9.
Courtyard of the Molabayo State Detention. December 11, 2017.
I had turned up nearly an hour early to make sure I didn’t miss the flogging. The officer at the gate had looked at me curiously, checked his clipboard, grunted and admitted me. I suspect he was surprised to see a woman attending a judicial flogging. He pointed down a corridor. I followed the corridor and soon found myself in the courtyard where Meghan Shanahan was to be whipped.
The courtyard was not all that large, and the tall surrounding cell block walls on two sides made it seem almost claustrophobic. Barred cell windows faced down on the yard. A low concrete wall enclosed the space on the other two sides, and before the far wall stood the whipping frame. Several rows of folding chairs were arranged to provide an unobstructed view for those who might appear to observe Meghan's ordeal under the lash.
Being the first to arrive, I took a front row seat. It was a little after 11 am and the sun was beating down from almost directly overhead, heating the confined space to an already stultifying level. I was sweating even as I sat still. And the harsh glare of sunlight on concrete made me glad that I had thought to bring sunglasses.
Since nothing was happening, I decided to get out of the sun for a while. I got up, removed the light linen jacket I wore over my sleeveless dress, placed it over the back of my set to save my place, and ambled over to the shaded back-side of the courtyard where the temperature would be considerably lower.
I liked the view from there, and got my cell phone out to take some pictures. Then I worked my way around the left side of the yard to get another perspective. That brought me around to the side where the whipping frame was. Glancing around, and seeing that I was still alone, I stepped in front of the frame.
From there I took a picture of the still-empty seating. Turning around to face the frame, I took another picture, and then … curious to see it up close … I walked over to examine it.
The frame was larger than I expected, big enough to accommodate a large man, and it was made of heavy wooden uprights. Ropes and cuffs to bind a victim's outstretched wrists were nailed to the top, and there were ankle straps at the base. On closer inspection, I could see blood stains left by the countless number of prisoners who had been flogged on this apparatus.
I tried to imagine what it would be like to be whipped there. My mind went back to the night, just three days ago, when Tuma and his men invaded my hotel room and, as a warning, spread-eagled me naked on the bed and administered a brutal strapping. I remembered how terrified I was, and how much it hurt when he used his belt on my bare ass.
Being flogged naked on that frame with a multi-tailed whip in front of all those people, as poor Meghan was about to experience, would have to be so much worse!!! I shuddered, not only out of a sense of revulsion but also in response to a familiar sensual feeling I noticed welling up deep inside my loins. Why was THIS having THAT kind of effect on me, I wondered?
Enough! Get back to business, I told myself! It was Meghan, after all, who was to suffer on that frame, not me. I got my phone out again, and began snapping some detailed shots of the irons and the uprights.
I was so engrossed in taking pictures that I failed to notice that I was no longer alone. Suddenly a meaty hand grabbed my right shoulder from behind. Startled, I cried out loud enough for my voice to echo off the surrounding walls. A moment later I was spun roughly around to face my nemesis, Tuma.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing, woman!" he snarled as he wrenched the cell phone from my hand.
"You scared the hell out of me!" I snapped angrily, as I futilely attempted to snatch my phone back.
"No photos allowed here!" he said, holding the phone out of my reach.
Stepping back, he proceeded to stab a porky finger at the screen of my cell phone, presumably to delete all my elicit images from its memory.
"Give it back," I cried testily as I attempted again to snatch it away from him.
"Say please."
"Why should I?"
"If you know what's good for you, Ms. Moore, you'll stop causing trouble. Surely by now, even a spoiled insensitive brat like yourself would have caught on to the fact that it wouldn't take much and you could be over there on that frame feeling the terrible bite of the lash yourself. And have you thought, Ms. Moore, about how long you'd last laboring in the heat of the day on a Zilawean prison farm? Take my advice, Ms. Moore, and go sit down, watch what happens here today, report it responsibly as you have promised the prosecutor and judge, and then get the hell out of my country before I find an excuse to have you arrested. Comprehend?"
I nodded sullenly, brushed past him and hurried off in the direction of my seat. He watched me, arms akimbo, as I sat down. We then proceeded to glare at each other until others began to arrive and take seats.
