Sold into Slavery: The Story of Adaku,
A Black Slave Woman
Part 1
By Mary Devey
All rights reserved. Copyright © 2011 Mary Devey
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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The characters and events in this book are purely fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by author.
Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.
Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States (1809-1865)
Contents
Preface
Call me Nellie
Caught!
Traitors to Africa
Life in a Baracoon
Killing
Nkem Plots
Goodbye Africa
Preface
When we read with pride the rich and deep history that is the United States and page through the wheels of time in books that yield the most profound greatness of mankind, we know that it is this country that the world bears its ears to. That it is on this soil that the world listens and hears the roots of freedom spelt out for all to follow and when we cry for truth, we follow with our hearts and spirits held high because we are Americans. We know the power of freedom, the right to exercise our civil liberties and we know that every step towards humanity is a step towards a greater realization of the laws of our country where freedom to pursue the right to civil liberties is but the right of all who live on this great land.
But how many of us have turned away from the pages of time that told on all those who have but suffered the seeds of terror that sowed this soil when slavery was a way of life and when the life of a man cast no value on his soul but on his skin? How many of us have wondered about the men and women who lived their lives with no wants, with no love and with life being just a commodity for trade? That all that comes down to being a slave is to work the fields and live like a rat with a chain that says you have nothing but pain in your heart to carry, that when you hold your child in your hands, it is but for another who tells if he lives or dies or be sold and that you are just traded because you are but black? How many lives have been lost so another could enjoy the fruit of labor so ill conceived that blood is shed in the most horrific way, when a man and a woman cannot share the love they seek and when a child is born only to be killed by a mother who contends that the pain of bearing is no more joy than the pain of being torn from the little one they seek?
We have yet to understand the use of human labor conceived in the most hateful way when human beings were forced to create a life that is far from equal and just. We have yet to understand the machinations that drove man to make slavery a way of life and we have yet to usher the world when race can no longer impede justice, when the works of a man is seen through as the works for which he offers in the betterment of human kind and none other.
The Story of Adaku as you would read hereon is based on my perceptions of what one Igbo woman would have yielded to, being stripped of her rights to the land she calls home. It is the land where the works of nature yields the most beautiful, where food can be abundance and where life is construed in the most harmonious and significant way. It is the land Adaku calls Africa. It is my first story on slavery and it is the first story I write that attempts to discover the mindset and emotions of this woman who travels through a passage that bears nothing but misery and a loss which institutes upon her mind and soul, many, many perceptions about what the white man's rule was. It is my hope that this book will provide better the workings on the mind of man as he was then, allowing of course incidences which far exceeds the obvious and it is my hope that a new world and order is what will greet us one day when human brotherhood will be achieved through love and understanding than through the call for arms and through the creed of color. Let the abominations of the past stay never to be resurrected again!
To that, I leave you with this beautiful poem written by Ms. Phillis Wheatley in her book of poems entitled "Memoir and Poems: A native African and a Slave". Ms. Wheatley was the first African American poet whose brilliance was fostered through the loving arms of the Wheatley family. Even till today, Ms. Wheatley continues to astound much of the literary community across the shores with her inspiring collection of poems and of life as she had done in her days as a young woman:
On Being Brought from Africa to America
'T was mercy brought me from my pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God - that there's a Saviour too;
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew
Some view our sable race with scornful eye -
'Their color is a diabolic dye'
Remember Christians, Negroes black as Cain
May be refined, and join the angelic train
Call Me Nellie
My name is Nellie. I was not given the name Nettie or Jellie or even the name Mary which my owner thought was good for me since I was christened before I took that monster ship for my journey across the transatlantic. As I remember that terrible day, it wasn't something I understood at all when this tall, white man in a black cloak threw water on my head and made it wet but Ms. Mary later explained to me it meant I had become a Christian now and I should be happy. It was now a new life I was coming into, she said but for me it was fear that day. Fear that came because I did not know what they wanted to do with us. My hands were tied to another woman, I was almost naked and with child, and I remember walking not so long go, on wooden planks to enter a big and horrible ship, so big that even the little ones we used to move around on the waters could not compare. What I saw in there was horror none would ever imagine.
