They came in the dead of night, when the village lay in peace, wrapped in the warmth of sleep.
I wish I had woken sooner. I wish I had seen the shadows moving between the trees, heard the whispers carried by the wind, sensed the evil lurking beyond the huts. But I did not. None of us did.
I was barely a man then, but that night, I learned what it meant to be powerless.
I woke to the sound of my mother's scream.
It was a sound I had never heard from her before—not a cry of warning, not a call for help. It was pure terror, raw and soul-shaking, the kind that makes your blood run cold.
I sat up too fast, the room spinning. The air was thick with the scent of burning thatch. Shadows danced against the walls, flickering with the light of torches. Then came the second sound—the sharp, unmistakable crack of a whip.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I stumbled out of my sleeping mat, nearly tripping over my own feet as I rushed to the doorway of our hut.
And that was when I saw them.
Men with pale skin, dressed in strange clothes, their faces twisted in cruel determination. They moved through the village like hunters in the night, their weapons gleaming under the moon. They carried long muskets, sharp blades, and coiled whips that lashed against the backs of anyone who dared to resist.
Our warriors fought. They fought bravely, desperately—but they were caught off guard. Some fell to musket fire before they could even raise their spears. Others were struck down mid-battle, their bodies collapsing into the dirt. The foreigners were not alone. There were others with them—men from distant lands, their skin dark like ours, but their loyalty long since sold.
The air was filled with screams. Women were dragged from their huts, their wrists bound in heavy chains. Children cried for their mothers, only to be torn from their arms. The elderly, too weak to walk, were struck down where they stood.
My father—
I saw him in the distance, fighting with everything he had. His spear found its mark in the chest of one of the slavers, but another came behind him. A musket flared, the shot cutting through the night.
He staggered.
I did not think. I ran.
I did not care about the danger, about the men with guns or whips or chains. I ran to him, screaming his name.
He turned to look at me. His eyes, usually filled with strength, were clouded with pain. His lips parted as if to speak.
Then, his body crumpled.
The earth swallowed him whole.
The scream that tore from my throat did not feel like my own. I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands pressing against the wound in his chest, as if I could push back the life that was spilling from him.
"Father—"
A shadow loomed over me.
The blow came fast, a heavy club striking the side of my head. Pain exploded through my skull, and the world tilted sideways. I hit the ground hard, my father's blood soaking into my skin.
The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was my mother—bound in chains, her eyes wide with horror as she was dragged away.
Then everything faded.
And my world was gone.
MOMENTS LATER…
I woke to darkness.
Thick, suffocating, endless darkness.
For a moment, I thought I had died—that the club had struck me too hard, that my spirit had already begun its journey to the land of our ancestors. But then the pain came, hot and sharp, pulsing through my skull, my wrists, my back.
I tried to move, but something held me in place. My arms—bound. My ankles—chained.
Then came the smell.
It was unlike anything I had ever known. The stench of sweat, blood, vomit, and human waste filled my nostrils, thick and choking. I gagged, turning my head, but there was no escape from it. The air was thick and stale, pressing down on my chest, making every breath a struggle.
That was when I heard them.
The whispers. The sobs. The shallow, ragged breathing of dozens—no, hundreds—of people crammed into the space around me.
I was not alone.
A voice, hoarse and weak, came from somewhere close.
"You are awake."
I turned my head toward the sound, my muscles screaming in protest. In the dim light filtering through the cracks in the wooden boards above us, I saw him. A man, older than my father, his face hollow with exhaustion. His wrists were bound like mine, his dark skin marred by fresh wounds.
"Where are we?" My voice was barely more than a whisper.
His gaze did not waver. "We are in the belly of the beast."
The belly of the beast.
A ship.
Memories crashed over me like waves—my village in flames, my father falling, my mother's scream as she was dragged away. The crack of the whip, the iron chains biting into my skin, the rough hands shoving me forward toward the water. The ship. The white men. The ones who took everything.
I felt my stomach churn. My body tensed with fury, but there was nowhere to go, nothing I could do. The chains reminded me of that.
I swallowed hard. "How long…?"
The man exhaled, his breath shuddering. "I do not know. A day? Two?" He shook his head. "Time does not exist in this darkness."
I tried to push myself up, but my head struck the wooden beams above me. Pain exploded through my skull, and I bit down a curse.
A weak chuckle escaped the man's lips. "Be careful. They do not care if we break."
I turned my head again, taking in my surroundings. The space was cramped, the ceiling so low we could not sit up properly. We were packed together like animals, our bodies pressed so tightly that movement was impossible. The air was hot, suffocating. Flies buzzed around us, drawn by the filth, by the wounds that festered in the humid rot of this place.
