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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
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My 15 For 15 Entries 9/18- 10/2/09 - #668715 added September 21, 2009 at 3:01pm
Restrictions: None
September 21 - Desert
The robed man holding the lead camel's reign stopped. He looked up to his companion on the camel's back and smiled. "It is time," he said.
The other nodded, and without hesitation he dropped from the saddle to the sand, taking the reign. As the first mounted and sat atop the camel's back, he called up to him, "We must keep moving. The storm this morning set us back. If we don't make up lost time, we won't reach Bilma before auction."
"Yes," the man said from the camel's back, "Muwaffaq will punish us if his cargo isn't there for trading. The extra ivory we carry will fetch much salt, as well as the two slaves we bring." He turned in the saddle and leered at the slender woman on the back of the camel behind him.
Ige sat as tall as ever despite her aching back, and returned the man's steady stare. He spun around as the caravan began to move again, and only then did she smile. She was enjoying this trip immensely, even though the travel was difficult in the blazing heat of day and frigid temperatures of night. The sand storm that morning had forced them to stop and circle up the camels. The sand had still reached her in the middle, and it'd felt like hundreds of stinging flies attacking her from head to toe.
The interpreter had told her parents the trip would be long and dangerous, but with the grace of Allah they would traverse the Azalai Route without incident. Since leaving the Yoruba Region, she hadn't spoken to anyone. She didn't understand the men's foriegn tongue, but she liked the halting sounds they produced when they talked.
Ige looked out over the endless dunes of the desert. Her new life was beginning! She missed her parents already, but she'd promised them she'd return to Nigeria when she could. Once she'd found employment in one of the wealthy Arab homes the translator had spoken of, she'd start putting money away for a trip home. Her eyes sparkled as she thought about the bright future before her. Perhaps she'd even get to live in a shiek's home. Maybe the shiek would fall in love with her? Maybe she'd become a princess!
Her mother always said she'd go to great places when she grew. Ige's name meant "delivered feet first," and her mother said she'd walked into her life when she was born, and would achieve great things. Ige sat even taller as excitement spread through her like a swarm of butterflies batting their wings.
"I tell you one thing," the man on the camel shouted down to his walking companion. "If I had the salt, I'd buy this one for myself." He shot a glance behind him.
"You'd have to have more salt than me!" sniggered the other. "I'd take a slave that looked like her into my hut anytime."
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