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48 Hours in Hell

By

Elizabeth Corleone-Vanci

Synopsis

  Dispirited, Aida disaffiliates from London and her oppressive husband. To embark upon an incredibly dramatic solo journey through war ravaged Kosovo in search of distant relatives.

  From one enthrallingly different scene to another, her courageous quest cuts across all known boundaries of normality.

  From tears of despair, chilling fear and devil worshipping to romantic temptations, Aida's journey was anything but normal.

 Her gruelling trek graphically flows from beginning to end through each scenario, as she constantly fights against unrivalled emotions.

 Her journey through the controversial horrors of war and primitive life, cumulate in an increasing resoluteness and deeper understanding of humanity and survival.

Approx. 79000 words.

 

48 Hours in Hell

  Slipping off his dusty brown leather sandals and bending to neatly arrange them. The Mowazan took a few steps towards the Mosque’s golden doors and slid the ornately adorned key into its massive lock. Pocketing the key, the man pushed open the doors and entered the huge room.     

  With prayer beads firmly intertwined around his fingers and a cursory look around to make sure all was in order, he crossed the Persian carpeted floor heading in the direction of some burgundy velvet curtains adorning a rear entrance.

  Passing through them while lifting his immaculate white robes up ankle high, the barefooted Mussulman ascended the stone spiral staircase. Through the tower’s Moorish windows, crepuscular beams of light reflected his shadow, as hardened soles in slow deliberation climbed the dusty stone steps.

  The sounds of unmistakably timely cockerels co-operating in natures declaration of a new day, greeted his arrival at the top. Gasping a little he paused, delving inside his sleeve and taking out a handkerchief to quickly wipe the perspiration dripping from his forehead.

  Placing it back under his robe, the Mowazan proceeded to unlock yet another door. 

 Bending to pick up an antiquated loud hailer on the stool, he stepped on to the terraced roof.   Pausing for a moment, he admired the artistically colourful glass dome at it's centre, masterpiece of the huge prayer room below. Then turning his attention down to the cities petite compounds, he smiled and seemed to ponder for a while. Taking up a central position, the Mussulman glanced down at the apparatus in his hand and pushed the corroded old switch on.

 Attentive to posture he straightened his back and with head high, intently looked towards the heavens. Inhaling deeply, the eager Mowazan with total conviction placed the rusty instrument to his lips and with a fervent passion, burst forth into a rising crescendo of soprano voice. Singing the Azan’s intonations in a sweet almost angelic pitch, he inspiringly summoning Allah's disciples to their first morning prayer.    

  Awakened from their nightly slumber, clusters of twittering parakeets intermingling with an exotic array of chirruping tropical birds stretched themselves across the swaying branches of adjoining palm and mango trees. Fusing in jollification, flocks of flap-winged storks gracefully cruised the wondrously intensifying lapis lazuli sky. Cumulating with vivaciously screeching seagulls rhythmically diving into the warm waters, Banjul vibrantly pulsated into its early morning symphony.

  Dragging the pillow over her head to curb the hubbub of outside activities, Aida dwelt on remaining a little while longer in bed.

Vacillating between staying and rising to continue her so far unsuccessful task, Aida felt the warmth of the new days sun settling on her legs. Pushing the pillow away from her, then turning to confront the clarity penetrating through the drab semi-opened curtains.

“I’ll get up.” She voiced to herself, energetically swinging her shapely legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up. 

Slipping on her sensuously short azure night-dress, her toes fumbled around on top of squashed balls of paper. With a quick shufti under the bed and all around, she became rather surprised at the amount of paper balls accumulated in ten days.

“This needs cleaning.” She mumbled to herself. Recollecting the agreement with the hotel manager for no disturbance, it was hardly surprising. That was what she was paying for, at least until the project was accomplished.

  Jumping to her feet and sliding panties up to her hips, Aida sauntered towards the bathroom, kicking at the screwed up balls of paper as she went. Running her fingers through mousy brown tangled hair, she switched on the mirror-light above the basin. Leaning forward to inspect her rosy cheek complexion embedded in silky tanned skin, Aida became well delighted with herself. The fasting endured over the past days, had made her extremely robust and more beautiful.

  It was the month of Ramadam in the Gambia and although she need not have abided by the religious imposition, she felt depriving herself of food for a certain amount of time, was a good thing to do. Having only drank water and a few cups of tea on a daily basis, not only her thoughts were more focused and decisive, but also a great feeling of ease and well being resided within.

Turning to brush her teeth, then quickly washing her face, Aida sat on the toilet. Wondering would the memoirs be successful and its beginning - yes, how would she initiate it?  Still pondering on the question, she stood up and flushed the loo. Washing her hands and quickly rubbing some facial cream in, she switched off the mirror-light and strolled back to the bedroom.

  She delighted in purposely crunching the paper balls underneath her bare feet as she crossed the small room and opened the curtains to an all powerful dazzling sun. Acknowledging it was going to be another sweltering day, she switched on the kettle. A whiff of burning firewood drifted through the window, entering her nostrils as she made the tea.

“Aha, preparation for the evening meal”. She muttered, reflecting on the differing laborious tasks between women in the industrial western civilisation, to those forced to endure their medieval chores.

“Inhaling all of that smoke straight into their lungs cannot be that good for them”, she mused lighting a cigarette. Noticing the burnt out candle in the middle of the saucer, she replaced it with a new one, just in case the electricity failed again tonight.

  Sitting down and placing her legs on top of the desk, Aida sipped at the tepid tea while staring at the blank sheet of paper, without a thought in sight. Feeling a prick on the leg, she spontaneously raised a hand and without mercy, smacked herself and the lone bloodsucking mosquito. Watching it fall to the floor, then giving a good scratch to the infected area, her attention turned again to the opened window.

  Standing to examine the netted covering for holes, her eyes fell upon on a young passing woman carrying a rounded straw basket on her head brimming with jumping shrimps...