I checked the time … quarter to twelve. Things were about to get underway.
Most of the arrivals appeared to be security men of one kind or another, as well as a smattering of government officials and dignitaries. They arrived in groups, chatting amiably and took seats behind and to either side of me. Among them was the prosecutor, Mr. Masippa. He extracted himself from the group of men with whom he arrived and took a seat next to mine.
“Ah, Ms. Moore. I see you have taken a front row seat," he said, smiling at me in a friendly way.
“I guess, I have … the heat in here is nearly unbearable. This will start on time, right? I have a deadline to meet.”
“We are always punctual here in Zilawe,” Ms. Moore. “You should put that in your article.”
At that moment, a door at the left side of the courtyard from where I was sitting opened and a hulk of a man, wearing a military uniform, strode through. He was impressively muscular. He could easily have been a lineman for the New York Giants.
“That’s Zelak,” said the prosecutor, leaning close enough to speak softly in my ear. “That’s spelled Z-e-l-a-k. He will administer the first 10 lashes of Ms. Shanahan’s whipping. He is very good at it.”
“You make this sound like a spectator event!”
Before he could reply, the door opened again. The man who emerged appeared to be some kind of official as he was clutching a document, which I presumed to be some kind of warrant. Behind him came two guards, escorting poor Meghan into the courtyard.
She wore the same peasant dress and skimpy top that she was wearing at her “so-called” trial. Oops, strike that. I promised not to editorialize!
This time the little shoulder straps on her top were missing, forcing her to hold the scanty and torn material together as best she could with one hand.. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying. She looked pitiful.
The official treated her and us to a quick and officious reading of her sentence, then ordered her to strip to the waist. She complied, leaving her topless, head bowed, and facing us. She made no attempt to cover her milky-white breasts, which I noted to be larger than my own, with wide areolas encircling small but perky nipples.
Again, my mind drifted to thinking about how she must feel ... how I would feel ... at that moment ... humiliated by an almost entirely male audience (I being the only exception) ogling her boobs ... horrified by the thought of what was about to happen when they turned her around and bound her to that whipping frame.
The official nodded. They guided her over to the frame and raised her arms over her head to be bound to the frame. She glanced back over her shoulder at me ... her breasts wobbling and swaying away from her stretched torso as they pulled her up on her toes. Our eyes met and locked. Then she looked away. They bound her ankles in place. She squirmed a little and her skirt slipped from her hips leaving her naked. Someone scooped it up and tossed it aside.
A chalk board on an easel was set up off to one side with a guard stationed there to record the number of strokes. The man who would begin her flogging took his assigned place. All was in readiness.
The official gave the nod. I shifted uneasily in my seat. Mr. Masippa looked over at me, with a "are you sure you wouldn't like to leave" look in his eyes. A muscular arm drew back. The multi-thonged whip made a zinging noise as it sliced the air and caught her just below the shoulder blades.
She grunted on impact, body twisting and swaying sharply to one side, but was abruptly restrained by her bonds. Several red parallel marks appeared, as if by magic, across her back. The guard at the blackboard drew a single white vertical stroke on its surface.
A second lash followed, and then a third. The man with the whip stepped away to dip the thongs of the whip in a bucket of water. Then he returned to administer a fourth and fifth. By the fourth and fifth her grunts had turned to screams. The guard at the blackboard drew a diagonal line across four vertical marks.
After a brief pause the flogging continued. By then she was writhing about wildly in a vain attempt to lessen the sting of the lash. Sobs and pitiful pleas for mercy followed each stroke. By the time the count had reached ten, her back had become crisscrossed with angry red welts.
“Halfway there,” said Masippa, cheerfully. “Not so bad.”
“Tell her,” I replied drily.
A new man, who looked like some kind of official, took the place of the first to deliver the next ten lashes. Everyone here likes to get into the act, apparently, I thought ruefully. He tossed his suit jacket aside, grabbed the whip and raised it over his head.
Meghan's whipping resumed with a vengeance. The next five strokes, delivered quickly and efficiently, set her round ass cheeks quaking and quivering. Her frenzied howls echoed off the nearby cell block walls. And for the first time, I noticed the faces of inmates peering from behind barred windows to take in the spectacle below. The guard at the blackboard completed his third set of five chalk marks.
