The cute lass who’d been wishing her boyfriend an emotional goodbye next to the airport security entrance on Sunday afternoon was in tears by the time I noticed her next, in the departure lounge. Good tears, I’m guessing – the sort that come from spending a weekend with someone lovely and having to part, knowing you’ll see them again soon. Sad, yes: but as a result of deep-down happiness.
Of course, had I not seen their embrace, I would have pictured an entirely different reason for her sobs. Her case had been brought the magistrates, back at home, some three months before. The cold verdict (“guilty”) – had come as a shock; the sentence – twenty strokes of the cane, to be administered at the local prison – had left her distraught.
They’d given her back her passport, after the lawyers had lodged an appeal. No reason to interrupt her education, they’d agreed – she could return to University whilst further legal arguments were held. And then, yesterday, the phone call she’d dreaded: verdict and sentence upheld, and “you must report to the authorities within 48 hours to receive your punishment.”
She’d fudged the explanations with her friends – a forgotten family birthday party the excuse for her sudden trip. And now she was here, trembling, waiting to board the flight that would take her to her thrashing…