Hello, Friday!
Settle down for the next instalment of His Captive Princess.
Read CHAPTER ONE Part One
Read CHAPTER ONE Part Two
CHAPTER ONE Part Five
Isha's scalp prickled and she shook her head. “Lies. Just lies. Think about it. If there was ethnic cleansing going on, why isn’t it in the news? Why isn’t the African Union or the United Nations stepping in? Tell me.”
“It could be because there’s been a blockade and blackout. The government blocked Internet access for the region, and journalists have been banned from going there.”
“That’s just to stop fake news being spread on the Internet.” That’s what Kweku had explained. “And a journalist got abducted and killed by the Ganuri militants months ago. The government doesn’t want to see anyone else dead.”
“The rebels say that the government army was responsible for the killing,” Kojo interjected.
“And do you believe the rebels?”
“I don’t know. But it seems to me that if the government doesn’t want to be accused of maltreating its citizens, it has to be seen to be fair. One way of doing so would be to allow journalists, of course with army protection if necessary, to visit the region and record what is going on. If the rebels are terrorising the locals, then that would become obvious.”
He was right. The Wanaian government had been trying over the last year to quash the rebels and without much success. Perhaps letting people see the horrors perpetrated by the terrorists would galvanise the rest of the world into helping to end the conflict soon. She would speak to Kweku about it this weekend.
“Thank you, Kojo. I appreciate you speaking your mind with me.”
“You’re welcome, My Princess,” he replied as he held the door for her.
“I will rejoin my friends shortly but first, the ladies’ room.” She sashayed down the hallway and waited at the threshold while he did a security check of facilities.
He came out and spoke. “All clear.”
Low music from hidden speakers piped into the perfumed air. A bouquet of flowers sat in a lilac vase on the shiny black counter.
After using the cubicle, she strode to the middle sink and turned the faucet when the door opened. A uniformed cleaner pushed in a large linen trolley.
“Good evening,” the lady said in an accent that wasn’t quite Nigerian.
“Evening.” Isha glanced at her as she washed her hands.
The woman was slightly shorter—could be because of Isha’s stilettos—and had ebony skin underneath the long black hair with a fringe that almost covered her eyes. She suspected it was a wig and wondered if the length of the hair didn't interfere with the woman's job.
“Let me get that for you.” The cleaner pulled out a towel from her stash.
“Thank you.” Isha took the warm napkin and dried her hands.
The woman pushed the trolley.
Isha assumed she would walk past to continue her duties.
Something pricked her neck. “Ow.”
Eyes widened, she glanced into the mirror, right hand reaching for the point of pain.
The woman stood behind her, a small syringe in her gloved hand.
The world went hazy. “What did you....dooo?”
“Go to sleep, princess.”
The woman’s words came from a distance as Isha toppled backwards. She landed on a cushion of fluffy warm cotton as more fabric fell on her.
Blackness hovered in her vision.
Opening her mouth, she tried to scream. No sound came out.
She tried to move her limbs. They, too, didn’t respond.
She only tumbled further into the abyss.
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