My mind was racing as I tried to imagine how I could convey the appalling horror of this brutal scene to my readers and still remain within the letter of the agreement that had won me entry to Meghan’s flogging. I so wished they had allowed me a short video or even a few pics. Words alone could simply not suffice.
But the final five strokes were yet to be administered. I watched as the poor battered girl braced herself warily, casting anxious teary-eyed looks over her shoulder at her tormentor as he took up a new position more directly behind her.
The final lashes came with a cold deliberateness, carefully targeted for maximum effect. All five were delivered underhand to exploit the yawning gap between her thighs. She bucked and arched her back as the force of each stroke nearly lifted her off her toes. And each time, as the leather thongs were savagely pulled back, they cruelly ravaged her torn and bleeding womanhood.
Then it was over. Everyone immediately got up and walked away, many chatting freely with one another as though nothing untoward had just occurred. The girl hung limply against the frame, her backside aflame and rivulets of blood running down the insides of her legs. No one made any attempt to revive her or attend to her wounds.
I felt sick for having witnessed anything so savage. Bending forward I placed my head in my hands and wretched.
Masippa took me by the shoulders and guided me to my feet. In a daze, I allowed him to lead me away to the office that he used, as he explained, whenever he was at the detention center.
Once inside, he closed the door, sat me down, pulled open a desk drawer, withdrew two small glasses and a bottle half full of an amber colored liquid.
“Drink this,” he said, passing a full glass to me. Hand shaking, I raised it to my lips and drank. I gasped as it burned all the way down ... but it helped.
“Thank you for being so kind,” I croaked.
He came close, placed a hand on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Go back to your hotel, Ms. Moore. Write your story. Stick to our agreement. Just the facts. Nothing more. When it’s ready, file it. Let me warn you, though, that everything here is tapped. Tuma will know what you have written before your editor in New York does. As soon as you are done, my sincere advice to you is to get out of this country as fast as you possibly can!”
Courtyard of the Molabayo State Detention. December 11, 2017.
I had turned up nearly an hour early to make sure I didn’t miss the flogging. The officer at the gate had looked at me curiously, checked his clipboard, grunted and admitted me. I suspect he was surprised to see a woman attending a judicial flogging. He pointed down a corridor. I followed the corridor and soon found myself in the courtyard where Meghan Shanahan was to be whipped.
The courtyard was not all that large, and the tall surrounding cell block walls on two sides made it seem almost claustrophobic. Barred cell windows faced down on the yard. A low concrete wall enclosed the space on the other two sides, and before the far wall stood the whipping frame. Several rows of folding chairs were arranged to provide an unobstructed view for those who might appear to observe Meghan's ordeal under the lash.
Being the first to arrive, I took a front row seat. It was a little after 11 am and the sun was beating down from almost directly overhead, heating the confined space to an already stultifying level. I was sweating even as I sat still. And the harsh glare of sunlight on concrete made me glad that I had thought to bring sunglasses.
Since nothing was happening, I decided to get out of the sun for a while. I got up, removed the light linen jacket I wore over my sleeveless dress, placed it over the back of my set to save my place, and ambled over to the shaded back-side of the courtyard where the temperature would be considerably lower.
I liked the view from there, and got my cell phone out to take some pictures. Then I worked my way around the left side of the yard to get another perspective. That brought me around to the side where the whipping frame was. Glancing around, and seeing that I was still alone, I stepped in front of the frame.
From there I took a picture of the still-empty seating. Turning around to face the frame, I took another picture, and then … curious to see it up close … I walked over to examine it.
The frame was larger than I expected, big enough to accommodate a large man, and it was made of heavy wooden uprights. Ropes and cuffs to bind a victim's outstretched wrists were nailed to the top, and there were ankle straps at the base. On closer inspection, I could see blood stains left by the countless number of prisoners who had been flogged on this apparatus.
