The Suitcase

By Anike Wariebi

I was surely close to death. My lungs were about to burst, and my limbs were aching from being doubled up, but then suddenly, the suitcase where I had been held captive, was thrust open.

It had been a silly game we were playing, Funto and me. I don’t remember anything about the specifics of the game, up till the point he suggested that I get into the suitcase.

Our father had just returned from a business trip to somewhere in Europe, Paris maybe. As usual, his large, leather suitcase stood empty in the corridor, waiting to be taken up to the loft. It had been emptied of expensive gifts: a set of embroidered linens and place settings for my mother, and something called a ‘Walkman’ for Funto and me.

“You need to kind of fold yourself up,” Funto said, using his arms to motion how he thought I should lie. “Like this,” he demonstrated, curling his arms across his chest. “It’s called the fetal position; you know, like from Rosemary’s Baby.” Funto was always raiding our father’s top shelf of movies deemed inappropriate for our young, pre-teen minds, subjecting me to frightful tales of exorcism, terminators, and aliens. Three years his junior, I went along willingly with every escapade he conjured up for our mutual enjoyment.

I climbed into the suitcase and lay down on the plush lining, the fabric was the color of coal, matching the leather exterior, but fine and soft, like silk. It felt cool against my skin as I pulled my gangly legs up to my chest and crossed my arms as Funto instructed. I turned my head with some difficulty to face the side, and instantly, the black lining cushioned my head, molding to the contours of my face. The smell of the leather, was over-powering, filling my nostrils with the stink of hide.

“It’s so soft in here.” I said.

There was no reply from Funto, instead intense giggling and a sound of movement. Wondering what he was doing, I started to raise my head, but the lid of the suitcase jammed forcefully against my head, pushing me back down into the suitcase. I could hear Funto zipping the suitcase all round, laughing loudly – a maniacal belly-laugh, like an unhinged circus clown, punctuated by the metallic scraping of the zipper.

The blackness engulfed me.

“Funto?” I called out, “Can I come out now?”

The laughter was louder now, deranged peals of laughter that chilled me to the bone.

“OK, it’s not funny, please let me out” I said louder.

Over the laughter, I heard footsteps, loud at first and then gradually quieter till they faded away entirely. Funto had left me alone, locked in the suitcase.

My heart began to beat, slowly, then faster, till I could hear it pounding over the silence. Tears stung my eyes and choked the back of my throat. I began thrashing against the side of the suitcase with my head, knees, and elbows.

“LET ME OUT!” I screamed repeatedly gasping for breath.

Fear overwhelmed me as my teeth chattered and my body trembled uncontrollably. The moments that passed seemed prolonged, like I was paused in a nightmare.

“FUUNTTOOO!” I cried, “LET ME OUT, I CAN’T BREATHE!”

I mustered all my strength to bang against the side of the suitcase. I imagined that it must be shuddering with the force of my thrashes, a throbbing suitcase standing alone in an empty room.

When the suitcase opened, white light filled the space, blinding me, and air, cool against the warm sweat beads on my forehead, rushed into my lungs causing me to gag. I continued to thrash against the suitcase, unable to control the involuntary movements of my arms and legs or the howling coming from the depths of my stomach. I felt tormented, like a force had invaded my whole body.

“What’s all the fuss about?” Funto said, giggling. “It’s just a game.”

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Anike Wariebi is a British-Nigerian writer. She received a master’s in creative writing from Oxford University and recently completed a memoir about her estranged father, who was the victim of a decades-long scam. She lives in London with her husband, two daughters and dog. You can learn more about her writing journey HERE and follow her on Instagram at @anikewriter.