I remember it frightened me so much that day when I first made my walk on its deck and it frightened me to see people fall into the waters and break their head hitting the sides of the ship in a terrifying way. Sometimes two or three men would suddenly bang their heads on the sides of this monster ship until you could hear the wretched sounds of their skulls crack and you know they had committed nso ani. Now, a terrible life would await them once their souls left their bodies. We cried so much that day seeing the men shout desperately and then fight to take their own lives. The face of the young woman choking herself with her hands and the terrible flay of the whip on her skin frightened the children. Young ones, they were who had yet to see life and what they saw was cruelty and the whips of a lash they never deserved for watching the horrified scenes. It was horror which turned to fear and over the weeks, we lived through the terror of the cruel subordination of our people by these men who knew nothing about us or our lives.
Ms. Mary was so wrong. So wrong because I was frightened and I was raped and I hated the men touching me in places only my husband did. They raped the women and the young girls and so, why should I have to be proud of these people bringing us on land that used my bodies in ways I never agreed to? I felt like spitting on this black woman when she said that! How ignorant she must be to speak so highly of her slave masters? What is it that has gotten into her black mind that she would forget so easily the fears of being captured against your own will? I will never forget what they did to me to get a free body for their trade and now, they want to change me into a slave woman to do their dirty work for them! I will not submit to this atrocity! I will not!
The name Nellie was not something I liked because my real name of Adaku meant so much to me. When I was born, I was the only female child to my parents and my father who was already happy with his eight sons from his other wives, told my mother that "Adaku" was a perfect name for me. I was the only child born to my mother. I was small and a little fairer than most of the other girls of my age, so my father said I was his little charm and he was proud of me. Now, they tell me I have to use my new name of "Nellie" because it was the name they wanted for me. Why could not they just call me "Ada" if their tongue does not permit them saying my name in full? Everyone in my village called me Ada and it was easier to say that than their white man's name.
When I came to this land, I had to learn this new name so much so don't misunderstand that I ever pronounced my new given name wrong, because Nellie was really the name they really gave me, spelled with two "l"s and an "n" in front. And they said I should always be proud because now I had a white name I could be remembered by. They even told me to write it many times on the sand with a stick so I would remember always and it was funny following the strokes Ms. Mary told me to do because they looked like lines to me but I was told every letter I wrote meant something and I should learn it. The white man's language would be my language now. There was no more need for my language Igbo which I had learned as a child. This was now my new life here on the soil of Maryland. I was in America now.
You may think maybe I never fought to keep my name but tell me, did I have a choice? When I told them I already had a name and it was "Adaku", they laughed saying my new name was a better name to have and that I should be thankful because Nellie was a woman's name and I am a Christian now. I later found out it was a common slave name, made plain and simple, and since I was a slave who spoke no English to begin with, it would be easy for me say this name since there were not too many syllables I needed to pronounce. The woman next to me whom they also bought at the market was already named "Mary", a homegrown slave woman who came to this world as a young child, and she spoke English and Igbo, my language which made it easier for them to have her train me. I thought I could finally have someone to talk to, another woman I could cry to from my homeland and ask for help and maybe share with her my hope to return to Africa someday but I found that Mary was not someone I liked.
She made me feel I was not good all the time and told me I was to remember my new name always and that on the white man's land, there was nothing else that mattered but following the rules and doing as we were told. She said my name "Adaku" meant nothing anymore and I should forget it. It was not a Christian name. She told me I was to call her Ms. Mary going forward and I have always remembered that. Ms. Mary sometimes laughed at me and would only talk to the older ones, the ones who spoke the white man's language and she never let me rest much. She told me if I worked hard, I could do well like her some day but it will be a long time and I should always follow the rules. Rules were very important if I did not want to be beaten up with that wicked whip they used and I followed her because when they beat us, it hurt a lot and sometimes, we could not work for days. Sometimes, they even used our own people to beat us up and they beat us good.