I tried to imagine what it would be like to be whipped there. My mind went back to the night, just three days ago, when Tuma and his men invaded my hotel room and, as a warning, spread-eagled me naked on the bed and administered a brutal strapping. I remembered how terrified I was, and how much it hurt when he used his belt on my bare ass.
Being flogged naked on that frame with a multi-tailed whip in front of all those people, as poor Meghan was about to experience, would have to be so much worse!!! I shuddered, not only out of a sense of revulsion but also in response to a familiar sensual feeling I noticed welling up deep inside my loins. Why was THIS having THAT kind of effect on me, I wondered?
Enough! Get back to business, I told myself! It was Meghan, after all, who was to suffer on that frame, not me. I got my phone out again, and began snapping some detailed shots of the irons and the uprights.
I was so engrossed in taking pictures that I failed to notice that I was no longer alone. Suddenly a meaty hand grabbed my right shoulder from behind. Startled, I cried out loud enough for my voice to echo off the surrounding walls. A moment later I was spun roughly around to face my nemesis, Tuma.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing, woman!" he snarled as he wrenched the cell phone from my hand.
"You scared the hell out of me!" I snapped angrily, as I futilely attempted to snatch my phone back.
"No photos allowed here!" he said, holding the phone out of my reach.
Stepping back, he proceeded to stab a porky finger at the screen of my cell phone, presumably to delete all my elicit images from its memory.
"Give it back," I cried testily as I attempted again to snatch it away from him.
"Say please."
"Why should I?"
"If you know what's good for you, Ms. Moore, you'll stop causing trouble. Surely by now, even a spoiled insensitive brat like yourself would have caught on to the fact that it wouldn't take much and you could be over there on that frame feeling the terrible bite of the lash yourself. And have you thought, Ms. Moore, about how long you'd last laboring in the heat of the day on a Zilawean prison farm? Take my advice, Ms. Moore, and go sit down, watch what happens here today, report it responsibly as you have promised the prosecutor and judge, and then get the hell out of my country before I find an excuse to have you arrested. Comprehend?"
I nodded sullenly, brushed past him and hurried off in the direction of my seat. He watched me, arms akimbo, as I sat down. We then proceeded to glare at each other until others began to arrive and take seats.
I checked the time … quarter to twelve. Things were about to get underway.
Most of the arrivals appeared to be security men of one kind or another, as well as a smattering of government officials and dignitaries. They arrived in groups, chatting amiably and took seats behind and to either side of me. Among them was the prosecutor, Mr. Masippa. He extracted himself from the group of men with whom he arrived and took a seat next to mine.
“Ah, Ms. Moore. I see you have taken a front row seat," he said, smiling at me in a friendly way.
“I guess, I have … the heat in here is nearly unbearable. This will start on time, right? I have a deadline to meet.”
“We are always punctual here in Zilawe,” Ms. Moore. “You should put that in your article.”
At that moment, a door at the left side of the courtyard from where I was sitting opened and a hulk of a man, wearing a military uniform, strode through. He was impressively muscular. He could easily have been a lineman for the New York Giants.
“That’s Zelak,” said the prosecutor, leaning close enough to speak softly in my ear. “That’s spelled Z-e-l-a-k. He will administer the first 10 lashes of Ms. Shanahan’s whipping. He is very good at it.”
“You make this sound like a spectator event!”
Before he could reply, the door opened again. The man who emerged appeared to be some kind of official as he was clutching a document, which I presumed to be some kind of warrant. Behind him came two guards, escorting poor Meghan into the courtyard.
She wore the same peasant dress and skimpy top that she was wearing at her “so-called” trial. Oops, strike that. I promised not to editorialize!
This time the little shoulder straps on her top were missing, forcing her to hold the scanty and torn material together as best she could with one hand.. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying. She looked pitiful.
The official treated her and us to a quick and officious reading of her sentence, then ordered her to strip to the waist. She complied, leaving her topless, head bowed, and facing us. She made no attempt to cover her milky-white breasts, which I noted to be larger than my own, with wide areolas encircling small but perky nipples.
Again, my mind drifted to thinking about how she must feel ... how I would feel ... at that moment ... humiliated by an almost entirely male audience (I being the only exception) ogling her boobs ... horrified by the thought of what was about to happen when they turned her around and bound her to that whipping frame.
