My name is Anya.  I am a woman of Russian descent writing this from the comfort of my residence here in Saratov, Russia. I’m happily surrounded by the jade plants and English ivy my mother raised me to absolutely love, and covered in my knitted childhood blanket–fortunately.  

About 5 years ago, in 1987 I’d been preparing for a work trip to Egypt and it was the only thing I was looking forward to; I was undergoing extreme depression. If only I knew it'd be a trip that would have me cupping my hands and praying to God in a flaming bed of sand. As the trip approached, I’d dropped my girls, Inessa and Maria, off at my mother’s apartment. My daughters are beacons of light in my moments of darkness. 

My employer, Trinity Wollstonecraft, sent me on a trip to Egypt for a meeting with a businessman by the name of Samir Salah; I specialized in journalism and so I was asked to discuss and cover some of the controversy surrounding Samir and his business. Samir was in heat for copyright accusations. I was also asked to journal about my time in Egypt–and of course, spend uninterrupted quality time with myself. I remember it vaguely, but I confidently can sit down today and write about what I do remember. I will not let a burdened work trip make me lose any more sleep than I already have.. 

When I arrived in Egypt it was mid spring and I decided to visit the Great Pyramids of Giza. I booked this small excursion from the plane while on my way to Egypt. The trip was set for the day after the interview with Samir; Samir was uncomfortable nearly the entire interview; Samir squirmed around in his chair, squinted his eyes at me as if I wasn’t making any sense, and I felt as if I was an unwanted presence. His son, whose name I am unsure of, was repulsive to say the least. Samir’s son paced around the room. I noticed a weapon attached to his waistline. A knife looking figure, sheathed in a black leather. I chose to overlook the awkwardness of it all. 

When the small trip to the pyramids came, I rapidly set off – bringing merely a bottle of water and my phone; I promised myself not to journal or use my phone, but to simply enjoy myself and take in the views. I handed the two tour guides my phone that presented my digital receipt. They looked at each other and smirked slyly. The guides prepared the saddle on the back of the camel, and my foot lay gently on the stirrup. 

The camel strode gently amongst the hoarse rocks and the soft, calcareous sand. My tour guides walked forth gently, directly in front of me; clad in blue plaid turbans and long silky gallebayas, holding canes of some sort and conducting the camels thoughtfully. Every ten seconds or so, my tour guides would lock eyes with me and offer a soft, subtle and assuring glare, that somehow said, “almost there.” Then, I saw them. I saw the pyramids, three dimensionally – tangibly. I remember being speechless, and my eyes widening when the hollow pyramids confronted me. The pyramids were just as prominent and grand as the palace of Versailles. I’d never seen anything quite as beautiful as them in my lifetime. The pyramids all ranged in size. The three in the back were enormous and adjacent to each other, and the three closer to me were smaller and slightly more scattered; none of the pyramids were exactly the same size, though.

Instantaneously, my phone began to murmur. Mom… I thought to myself. How irritating, I stressed, hoping not to miss a single second of the scenery I was quickly approaching.

I carefully hoisted my phone right out of my denim pockets as it rang in refined jovial. “Ma,” read the core of my phone screen. I answered the phone hastily – it was probably one of the biggest interruptions I’ve ever experienced. My finger nearly teleported to the vibrant green pick up button, and I chuckled to myself, great timing, mom.

“Hi Ma. I really can’t talk right now,” I said firmly, as my camel sauntered through the desert. The phone call was silent for a moment and I could hear my daughters faintly yelling and playing in the background. My heart never felt so warm.

“How’s Egypt?..” My mother asked.

 “Egypt is treating me well. In fact, I’m looking at the pyramids right now,” I expressed – as the loose golden Gizan sand soared through my fine, shoulder length brunette hair.

“I’m gonna let you go now, bye. Enjoy yourself,” my mother said softly.

“Bye ma,” and the beeping commenced, as the camel trudged us past quaint, wooden shops. It was the first call I received when I was in Egypt.. Come to think of it, it should’ve been my last.

The camel and the tour guides came to a halt. I pulled strands of my hair out of my face so I could thoroughly see the pyramids. As I stared intensely in delight at the deep yellow pyramids with sand flowing along the outlines of them, my tour guides began to run towards me, as if something were wrong. Their eyes were nearly bulging out of their head; their mouths were half open, downturnt and fierce. The run turned into a sprint and their gallebayas flowed behind them aggressively in contrast to the direction of the wind.

“What’s happening?” I asked eagerly, in great distress.

I received no reply and they continued sprinting – and finally, they were standing on each side of the camel. I stared down at the tour guides, bewildered. Quickly, firmly, my admiration came to an end–when the tour guides began butchering the camel with bamboo knives. The camel dropped. I dropped. Then, at an intense speed a rusty syringe plunged into my flesh. I never knew the world would go black–or, at least.. my world.

Then my eyes opened –Yellow blur and static were all I could see. The wretched feeling of tight skin and marinating in the sand for who knows how long were amongst me. A name tag lay next to my half unconscious body.. “Abayomi Salah,” it read, familiarly.

The name tag was the same model as the ones I’d observed during the meeting with Samir the day just before. Abayomi.. I tried remembering. Samir’s assistant who offered tea on a platter to the meeting table? I anxiously thought, in great disbelief. Samir Sallah’s son..? I continued pondering upon for a moment, in a state of puzzle I’d never experienced before.

Then it hit me. Samir, the lawyer sworn to truthfulness in our interview and only the truth knew Trinity’s journalism company would be one of the first and most authentic reports of the copyright drama he’d been in – and so with that, was out to get the journalist who would put his reputation at stake. The sheathed knife I saw on Abayomi’s waistline was similar in size and shape to the ones that butchered my camel. He needed a pawn to ensure his name didn’t dig its grave more than it already had; his son happened to make the perfect pawn.

I hopefully propped myself up out of the sand and looked around for the pyramids. There were no pyramids. There was sandy terrain for miles – and for infinity. I observed my arm for a second and it was a porcelain pale; my arm was ghastly white contrasted by sickly dark blue veins. My rosy and plump lips were cracking and indescribably chapped. My hair, covered in sand, clumpy, and frizzy; my hair felt like some sort of bird nest. It was as if I were a corpse with a conscience.

 I clasped my hands closely together and I forced my head to tilt up at the sky – with the little muscle or motivation I had in me. When I should’ve been drinking jasmine tea in my hotel room I was praying to God in the middle of a foreign nowhere. Like the pyramids, my phone and my journal were nowhere in sight. Samir’s son had stolen my belongings to keep an article from surfacing. I laid myself back down into the sand without care, and there hoped to rot away and meet fate. 

That was – until I heard what sounded like religious chanting and hymns in unison.

I tried to determine which way the music was coming from..

Forward? No. Backwards.. I debated, itching my hair intensely.

I decided to go forward and I followed the sound of the harmonies. I kept walking forward, like a zombie almost–dehydrated, unhygienic, and deathly. Then I saw a single tent laying in the eye of whatever desert I was in. For the first time in what felt like forever, an inch of my being thought I’d be okay. 

As I continued walking, I remember clapping my hands every 5 seconds as loud as I could. As my presence became more apparent to whoever occupied the tent, a man walked out. He had a silky and white floor length goatee, perfectly complimenting his white unibrow and his surly eyes coated in black circles. His hair was a crimpy white too, tied up in a man bun. He held his hand up to me, signaling for me to stop in my tracks.

“Hel-,” I tried, but was quickly interrupted.

“You’ve been long awaited, Anya.” The mysterious man said calmly, with a blank face.