One day when Ms. Mary seemed in a good mood, she took out a shiny silver object she kept close to her chest and showed it to me. It was an object she said was given to her as a gift by the slave owner's wife, Mrs. Saunderson and it had two lines drawn in the opposite way, one line of which was smaller than the other and I did not understand what it was at all. She told me that this meant she was now a Christian woman and she read a religious book that told her about God and that it was Jesus who would be the one she would only follow. I did not understand at all. I asked her what she thought about Chukwu and of Chineke, the central system upon which our lives in Igboland are governed when each part works independently of the other but with the greater unison of the result achieved but she laughed telling me even the sun god would have no power against Jesus. She told me I should learn about Jesus because I would find out that he is more powerful than Chukwu and that Ala would not compare with the sacred mother of Jesus, Mary of which she was named in honor of. I could not believe the words of my own countrywoman degrading the powers of Ala because she was the symbolic representation of the people of our tribe. Without her, our land would not bear fruits nor would we see happy children with us. She was the Goddess for us, the daughter of Chukwu and she had a special place in our village where she was placed in Mbaris so all would remember her as they walked past to the village market, that it is important to always do good. And sometimes, when the harvest was really good, we would all dance to honor her and thank her for the new crops which grew. The Mbari was a sacred temple for us and we honored Ala but here was my own country woman saying we prayed to Gods that were not real and good. Demons she said and I hated her for it. My parents raised me on doing good in this world and now, I spoke to a traitor from my own tribe who told me what I prayed to was false. I never said anything when she told me all this but I remembered and I would still pray to Ala and hope that the harvest would always be good so my husband and children would always be full. I wondered what bed Adekunle now warmed in and my tears came too much. I missed my husband so much.
Many times, Ms. Mary would come to see me if I was busy washing the floor in the house or drying the clothes out in the yard. Sometimes she would talk. Most times, she just wanted to watch me. She told me that she was my boss now. The lady of the house had said so because she was very experienced and that in all matters that involved the house, I should always seek her approval first. One day, when she was showing me how to clean the dirt off the wood, she said I should not think about my life anymore in Africa. She told me I had to start my life again in this new land she said was my home. But all I saw was black people were made as workers for the rich white men to make more money from the market. I thought it was unfair because in my land, we had plenty to feed us but in this land, there was no happiness that I could see on the faces of the Ashantis, the Yorubas or the Igbos who now worked as slaves for the white men. You would never see a white man work for a black man, so I could see no fairness in all this. But Ms. Mary felt it was the way God destined our lives to be. Some of us were lucky and some of us were not. Those who escaped the slave traders stayed in Africa and those who did not, were to become slaves as she and I was. But the choices in life we had to take now had to be based on the reality of our journey and she told me she accepted her path well but I had to learn better she could see.
I was shocked she said that. When I said nothing, she said that at least I didn't have to live in a village anymore with customs that allowed a man to hit a woman and if I was lucky, my owner would find me another man so I could start a family again. She told me my husband would have found another woman to care for my sons and it was the way life had to be. I was shocked when she said this and when I cried, she got up and told me I should be brave inside and not be silly. This was my country now and I was in a civilized world together with people like her and I should be proud because I survived the seas and uncertain death on the ship. I survived because I was a fighter. She said this means God had chosen me to live so I could get a chance to start a new life on this land. Without asking, she opened my hands and gave me a book and told me this was the book of our new religion and she would teach me soon how to pray. I was to live like a Christian woman she said and I would now meet other Africans who would be my friends.