The official nodded. They guided her over to the frame and raised her arms over her head to be bound to the frame. She glanced back over her shoulder at me ... her breasts wobbling and swaying away from her stretched torso as they pulled her up on her toes. Our eyes met and locked. Then she looked away. They bound her ankles in place. She squirmed a little and her skirt slipped from her hips leaving her naked. Someone scooped it up and tossed it aside.
A chalk board on an easel was set up off to one side with a guard stationed there to record the number of strokes. The man who would begin her flogging took his assigned place. All was in readiness.
The official gave the nod. I shifted uneasily in my seat. Mr. Masippa looked over at me, with a "are you sure you wouldn't like to leave" look in his eyes. A muscular arm drew back. The multi-thonged whip made a zinging noise as it sliced the air and caught her just below the shoulder blades.
She grunted on impact, body twisting and swaying sharply to one side, but was abruptly restrained by her bonds. Several red parallel marks appeared, as if by magic, across her back. The guard at the blackboard drew a single white vertical stroke on its surface.
A second lash followed, and then a third. The man with the whip stepped away to dip the thongs of the whip in a bucket of water. Then he returned to administer a fourth and fifth. By the fourth and fifth her grunts had turned to screams. The guard at the blackboard drew a diagonal line across four vertical marks.
After a brief pause the flogging continued. By then she was writhing about wildly in a vain attempt to lessen the sting of the lash. Sobs and pitiful pleas for mercy followed each stroke. By the time the count had reached ten, her back had become crisscrossed with angry red welts.
“Halfway there,” said Masippa, cheerfully. “Not so bad.”
“Tell her,” I replied drily.
A new man, who looked like some kind of official, took the place of the first to deliver the next ten lashes. Everyone here likes to get into the act, apparently, I thought ruefully. He tossed his suit jacket aside, grabbed the whip and raised it over his head.
Meghan's whipping resumed with a vengeance. The next five strokes, delivered quickly and efficiently, set her round ass cheeks quaking and quivering. Her frenzied howls echoed off the nearby cell block walls. And for the first time, I noticed the faces of inmates peering from behind barred windows to take in the spectacle below. The guard at the blackboard completed his third set of five chalk marks.
My mind was racing as I tried to imagine how I could convey the appalling horror of this brutal scene to my readers and still remain within the letter of the agreement that had won me entry to Meghan’s flogging. I so wished they had allowed me a short video or even a few pics. Words alone could simply not suffice.
But the final five strokes were yet to be administered. I watched as the poor battered girl braced herself warily, casting anxious teary-eyed looks over her shoulder at her tormentor as he took up a new position more directly behind her.
The final lashes came with a cold deliberateness, carefully targeted for maximum effect. All five were delivered underhand to exploit the yawning gap between her thighs. She bucked and arched her back as the force of each stroke nearly lifted her off her toes. And each time, as the leather thongs were savagely pulled back, they cruelly ravaged her torn and bleeding womanhood.
Then it was over. Everyone immediately got up and walked away, many chatting freely with one another as though nothing untoward had just occurred. The girl hung limply against the frame, her backside aflame and rivulets of blood running down the insides of her legs. No one made any attempt to revive her or attend to her wounds.
I felt sick for having witnessed anything so savage. Bending forward I placed my head in my hands and wretched.
Masippa took me by the shoulders and guided me to my feet. In a daze, I allowed him to lead me away to the office that he used, as he explained, whenever he was at the detention center.
Once inside, he closed the door, sat me down, pulled open a desk drawer, withdrew two small glasses and a bottle half full of an amber colored liquid.
“Drink this,” he said, passing a full glass to me. Hand shaking, I raised it to my lips and drank. I gasped as it burned all the way down ... but it helped.
“Thank you for being so kind,” I croaked.
He came close, placed a hand on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Go back to your hotel, Ms. Moore. Write your story. Stick to our agreement. Just the facts. Nothing more. When it’s ready, file it. Let me warn you, though, that everything here is tapped. Tuma will know what you have written before your editor in New York does. As soon as you are done, my sincere advice to you is to get out of this country as fast as you possibly can!”
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