ears. I am the Maharaja, you have no authority or right to place your peasant fins on me,” I retorted, wetting my lips a bit to ensure that I sound as dramatic and dangerous as possible, like an Arabic Liam Neeson or Bane.

My attempt at sounding bad ass failed miserably; in fact it was a tragic sight. There is nothing more wrong than having a strong Arabic accent and trying to sound American; you sound like a drunken monkey who smokes ten packs of non-filter cigarettes a day. My supposedly mutinous statements were met with unnecessarily prolonged hearty laughter followed by what seemed to be an eternity of retribution. Apparently they did not take it kindly to me calling their hands ‘peasant fins’. I paid dearly for my attempted bravery. After the battery stopped, my battery ran out.

I came to with a weird itch behind my neck. It was not the giddy type that gets you all electrified, no. This was like when SheikSahal’s son (I have never bothered to know his name) came to school with lice. As I think of it right now, I regret not having run him over with my car. I was going to but the angel on my shoulder told me not to; so I ran over his dog. Oh I sure enough did.

There is literally nothing worse than having an itch and lacking the liberty to scratch it. It was Aristotle who said that it is the nature of desire not to be satisfied but that brother did not have this itch. At this moment, suspended by my bound hands by a meat hook in an old dilapidated building, I feel like I want to kill Aristotle for saying such nonsense.

“EiyoPapi! Come scratch my neck ese. It has a bad itch homie” (I have no idea why I thought he was Spanish, but he understood me so, yay) Oh Papi is coming alright, but from the look on his face, he is not in the scratching mood. His knuckle is folded, ripe and ready to explore my body again. He looks armed and ready to give me an ass whooping for the ages.

Just as he raises his arm to take a sure home run swing, the front door creaks open and this monster of a man with a pony tail (really dude, of all the styles in the world you went for a pony tail. SMH) saunters in. For a moment there I am inclined to believe that they had rehearsed the thing. (I have to try that one day)a808629d5e903849c3325d53e9dd8e2d

The hulk of a man walks over to where I am hanging, you know, just chilling as though I have nowhere better to be. His footsteps thud with every step, as though announcing to the seen and unseen of his momentary capture of their sphere. With each step my heart races faster and faster, revving out more power than the engine under Dominic Torreto’s Impala.

I am going to go on a limb here and say he must be the boss. How, you ask. Well, I don’t know;little pointers like his huge demeanor and how people just disappear out of his way when he’s passing. Oh, and he has a pet boa constrictor. Tell me that’s not bad boss material.

He stands before me, eclipsing me with his Maximus Severus Demetrius body like structure. He takes me by the chin, his hand almost covering my whole head; smiles, exposing his discolored teeth and noxious breath and says, “Welcome my friend, we have been waiting for you”



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