I was not sure why she told me I should be proud. I was not and I was not happy when she said I should have no more affiliation to the land I was born in. Ms. Mary also told me that we were wrong in praying to the many Gods and Goddesses of our Igbo people and that the new God I was given was the one who will get me to Heaven. Although I was angry, I tried not to show it. I could see Ms. Mary did not care about my people anymore. She did not care about who she was. She cared about the white people very much and she wanted to be the one they would use to give instructions to all the other slaves who worked on the plantation. Although I could see she was given much authority, she was only in charge of a few of us in the kitchen and the housekeeping of this large house. And many times, I saw her letting Mr. Saunderson, the white man whom I was told was my owner, touch her in places she should not allow. Then they would go into a room by the corner of the library and I would not see her for a few hours. I did not understand what was going on but one day when I asked her about the strange noises that came from the room, she told me it was because Mr. Saunderson needed to know how good each of us were. I knew Ms. Mary was telling me lies but I said nothing. I just kept quiet and minded my business so I would not get in trouble. I wanted to meet others who longed to escape the Saunderson Plantation and to that, I prayed to Ala to help me find the way.
The days went fast but I always kept myself busy doing work. I did not want to think too much about my fate. The Gods had lured me here knowing it was not the place I wanted to be in and many times when I slept, I thought about what Ms. Mary had said. Did I pray to bad Gods and Goddesses who would hurt us? Wasn't Chukwu our benevolent creator who made the universe happen for us? Was there not a God of Justice for us who took care of our land and made sure only the right was done? Did I do wrong being a woman from a tribe who believed in the sanctity of the human soul, that to be a born was a gift from God and to take it was wrongful and against the balance of our universe? Was it wrong for a young boy to be thrown in the bushes if his teeth did not come out before his time when death struck him in the most unfortunate way? Did I do wrong by being born in a society that believed that all humans were created equal and that being an Igbo means you can be a chief if you worked hard and that we did not always need kings to do well in our society? After all, my father was a village chieftain and people listened to him. He was also a warrior but he told all of us if we worked and earned the respect of our people, we can be a good member of our community and everyone will like us. In Igboland, we just followed rules and we did the right thing so our society lived harmoniously. It was the white man with his guns who hurt our people and caused fights. Some called him the agbara, the one who knew the sciences better than we did but I say he brought turmoil and destruction to our land with his gun, cheating us of our gold and ivory when he gave only iron ore for an exchange. How could Ms. Mary forget that and how could she forget that it is us, the Igbo people, who only paid tribute to the old people? In this land, the old are treated wickedly and I could see that the poor and the old were given no place in this horrible place that I am forced to call my home now. Ms. Mary must have forgotten that our society loved the old people. We never hurt our people and we always respected our Umunne because we believed our mothers' lineage is as important as our fathers' so the family honor is always kept high. Had she forgotten but I could see she had. It was sad for me that the Gods gave me this fate now because I did not want to live anymore. I did not want to work for another as a slave and I just wanted to die if only for my pride. How I hated the white man for making me a pawn for his game but more so, I hated my people for succumbing to the viles of the white trader who promised little for a lot more.
I will not forget the name my mother and father gave me. I was called Adaku because my father never had a daughter after so many sons were born, and when I was finally born to his third wife, I was considered their treasure. All my brothers loved me and I was treated well in my family by my father who became the local chieftain for our village. My father told me that I gave him the luck to become the chief of our village and now, our family would enjoy all the benefits which came from him being a recognized elder of the village. Now, all disputes involving family disputes over the bridegroom not giving cattle to the bride's family after marriage and disputes involving property and social customs were handled by my father. Therefore, I could not understand how Ms. Mary could forget her position and life in Africa. I could not forget because our names were what told us of our heritage and our people. The name was what gave us a purpose to our family and the honor that our family accords to us. I could not understand how a black woman from my country could ever tell me to forget my name. It hurt to know that and it hurt to know that I should be told this way by a woman who should be proud of her own roots but eventually I learned on this soil that being African meant nothing but being a slave meant everything to the white man. I was owned by a white family from a Maryland plantation and Ms. Mary told me it was important I followed the new life now. Maybe, one day, she said, there would be freedom for our people. A pipe dream maybe, because I never saw that happening anymore. All I saw was torture and ill treatment by the white man and by the black man who was given the power to be the white man's eyes. Later when they wanted me to have a baby, I was told to do it with another man, a man from the Ashanti tribe, the same ones who were guilty of selling us away and he was a man twenty years older than I. It was the worst time of my life. I really wanted to cry. I felt so used and so insulted.
