The coastal night’s breeze pierced through Huza’s skin as she glared out onto the waters of the Indian Ocean Basin. Her overgrown nails traced the tattoo that would have once claimed her as property, with the ink resilient to even the most aggressive of scratches.

Thousands of miles and years away from her home in Mombasa, all Huza wanted to think about was her mother’s scent. All that she could think of, however, was the macabre man who stole her from her old life and suppressed her into slavery. The memory burned her distant accounts of liberation, shredding her past joys into sediments of distress. 

The irony of Huza’s situation was found in the life of trade around her. The docks of Calicut were flourishing with the soaring exchange of goods and welcoming of merchants from all around the world. Malayalam was a distant fog in the variety of tonal sounds around Huza; Persian and Arab merchants could most prominently be heard with their powerful enunciations of blessings. The olfaction of the port ceased to be described with a singular world: pepper overpowered yet notes of thick turmeric ended each breath Huza took. Silk could be seen at every corner, and mosques illuminated the skyline of the city. 

As life ascended around her, Huza grew increasingly more lost in her reality. 

She curled her fingers into a mighty fist, frustrated at her destiny. Why couldn’t prayer be measured in a jar? Why couldn’t she be given a threshold, a minimum of prayer necessary for her to escape her situation? As much as she prayed, as much as she clenched on to hope, life just didn’t seem to be made for Huza. She was born to be a slave.

“So you can’t sleep, either?” questioned a young boy from a reasonable distance.

For a moment, Huza lost her balance and was set to plunge into the cold waters before regaining her orientation. The boy was Aswin, a native Malayali whose family had lived in Calicut for generations. Hailing from a sailor family, Aswin’s grip on the oceans could be assessed as tighter than that of the back of his hand. 

“Brother, you scared me,” Huza murmured.

Indifferent to the startle he caused, Aswin motioned towards the docks.

“Can you read the winds?”

“No, I don’t have the time to hear the ocean,”

“Maybe you should, sometimes it can tell you how to escape,”

Huza brushed off his statement. She was grateful for the friend she found in Aswin. He worked right next to the house Huza would tend for. 

“If you wanted to vanish in the winds, no one would notice. Do you see how busy this city is?”

“There are eyes everywhere,” Huza uttered, but for once those words did not originate out of complete rejection of the idea. 

“You see that dhow? It’s the new ship from Arabia. The Arabs even employed lateen sails so that you can cut through the monsoon winds instead prolonging them. I bet I could get you a Chinese rudder in no time if you want a better grasp on your steering,” 

Huza had heard the hustling merchants talk about these powerful sails and how simply fighting the winds made the world more interconnected: and trade more efficient. What if it made running away easier too? 

Aswin honed in his voice, nearly unspeaking for one of the first times of the night. 

“If you get up early, beating the crack of dawn, an Arab merchant, Houssein, is heading back to Arabia. Our family knows him well and he owes my father a favor. He can sail you back to Arabia, and connect you to someone who can get you to the Swahili coast,”

“And what if I get caught? What will my master do with me? I’m lifeless but I at least have a heartbeat. I can’t lose that,” 

“Trust me, not a shadow will notice you. I speak from experience, the seas protect the brave,”

“Then let the sea determine my fate. I have given men that right one too many times,”

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