The Baartman Bag is a serial short story told in four parts. In a futuristic society, black teen girls are abducted, taken to a slaughterhouse and skinned to make couture purses. One young woman decides to fight back.
First, they lop off your head. Then they saw off your arms and legs – body parts as valuable as dust – until only your naked torso remains. While you are still warm, before your blood knows it’s dead, they shear the skin from your back, breasts and belly with a great whirring blade, careful to preserve your flesh in whole swathes.
Or so the story goes. I have never witnessed the actual process for transforming a black girl into a couture bag.
I was brought to the slaughterhouse, a place my pen-mate Grace calls “the Carvery,” in May. It’s August now. From the outside, the worn aluminum building resembles a post-modern dorm. But only from the outside. Dusty sunlight streams through the small windows that span the length of the great room where about two hundred girls dress, eat and sleep. The slaughterhouse was once a guitar factory. Sometimes when I’m sweeping around our pallets, running my broom along the baseboards, a long-forgotten string or tuning peg gets entangled in the straws.
At eighteen, I’m older than most of the other girls, who range in age from thirteen to nineteen. Our skin tones span the dusky rainbow – from rose brown to plum black. Kunteé believed wealthy patrons of the Baartman bag would be charmed if the purse were available in exotic shades. He labels our complexions Sienna Madre, Tawny Hubris, Modern Coffee and Ghana. The darker the girl, the more premium the purse.
Yandi, a sullen nineteen-year-old, has been here the longest. She’s a Ghana. She likes to whisper about the horrors involved in manufacturing a human bag, blood-soaked tales of skinning and curing that make the younger girls cry. “They drug you first,” Yandi assures the wide-eyed captives as she walks through the great room handing out bedding. “You won’t feel a thing when they chop your head off. Then they soak your skin in salt water to keep it fresh.”
With her dark complexion, the color of mulberries wilting on the vine, Yandi’s bag would have fetched a high price had she not developed a severe case of eczema during her second month at the Carvery. Instead of hanging her in the yard, as they did to ruined inventory, our captors kept her on. She now serves as a warden.
We never know when our time is coming, when we’ll be sent to the blades. Most of us aren’t here longer than three or four months. One day, you’ll see a girl talking in the yard or strapped down in the oil bath and then you’ll wake up to an empty pallet next to yours. Then more girls are brought in to take their place. I’m number 1815. I have never seen the four numerals seared into the skin behind my ear but I trace the keloid every day with my fingers, rubbing its raised permanence.
Click here to download your free copy of Part I of The Baartman Bag!
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