Over the days and then weeks, if we worked hard, we were told there might be chance for freedom but freedom for me was not the way I envisioned anymore. The freedom to remember left painful blotches on my human soul and told me how happy the white man must have been when he caught me, a young black woman ripe with the age of having birthed two children and one still growing in the belly almost coming to time. Freedom for me was just a mock play when white man let us work to the way he thought our lives should be, with the few choices he gave us and with his backyard to play. Freedom was a lie and it was to this world I now owed my allegiance to. It was this world that I was forced to call home.
I remember I was frightened when they had us surrounded that fateful day. It was just me and my friend and we were berry hunting when strong, white hands pulled us from the bushes and dragged us to follow them. I was so eager to find those fruits that day. I knew there would be plenty for two families to feed on and so before the sun came out, I had told my friend, Ndulu, we should hunt so no one else would be there to take our share away. My two boys love to eat berries. It is what we get for eating on some days when just fruits and yam were ready for the picking and meat was scarce.
With one child in my belly, I also thought it would be better to have company when I did the picking. I did not want to be caught by some wild animal and not have someone to fight with and my friend, Ndulu, was a great hunter who worked the hunts when her husband was away. She would know what to do when the spotted hyenas came. They were fierce creatures but it was not the hungry hyenas which came that day. What came was something we never quite expected. They were tall, white men we saw that day with their guns and whips. And though I was frightened when we were caught that day, I remember seeing two black men wearing turbans and standing with these hated white slave traders. I could tell they were not of my tribe and spoke in a strange language I had never heard before. Seeing them come with the white men made me angry because I knew what they wanted. They wanted to take us away and they were going to take us without our husbands knowing. That made me really angry but we could not do anything. I was heavy with child and they had guns.
We hadn't known they were watching and waiting for us, and when they pulled me and Ndulu with their hands, we threw our weapons down quickly. We knew we were caught and we did not want trouble. When they knew we would not fight, they took me and my friend Ndulu out on the open grassland and there they began checking all my parts to see if I was good to go and I remember so well this pale colored man with big mutton chopped moustache with a face so pink and chubby who began touching me on my breasts, fondling it a little because I had big breasts already growing with the promise of milk for the little one who was growing in me. Then without warning, he began slapping me on my buttocks to see if I was firm. I was so scared when they did that because I was still heavy with child and when they laughed, I remember seeing them look at me pointing at my full belly almost ready to burst and nodding their heads, looking so happy and so pink and so sweaty in the hot sun. How I hated them so! My friend Ndulu started to cry when they did all those same bad things to her too but when they put us on the cart in ropes which they tied around our necks and hands and legs to join us both, I knew we would never see our homes again. There was no chance of escape. I know they made sure of that.
I cried so much that day because I knew they would do what everyone said the white man did. They would take us to some land far, far away and I would never see my two boys and husband again. Ndulu told me they would cook and eat us but I told her that maybe, they would try to make us work because we blacks were known to work so hard in the blazing, hot sun. We were not afraid to get dark because we were already black. Then I told her I had heard the older ones speak many times to be careful about what lay in the bushes while we walked in small groups and alone sometimes. I remember how the old people would say of bad black people who sold the innocent just to fill their pockets and greed for white men's goods. I used to listen to the old people speak but we never saw anyone who would give our people away so easily to the white man but I guess I was wrong. Someone in my tribe had been quick to exchange us for a treat with some corn or iron because I do not remember telling anyone where Ndulu and I were going unless my dear friend had shared it with some traitor who told on us. But no matter, we were caught now. Asking my friend to recount who else she shared our whereabouts with was not going to help at all. The deed was done and now, it remained for us to see if there was a chance for some escape. That was all I could think of. We needed to plan our escape.