Somewhere in the distance, someone was singing—a soft, broken melody, barely audible over the creaking of the ship.
A child whimpered nearby, his voice small, afraid. A woman whispered soothing words, but there was no comfort to be found here.
Then, above us, heavy footsteps.
The hatch creaked open.
Blinding light flooded the space, and we all flinched as the brightness stung our eyes. The sound of boots descending the wooden stairs echoed in the silence.
Then came the voices.
The men who took us.
They spoke in their strange tongue, their words sharp and unfamiliar. One of them carried a whip, its long, coiled length dragging against the floor. Another held a bucket, its contents sloshing as he walked.
My stomach clenched. I had seen that bucket before.
"Eat," one of them commanded.
The man with the bucket moved through the rows of chained bodies, scooping handfuls of some foul-smelling mush and shoving it into people's mouths. Some refused, turning their heads. The man with the whip stepped forward, striking them across the face.
The old man beside me sighed. "Eat," he whispered. "Or they will beat you until you do."
When they reached me, I did not move.
A hand grabbed my chin, forcing my mouth open. The slop was shoved inside—bitter, rotten. I gagged, but swallowed. My empty stomach clenched painfully around it.
The men laughed as they moved on.
Then came the water. A single ladle, passed between dozens. Some never got a sip before it was taken away.
And then they were gone. The hatch slammed shut, plunging us back into darkness.
I closed my eyes, my body shaking with anger, with helplessness.
The old man beside me shifted. "What is your name, boy?"
I hesitated. My name. The only thing that was still mine.
"Adewale," I murmured.
The old man nodded. "I am Obinna." A pause. Then, quietly, "Do not forget who you are, Adewale. No matter what they do to us."
His words clung to me in the dark.
I did not know how long we would be in this floating prison.
But I swore, in that moment, that I would not forget.
I would survive.
Time no longer had meaning in the belly of the ship.
There was only darkness, hunger, and the ceaseless rocking of the waves. Some days, the hatch would open, and the pale men would descend with their buckets of filth they called food. Other days, they did not come at all, leaving us to starve in the blackness.
The stench worsened with each passing day. The sick lay among the dying. The dying lay among the dead. The cries of pain, the quiet sobs of those who had lost all hope—these became the songs of our prison.
And then came the storms.
The first time the sea turned angry, it was as if the gods themselves had risen in wrath. The ship groaned as the waves crashed against its wooden belly, tossing us about like grains of sand in the wind. The chains bit into our wrists and ankles as our bodies slammed into one another. Cries of pain mixed with the howling wind, but the sea did not care.
The hatch burst open, and for the first time, fresh air flooded the hold.
The pale men shouted above the roar of the storm, their voices filled with urgency. One by one, we were dragged to the deck, our eyes burning as they met the light of the sky.
The wind was fierce, whipping against my skin. Rain poured down in torrents, soaking us in an instant. The ocean stretched endlessly in every direction, black and wild, its waves rising like mountains.
I turned to Obinna, who stood beside me, his face gaunt but his eyes sharp. He had survived the days of sickness, of starvation, and now he stood tall despite the weight of his chains.
"They are afraid," he murmured.
I looked at the pale men. He was right. They moved with frantic energy, securing ropes, shouting orders, their faces pale with fear. The storm had shaken them.
Then I noticed something else.
They were unchaining some of us.
I barely had time to question it before I saw why.
One of the slavers grabbed a man—his body frail, his breathing weak. Without hesitation, they dragged him to the edge of the ship.
And threw him overboard.
My breath caught in my throat. The man barely had time to scream before the waves swallowed him whole.
Another was dragged forward.
And another.
I watched in horror as they tossed our sick and dying into the sea, as if they were nothing more than cargo that had spoiled.
Obinna clenched his fists. "They lighten their load," he said through gritted teeth. "They fear the storm will take them all, so they throw away what they no longer need."
A woman screamed as she was pulled away from her child. The slavers did not care. The boy was too sick, too weak. He was taken—his tiny body flung into the churning sea.
Something inside me snapped.
I lunged forward, rage burning through my veins. I did not care about the chains, about the consequences. I could not stand by and watch.
But before I could reach them, a blow struck my ribs, knocking the wind from my lungs. I collapsed to my knees, gasping.
"Do not die for nothing," Obinna whispered, gripping my arm tightly. "Not here. Not like this."
I looked up at him, my vision blurred with fury. But I knew he was right. If I fought now, I would die. And my death would mean nothing.
