Chapter 8
There is a period of time after a tragic event, like a rare gift
of mercy, when one is able to think and act with incredible clarity. It
is the 'lull before the storm' of helplessness and despair'. I was able to
think through our situation. Sometimes disasters come gradually, bit by
bit, and freedom is slowly and steadily stripped away. Sometimes it comes like
the icy falling of a sword, severing life with one blow. In an instant my
main arteries were cut. It was so abrupt. I had never seen life other
than 'us'. Our dejected shivering bodies were being dragged, in chains,
from our darling, wonderful, intelligent head. She was left in that dark
building, and we were being taken through the town out to the beach. As
our sorry forms passed through the early stirrings of the town, people looked
out, and did seem genuinely upset, worried, and concerned to see the terrible
change to our fortunes. This populous was clearly not complicit, but a bullied
people learn to feel and be helpless. People we had being dancing with
yesterday now seemed resigned to see us fade like flowers, consigned to the
dust heap.
Although for the first time, I was now staring at separation from
the key people who had given me life; my parents five days walk away, Tilda,
nearby, but also a prisoner, and of course Mosako. Yet I did not feel
alone. Mosako's words were there with me. "Remember when we cross
the mighty river at Usepo, the water comes high, it is cold, who is with
you?"
"We never cross alone," I say, "that's the deal,
we never cross alone."
Other words came to me. "When everything feels crazy,
and it probably is, remember the creator is jealous for her children, and
nothing is missed. It will be dealt with in good time."
These thoughts now comforted me. I did not have to drum them
up, or try to pretend. They appeared like gifts, clear reasonable and useful.
Then I noticed that I was not alone. Of course not. My team also seemed
to have this peace too. Antimo, to whom I was chained, was shaking, I put
my hand on his shoulder. He told me he was cold without his 'skin'. I too
for the first time missed the comfort of my mangy dog, as I called it.
"Your skin is very fine", I quipped. "Never looked so
good."
"I not scared", he said, "not quite sure why
not though." By this time we were at the port, where we noticed
other dishevelled people were gathered, clearly other slaves. There was a
shack were with unhelpful prods, we were encouraged to enter. We squatted
together in the gloom. One of our company began a deep hum. It was our
morning hum, the rising of the sun song. Together the hum grew and we joined
together in one song. Even in such a miserable hell hole, we found that
strange joy, that is not restricted to the mortal elements. It was the
song of our mourning. Our neighbours looked at us in bemusement. I
reached out and hugged an old bearded man, and he didn't seem to object. Then
the guards seemed to have become stirred up. Antino, still chained to me so now
my permanent neighbour, said they were arguing about whether to beat us quiet
or let us be, as the beating could start after the sale. They wanted
healthy looking specimens to aid a good price. Capitalism saved the day, well
our skins.
What a strange long evening and night we had. We had become
one giant centipede, with eleven parts. Each part need to coordinate with the
next as we negotiated eating, drinking, defecting and finally and most
improbably, sleeping. My mind was fixed on Tilda. What horrors was
she enduring? Knowing her, she would resist. Was she already dead? I
sensed that Tilda was thinking about us, and me in particular. I wondered
whether there was any way a message about this mess could be got to our
community. I wondered how they would take it, my parents, Elipha, how
would they respond, would they want to come and attempt a rescue? I certainly
hoped not. We knew that our community was well known for being soft
hearted, and the place where others came and sort refuge, rather than a warrior
people to be feared. But I also knew we were not a people who did
nothing. Tilda was a shining example of what our community could do.
She had a power about her that was probably why we were in this trouble
in the first place, why we had been viewed as a threat. This was a power
that was with us all now, and not one that could be removed by the sword.
Then I heard little Elmote crying softly to himself, and then the clack
of chains as many hands and arms came about him. And we all cried openly
together.
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