Slave Boy – Creative Writing

Today, my brain is a whirlwind of emotions memories from my past. A past I would like to forget save cant. I volition begin my story, my story, from when I was vertical six years of age and distinguishn from my family. It feels strange to look over the shores of my native lands, the same land on which I was sold to spor stick forthg custody to work as a slave.We the, Africans were seen as an inferior and uncivilised race, enough justification to be enslaved and toughened little better than animals.My real name was Nkauwa only if they called me Sam. My identity my family my stopping point my freedom they took everything from me and changed it. My liveness would neer be the same again.It was Nigerean slave dealers who round us up like cattle. The vast majority of us were caught during scrap against other African groups, pris iodinrs of war. The rest were criminals like me, but my only offence was stealing fruit from the market, my punish ment? a lifetime of enslavement. Our hands were tie merchant man our bindings with pieces of rough string that halt the blood from reaching our fingers. being six at the time I did not understand why women were crying, their shrieks of horror threw me off-balance and I panicked, I did not understand what was going on, nor did I recognise any faces roughly me. I asked a man cornerstone me why they had brought us here and he told me sadly, to learn the itinerarys of the white-faced people. I felt so alone for the first time and I had a feeling I would be alone for a long while. I started to cry.When the send off rose up through and through the horizon, all commotion stopped at the magnificent yet terrifying sight, I had seen boats but never on that scale before. The silence was decenniumse with apprehension and fear of the unknown. When the ship had anchored, twenty of so rowing boats came to shore, filled with crates of guns, cloths and lead. It was the first time I had seen white flesh, by no means was i t to be the last. Time was played out by both parties inspecting each others greats, as if we were merely objects of little value. They looked in our mouths and felt our muscle-span to see if we would be strong efficient workers. The white men showed the slave dealers how to operate thier new weapons and thusly we were rowed to the ship little did I know of the conditions that would face me for the disco biscuit week voyage of hell.I was before long put refine under the decks, and in that respect I received a stench in my nostrils I had never experienced in my life we were packed so tightly we had just enough room to circuit to turn ourselves and I could not stand up without my head piteous the ceiling. The air was fetid, it nearly suffocated me. I began to vomit before the ships anchor had pull down been raised.It was a scene of horror for the worst ten weeks of my life. The conditions and our hunger brought on sickness amongst us, many of whom died. The crew of the ship cleared the dead in the morning and fed us barely edible, meagre meals. The wretched mail was aggravated by the chains and filth we were living in . At some point in the expedition the crew must postulate realised that if they kept us under the deck for the whole journey there would be no slaves left, so they let small groups on the deck every few days.I sobbed to myself most nights but no one comforted me apart from the groans of the dying. At times I wondered to myself, if this is just the journey, what would the destination be like? The suffocating smell brought sharp, stabbing constancy upon my lungs. When we were finally taken off the boat, I was almost too tripping to move and I felt terrible. Welcome to AmericaAs I was carried off the boat, the wind hit my face like an explosion and my form siezed up with pains shooting through my muscles. We stood in a super acid in the docks, suddenly the doors were thrown circulate and a considerable rate of men waving money and rope rushed towards us in a scramble. The men had the ferocity of brutes as they grabbed frantically at us again I experienced the touching of muscles and inspecting our teeth, precisely as a jockey examines a vaulting horse. It is scarcely possible to describe the confusion and daunt I felt as a small child. A tall, poorly(p) man with a long beard and hat grabbed my shoulders and shoved me in a corner with the rest of his chosen purchases, grumbling This one looks like and investment. The choas keep as we were led away and put on the linchpin of his horse and sweep. The man was swearing and smoking his pipe when in a temper, he whipped the horses into a trot. We were offI was s till adjusting to the change of environment from the ten weeks under deck and my body was in a lot of pain. As we travelled through the hustle and bustle of the Southern town of Missisippi, Louisiana, we entered the agricultural countryside and after an hour or so we stopped at a large, wooden furth ermhouse, complete with a mill that was spurting out clouds of white smoke from its chimney into the clear blue sky. Aproaching closer I detect behind the mill, a small village of huts and a huge open plantation with with like plants growing in thick formations.We were escorted off the cart and brought into another yard outside the farm house from where we were called up one by one to enter the house. It was a very nervous postponement and I happend lots of other black workers already in the fields. I had no bringing close together what was going on but when I was called up I knew something terrible was going to happen by the way the man looked at me with a mean and menecing smile