Black Beach — In the Valley of the Shadow of Death
PROLOGUE
The stifling heat is suffocating me, amplifying the claustrophobia that threatens my sanity. Fresh beads of sweat erupt like a rash on my forehead, salty droplets leak into my eyes and trickle down to the tip of my nose. The itch is unbearable, and I am desperate to wipe away the stickiness that coats my face, but my hands are cuffed behind my back, the unrelenting steely grip of metal cutting deep into my flesh.
Just steps away, in the next room, I hear the grunts of exertion from the officer as he pummels the detainee who is ‘under interrogation’. The door is closed but the sounds coming from the room only serve to intensify the sickening images playing like a horror movie in my mind.
I am perched on a narrow wooden bench; shackled alongside a panic-stricken man whose terror is palpable which does nothing to curb my feelings of dread. Suddenly the door to the adjacent room bursts open, and I catch a glimpse of what is going on in there, scenes of suffering that I know will be embedded in a dark corner of my soul forever. The guards seize the man cowering next to me, unhitching his handcuffs from the rail, his hysterical pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears, his legs shaking so uncontrollably that he can barely stand. I realise there is a spreading wet patch at his groin as they pull him roughly towards the room where the other man lies in a heap, bloodied, and battered on the floor.
I want to cover my ears to silence his awful cries, but the handcuffs prevent me from shutting out the horror unfolding before me. The door slams shut, muting the terrified shrieks of the man who, just moments before had been sitting beside me in this dank, windowless cell at Guantanamo, the unofficial name of the police holding cells at Malabo.
No entiendo…
I don’t understand
How did I get here?
It feels like I have woken into a nightmare. I am trying to block out the sounds coming from the room next door. Trying to make sense of where I am and what led me here but it’s impossible to comprehend.
How did this happen?
This morning I was on my way home to South Africa and now here I am, chained like a rabid dog, staring at the graffiti roughly etched in Spanish on the wall opposite me.
‘No hay justicia’
There is no justice…
I close my eyes trying to mentally prepare for the agony that surely lies ahead. In the room next door, the terrified screams continue unabated, and I feel like I can take no more. Shaking away the sweat, I try to rub my face against the bricks to alleviate the itch. Nothing helps. I look around the room and find myself gazing into the benevolent eyes of President Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo as he watches over the proceedings from a poster that is loosely tacked to the wall. The cold irony that the poster advocates human rights is not lost on me as the stark reality of my situation begins to sink in.
I bow my head and reach deep within for the only source of strength that will help me get through this nightmare. I begin to pray. Praying to my God and harnessing my faith, I find myself gathering strength from the belief that my Lord will protect me as I listen to the unrelenting crack of the whip even as the low, tortured moans become quieter and quieter as the prisoner is beaten into oblivion…
And I know I am next…
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