I remember once not so long ago telling Ndulu that even though we should not be sent to the Americas because now there were laws to protect the importation of black slaves into their land, there were still bad, bad white and Spanish traders and bad African people, yes our own people, who ignored the laws and were taking young black men and women including children on ships that sailed to these countries where they would be sold for plenty of dollars and kept as slaves for life. I did not want to tell Ndulu what would happen to us because I did not know myself if it was true but the ships could kill many before it went to land. I held my belly. Everything I dreamed of was gone like a broken glass never to be fixed again. I remember my husband Adekunle wanting this child so badly, a girl he asked for who would be just like the treasure that my parents said I would be. This would be our third child and I was so afraid for my baby. I was afraid I would lose it. I was almost ready I could tell and soon, the child would come but now, I am caught by people I hate who would sell me without care to another who kept me for free labor. What kind of life awaited me now? What would happen to the baby? I could only fear that life was not going to be the same anymore. No more sitting with my friends in front of my home, no more weaving cloth for our own wear and no more helping my husband to make some of the best pottery to sell to the local market. I was going to be a slave, a property for another and I was stolen away from people I loved. It made me miserable thinking that way and knowing my family was gone forever. My little boys whom I love so dear would never see me again. And my husband Adekunle would never know how sorry I am he would never see the third child. What if she turned out to be the girl he wanted? The thought saddened me much but I could not feel any tears coming. It seemed so dry where the tears would run.
Why were the Gods so angry with me? I wish I died. I wished God never allowed me to be born. What greater punishment existed than being the slave of another and being betrayed by people of your color? They should be struck by lightning by Amadioha to have done such wickedness to us abetting with the white men to hurt their own people. It is sinful and I hated these black men more than I hated the pale white ghosts. They knew not the meaning of God because if they did, they would not have helped the white man at all. They would not have sold their country away for the little they got in kind.
I never realized how naïve I was to have believed that goodness was a necessary trait in all, that doing the right thing was the expected creed of all our people. It took me a matter of days to realize my mother and father brought me up to believe in too much good and failed to take into account the deviances of a society outside our own. The concept of Chi never existed for these people who still persisted in doing wrong, who still chose to upset the balance of the universe as we know it just so they could control power and wealth. The world, I was finding out, outside Igboland was not so kind and it was a tough fight for me ahead, I could see. And as each day passed, I could not believe the strength that I had to have to fight the pain that tore me inside. I soon realized that the trading of our people was a job much relished by many of our own people for meager necessities and war supplies which the white men encouraged to secure more prisoners of war for his demand for free labor.
Caught!
In the darkness, we could not tell much but we could feel the cart was moving a long time for several hours gone. All of us were getting tired and many times, I could hear shouts and screams and when the cart stopped, I could hear yells and more screams and Ndulu pointed out that there were more people they had caught. I looked hard into the night. It was hard to see much but from the shapes in the darkness, we could tell there were small children who had been kidnapped because we heard the horrified sounds of cries they bore calling their mothers Nne and Mmá so loud it made me cry.
"They must be frightened Adaku. Poor children! How could they take children from their homes? It is so wrong!"
"Yes, how could they do such a thing?" I sounded in anger too but there was nothing we could do but just watch.
We were all tied and the men were tied in twos with their necks strapped close to the other with thick iron rings that would scratch their skin badly if they moved too much. And it would be impossible to run without being shot.
From what our village elders used to say, most of the children were ambushed when they played in the woods or sometimes, we heard the kidnappers could come to the homes and steal the children while their parents were not at home. Most of the kidnappings were planned by people from other tribes and these children who were easy targets for kidnappings, were then sold to the more experienced black traders who dealt with the white slave merchants. There were some horrifying stories that said that even relatives could not be trusted in the slave trade, that for a little money they would sell the children of their own unsuspecting relatives. Sometimes, the children were moved from one trader to another until the main trader was reached which would be the more experienced ones who dealt with large numbers of innocent ones like us caught for the marketplace and for a quick sale. We knew that the traders who caught us were the more experienced ones, the wicked black ones who were the reason for making people like me and Ndulu spread across most of the colonial world to as far as Granada and Cuba and of course, the New World.