which sent shivers down my spine that I can still remember to this day.He walked towards me and grabbed me by my ear and dragged me inside, to a room containing a large fire sit with a crackling fire. Next to the fireplace stood an African house consideration and in the centre of the room a desk with the tall, bearded man who legion the cart. He stopped writing, looked up at me, poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank it in one go. The man proceeded to talk to the servant in side of meat, and in turn the servant translated it into Nigerean and repeated it to me.Your names Sam, call me boss, youll work only for me now, pickin cotton on my plantation, sunrise to sunset. He pa utilise and then said If I absorb you slacking or even worse, trying to escape, you will be whipped till the skin falls off your back, do you understand, me? I looked at the man behind the desk blankly, he nodded to the servant who in turn advanced behind me and pinned me to the desk. I desperately tried to wriggle out of his firm custody but, it was useless, the more I struggled the more the boss laughed, he strolled to the fireplace and reached inside to reveal a red-hot branding iron which he used to torment me by holding it close to my face, making beads of movement form from the heat and from fear. I was begging, pleading for his mercy but he didnt listen, he pushed it hard against my forehead, producing a horrifying hissing noise and the disgustful smell of burning flesh. It would be a mark that would never part me, It hurt physically and mentally to be branded like cattle, an human activity of pure evil.The pain was unbearable. For days I couldnt concentrate on anything but the burning sensation, it do me violently sick with fever but I was expected to start work straight away. I was given a huge hand woven basket to fill, I watched to learn the cook up technique, a fairly simple task picking the white flowers by twisting the stems on which they form along the main branches. The plants grew in heavy(a) lines which were the same height as me, it was very easy to get woolly-headed in the endless jungle of the plantation fields.As the day move into night and there was not enough light to work in we were given a form of corn meal in tin bowls, it had been produced cheaply with few nutrients. I was also issued with new clothing made from very coarse cotton uncomfortable to wear but more than better than the filthy rags I wore on the ship. No shoes were issued, I still walked barefooted, everywhere I went. The new slaves were put into the accommodation of the already over-crowded huts. The tiny wooden, dank huts were set out in rows and contained no sanitation at all. The huts were filthy a perfect breeding ground for disease. They were window-less and smelly, with lost glass, old shoes and rags that littered around the floor. I squeezed into a hut, with ten people, cold and in a place thousands of miles from our homes. I missed my family. I felt the power of death over life , I knew what I had to do, I had to escape.I lay awake for the best part of the night, grooming for the best method and timing for my escape. After hours of thought I realised, there was no easy way out and now was as good a time as any other. At this point everyone in my hut was asleep. My heart was racing, I sat up, took a deep schnorkel and opened the creaking, rotting door, I started to run, passing the house, then the gate and then the sign post. I ran like the wind and I didnt slow down. I was running on nothing but the fuel of my anger, the anger I had built up inside me, since the very first moment I was captured. I didnt stop until I felt safe and my lungs were gasping for air.I kept a steady pace up and by the time I reached the town the sun was rising in the East but it was far too early for people to be out and about. As I entered the wharf I remembered the fact I still had no idea how I was to get on a ship heading back to Africa. My heart sank and I slumped down behind some crates and began to cry. I was convince I would not get any further until. suddenly I heard a voice getting closer, it sounded like two English watermans talking but one had a strong African accent. I tried to stay hidden but they picked up the crate I was beh ind and spotted me.Hey, what you doing ere, Your not supossed to be round ere, The white sailor said in a gruff voice. The African was quick to notice I had already been branded and must have ran away from my master. He asked me, in Nigerean, my name and what I was doing here. I told them my story and they it turned out we were from the same part of Nigeria and were stopping there on their way back there for some illigitimate trading of tea leaves and tobacco. They were both kind men and disagreed with the principle of slavery, they were quick to take pity on me and put me in an empty crate to hide me until on the ship.The trip back was more than more comfortable than before. Although I slept below deck with the crates, I was allowed on deck whenever I wanted. I never went hungry for that ten week trip and rebuilt much of my strength. I showed gratitude for my rescue by doing odd jobs around the boat, usually cooking for the crew or scrubbing the deck.When we reached the main deme anor of Nigeria I was so happy, it was a terrible ordeal for anyone to go through and something I was lucky to survive. The scar on my forehead is a uniform reminder and my mental scars will never go away but I learnt many things during that time. I will never again take my freedom for granted and I cherish every moment of life with my family in the place where I truly belong.