And so it goes...

The house next door was a brothel. A place where drink and sex were traded for money and favour. The children played in the garden oblivious to the performances of paid personal closeness that took place when required.

That day there was a commotion on the street outside the brothel. People were yelling, pointing, ranting and standing by to watch and as we drove by slowly I saw her come stumbling out onto the street. Her mouth wide open, wailing and her eyes showing immense fear and pain. I watched her, arms outstretched, body weak and the tears that ran the length of her cheeks stained with dust and dirt. She fell to her knees and from behind her there was a flash of wood as someone holding a plank slammed it with such ferocity in the back of her head. The blood that stained her Mary blouse was washed afresh with red which ran like little rivers from her head, through her hair and down her face.

My breath caught in my throat and I felt the bile rise together with the hair on my skin. She wasn’t moving too much, except to react with buoyancy to the blows raining down upon her face and back and flinching with every sudden movement that appeared to be directed toward her. My eyes grew wide in shock and my heart hammered in my chest. I reached out instinctively to grab my mother’s leg as if in doing so I might inspire her to stop this madness.

We pulled into the driveway of our house and the garden boy opened the gate waving us in with urgency. Through the window we listened to the screaming. Her wails filled the sticky tropical air and all those involved in her corporal punishment screamed in delight and condemnation.

I couldn’t process the madness, I’d never seen anything quite like it. I couldn’t understand why these people were not filled with any kind of pity or restraint. I wanted to cry, it hurt in an unimaginable heart wrenching way. It hurt from the inside out in a way that made me dry wretch and well up at the same time.

Pulling on the sleeve of our deaf gardnerer I spoke slowly so he could read my lips

What's happening?

D - shook his head and through muted rounded vowels and relayed his version of events:

She'd been drunkenly enjoying a night of excess before arriving at the house next to ours and at some point during the day. Still heady and high on cheap beer and wine she had accused her friend of stealing 20 Kina from her bag. A small amount to some, but a days wages to her. The alcohol had made her bold and her accusations which grew louder and more vicious fell on the ears of friends and family members associated with the accused. An argument broke out and before long the two ladies began to trade slaps and punches. According to D she had lost her footing and slipped. By the time she found her feet again she wasn’t just fending off blows from one person, but from the entire family. She bled and the blood mixed with tears and desperation and all for the loss of a 20kina bill.

No police came, nor an ambulance. Eventually the punches stopped flying and while I watched through the fence, she crawled, stumbled and made her way off into the rippling heat - her wounded wailing mixed with the sound of honking horns and daily grind

I don't know what happened to her, but as I watched her stumble off into the distance and the dust began to settle, D started to sweep the leaves again and my mother called out to us

'Girls, go cook the rice for dinner'.