I know a place that’s responsible for most of these disappearances, and the founder of that place was a friend of mine. Obed Chawuke. Chawuke was born into the human trafficking business. His father, and his father before him, stole and sold people for a living. That’s why Chawuke was so good at it when I met him. Fully experienced. He was a young man, in his early 30s, but he was so wise; he made me feel like I was the one 20 years younger than him.

We met at an auction, I was there to buy a few young girls for a new whorehouse I had built, and he was there to sell. The auctions are held at random locations for obvious reasons. That Saturday morning was Father’s Day and the location was a church in an old Lesotho town. One of those big beautiful churches which are surrounded by shacks and poverty, a picture that makes any sane human question if the people who run the church, practice what they preach.

The men and few women who were there to buy looked like saints. It’s funny how suits, ties and long dresses can make people like us, look so innocent. Me and Chawuke sat next to each other. He constantly looked around the church and smiled. I think he too was impressed by the setting and how Pastor Kubeka even prerecorded a fake service to play out loud, so that whoever passed by the church, would hear what they expected to hear. Another genius thing the pastor did was to make sure that everyone in the room was there for the auction and not for the Father’s Day service. I guess it was a little easier to do that when no resident could afford a good suit.

The day went on too slow as the auctioneers pulled one ugly girl after the other out of their basement.

Their prices were ridiculous, plus – delivery was not included. I would have left early, but in auctions doors don’t open until the end. Unless something is wrong.

“Ugly girls for an ugly price, ha my friend?” Chawuke said.

“Yeah, everything is ugly,” I said, waking up from a mini nap I didn’t see coming.

He smiled. “Well, you not worry, me have something good for you when this complete, and my friend, sleep in church is not good idea.”

He reminded me of what my grandma used to say when I was a kid: “If you sleep in church, all the demons the pastor casts out of people come to you.” And in a church with people like that, I was lucky the pastor wasn’t casting any demons out. I had enough already.

“So you sell?” I asked Chawuke, and he shushed me.

After the auction, Chawuke invited me to his Jeep, and told me that he had four beautiful girls, at home for a beautiful price.

“What car you drive?” Chawuke asked.

“Mercedes,” I replied.

“OK, you leave Mercedes here, we drive Jeep, Jeep good for bad road home,” he said.

I listened to my gut feeling and it told me Chawuke was legit. But one thing I had learned about the business was extra security was never a mistake.

“Well let me go get my phones then… in my car,” I said.

My phones were in my pockets, it was my gun that was in my car. When I returned to his car, feeling extra safe with a Glock in my waist, Chawuke looked at me.

“You won’t need gun my friend, but it’s OK, in this business, extra security is never mistake.”

At that point my gut feeling told me to get out of that car but my pride didn’t let me, instead I just looked at him.

“I hope you’re extra safe too young man,” I said, a statement that was followed by a cold silence as Chawuke pulled off the parking lot and drove to the gate. I told the security I’d be leaving my car until late.

“Tell Pastor Kubeka that Chawuke steals dissatisfied customer again, until his people give good girls for good price.” Chawuke added.

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