I looked into the night. It was dark and the night was cloudy. I knew we had been traveling for miles. Sometimes, the cart would rumble over hilly areas and sometimes across vast open grassland. We seemed to have gone on for ages because we passed many villages sometimes. I was tired but I still kept my eyes open. Sometimes, I could see Ndulu nodding to sleep but I made sure I stayed awake. I was frightened, my thoughts always thinking the worst.
"What were they going to do with us?" I wondered but I could not tell. Maybe, we would not even make the trips across the seas to the white man's world. Maybe, these men wanted to use us for some sacrifice or sell us as slaves to kings who needed servants? I could only guess and as I thought more what ifs, my fears also grew more. Would they sell us to some king who needed people to be sacrificed on his death or for some other festival where sacrifice was required as part of some ceremonial ritual to appease the Gods? So many thoughts came into my mind. So many possibilities of what they would do with us but every time I thought about where we would be, I knew we would eventually be sold to the white men. It had to be because when I think about the white men we saw who hunted Ndulu and I, my thoughts were that we were to be sent to the coastal lines where ships would gather and we could then be traded for cheap mineral ore and maybe, textiles if we were to be sold to the filthy Arab pigs. There were many stories of what they did to black people in the Saharan terrain and what was written about us in their code. It was not going to be a good thing being in a harem for an Arab. It was said he had strange interests in sexual matters. I would kill myself if I was sold to those mad men. It was not the life I wanted as a woman from my tribe.
I could feel my bladder burst. Many times, I wanted to pee and it was the most uncomfortable position for me to sit in the same place without moving. It was terrible and I knew if I could not hold on any further, I was going to have to dirty myself with my own urine. How could they keep going this way?
Our carts moved through strange places I had never been to and I tried to make out the way we were going but it was hard to do that because we were traveling many hours and the way we went was just too hard to remember because most times, we were traveling through a wasteland and not through the villages. If we went through the villages, I could remember the houses and the people but in the open grassland, it was hard to remember anything. Sometimes when it got really dark in the open land, all you would see are the stars in the night and very little of what was around you. It was also the time when most of the big animals of the night like the lions and hyenas would come out hunting. As we went along the way, I could tell, the route seemed planned and there appeared to be checkpoints and on each of these checkpoints, the carts would stop and fill with more men and women and sometimes children, young ones who had not the slightest idea what was going to happen to them. I could hear them speak and sometimes cry not sure why people were filled into tight spots so close that you could even feel their breath on you. All of us were tired and hungry but we were scared, very scared.
We could tell that among those who sat in the carts with us were people who were traitors, people who were told to keep watch on us because I could see their eyes look at us almost as if they were watching us closely like they knew something we didn't. I said nothing and I showed nothing but Ndulu would whisper into my ears sometimes cursing the pale white ghosts who stole us telling me that if her curses worked she would make sure she dug their hearts out and fed them to the pigs. I told my friend to keep quiet or we would be killed. I think she got angry with me telling her that because she spat out that I had a small heart. Maybe, she was right. I did have a small heart and I was frightened. I carried a child in me and it was that child I wanted to protect. But Ndulu too was wrong in what she wanted. She blamed the white man and I know she hated them because of what they did to her when we were caught. But if I had my way, it would not be the hearts of the pale white ghosts we should take but the hearts of the traitors who gave us away, the hearts of black men who knew only the Devil to consort. How I hated them when they used the whips on us. How I hate them for hurting their souls with greed for the things that the white men gave them. Using guns on their own people! They should be ashamed. It was all I could think but to Ndulu, I said nothing. I did not want my friend getting too angry than she needed to be. She was upset that we may never see our loved ones and she was afraid too as anyone would be when they are caught. I just told my friend to sleep while I offered to keep awake. She needed to rest and maybe when she got up, she would be able to think well than say harsh words all the time.