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Two weeks ago, my journal was taken from me. The chief and shaman perceived my writing, being the pen and paper, as some form of magic or a demon. I guess it’s referred to as evil spirits here, and I was associated as one. When they held my journal over the fire, I screamed. I fell to my knees and begged for forgiveness, then crawled to them and held out my hands while sobbing like a baby. It wasn’t my finest moment. Desperation controlled my emotions as my journal is a link to home or for my family to know what has happened to me if I don’t make it out of this godforsaken country.
It all started when I took the shaman’s hand and showed him how to use the pen, hoping to impress him. Only, he threw it aside in fear.
I shouldn’t have touched him.
My friend collected my journal and took it away for safekeeping.
Today, my friend returned it to me, and I’m not sure if my journal has undergone some ceremony to rid the evil spirit away.
This isn’t an April Fool’s joke.
Much has happened in the past two weeks, and yet most days are the same. I’m now permitted to work in the fields with the women to earn my keep, so to speak. At night, I have the job of cooking the most basic vegetables.
The men hunt and fish. The women work the fields, prepare the meals, and are solely responsible for the children. Even in the fields, babies are carried in baskets on a woman’s back. It’s not like the men hunt all day, every day. I have found them sitting in the village making baskets from twine or fishing nets or hammocks. It’s fascinating to watch.
The people are self-sufficient, surviving off the land with no running water or electricity. I’m quite amazed by their society.
There’s still no sign of Maria, and until I receive something, I fear not to return and place myself or the other volunteers in the community at risk. Some nights I wonder if any of them are even alive.
The thought makes me nauseous.
How did volunteering come to this?
Life or death.
For now, I’m happy to stay here while I’m still welcome and until it’s safe to return.
38
EDEN
With a sigh, I close the journal and set it aside. At this point, Gran focused on coming home. The reality of how she ended up in the village would have been traumatic, and I respect Gran’s bravery even more. Before closing my eyes, I send a text to Samuel.
I hope you’re okay. I’ll come back tonight to visit. I love you xx
I’m like a pin cushion with the number of tests being conducted and out of every orifice. Please stay home with Rose and my parents today, and I’ll see you in the morning. I love you x
I bring up his number on my phone to call, and it goes to his voicemail.
“I’m not waiting until tomorrow to see you,” I say. “I’m worried about you. I’ll put Rose to bed then come and see you tonight. I love you.”
As soon as I finish my message, the phone vibrates with an incoming call.
“Hey. I’m sorry. The specialist was here. He just left.”
“How are you?” My voice trembles with concern, hoping he doesn’t push me away.
“I’m fine. A little embarrassed and sorry you had to see me go through this.”
“Samuel, don’t. I’ve been expecting something to happen only I assumed it was PTSD and not something sinister. I could’ve helped somehow.”
“Edes, there was nothing you could do, and I’m sorry again I couldn’t hide it better.”
“The point is you shouldn’t have to hide it,” I murmur.
“It’s something only I could deal with and believed time would help. Unfortunately, I ignored too many signs indicating I wasn’t okay.”
I inhale a sharp breath. “Please don’t say that. You’re going to be okay.”