So I swallowed my rage.
I watched as the bodies fell, as the sea claimed them, as the storm raged on.
I swore, in that moment, that I would never forget this.
The faces of those who drowned that day would haunt me forever.
And with that finished, we were dragged back into the hatch.
The ship docked at dawn.
I did not know how long we had been at sea. Days? Weeks? It did not matter. Time was meaningless in the belly of the ship, where only suffering existed. But the moment the hatch opened and the pale men dragged us into the blinding sunlight, I knew—our torment was far from over.
The air was thick with heat, heavy with the scent of salt and unfamiliar land. The cries of gulls filled the sky, but there was no freedom in their calls. Only hunger. Only death.
I squinted against the brightness, my body weak from hunger, my legs trembling beneath me. The chains clanked with every step as we were herded off the ship, forced onto wooden planks that stretched toward land.
A new world.
But not a free one.
I looked around, my heart pounding. The shore was lined with strange men, their skin pale like those who had captured us. They stood tall, dressed in fine clothes, their faces cold as they observed us like cattle.
Obinna was beside me, silent, his eyes dark with understanding.
"They bring us here to sell," he said quietly.
I swallowed hard. "Sell?"
"As one sells a goat," he murmured. "Or a sack of grain."
I did not want to believe him. But as we stumbled onto solid ground, I saw it for myself.
A marketplace.
Not for goods. Not for animals.
For us.
They lined us up in rows, our bodies displayed like wares in the sun. Some of us were too weak to stand, collapsing onto the dirt. The slavers did not care. They kicked them, struck them, forced them upright.
I felt eyes on me. Hungry eyes. Measuring. Calculating.
A man stepped forward, dressed in dark clothing, his face lined with age and cruelty. He reached out, gripping my arm, turning it as if inspecting a piece of fruit. His fingers pressed against my skin, feeling the muscle beneath.
"This one is strong," he said, his voice thick with an unfamiliar accent.
Another man approached. "How much?"
The slaver smirked. "For this one? A good price."
I clenched my jaw, my body trembling with rage. But what could I do? The chains held me. The whips waited.
And so, one by one, we were sold.
Like cattle.
Like nothing.
When my turn came, the man who had examined me pressed coins into the slaver's hands. The exchange was quick. Simple. As if I were not a person, but a thing.
I was pulled forward, separated from the others. I turned, searching for Obinna. His eyes met mine, filled with sorrow.
"Do not forget who you are," he whispered.
Then they dragged me away.
Away from him. Away from my people.
Away from everything I had ever known.
And into the land of chains.
The plantation stretched farther than my eyes could see. Fields of green, endless under the scorching sun. I had never seen land like this before—so vast, so open—yet it felt like the walls of a prison.
The man who bought me was called Master John. His name sat heavy on my tongue, strange and foreign, but I learned it quickly, because those who forgot it learned the hard way.
The first lesson came with the whip.
I did not understand their words. The slavers barked commands in their language, their tongues twisting in ways I could not mimic. When I hesitated, confused, the whip came down. The pain was like fire, searing across my back. I gasped but did not cry out. I would not give them that.
But the next strike came harder.
And the next.
By the third, my knees hit the dirt.
"You listen quick, boy," the overseer spat, his voice laced with cruelty. "Or you learn slow."
I learned.
They put me to work in the fields, hands raw against the stalks of sugarcane, feet blistered from the burning ground. From sunrise to sunset, we labored, bent beneath the weight of our chains.
We were many, but we were silent.
Even when the overseers shouted, even when the whips cracked, even when the weak collapsed and were left to die beneath the unfeeling sky—we did not speak.
Because to speak was to suffer.
There were others like me, stolen from different lands, their faces filled with the same pain, the same rage. Some had been here for years. Their bodies bore the scars to prove it.
Obinna had told me not to forget who I was.
But how could I hold onto my name, my past, when each day bled into the next, when the sun and the whip and the hunger became the only truths I knew?
One night, as I lay in the wooden shack they called our shelter, a voice broke the silence.
A woman, her voice soft, low.
A song.
Not in their language. Not in the tongue of the slavers.
But in ours.
The melody curled through the darkness like smoke, wrapping around us, filling the empty spaces in our hearts.
A reminder.
We were still here.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time since I had been taken, I allowed myself to remember.
My mother's laughter.
My father's strength.
The warmth of home.
I gritted my teeth, the iron of my chains digging into my skin.
They had taken my freedom like the caged bird.
They had taken my name.
But they would never take my soul.
Not while I still breathed.
The days blurred into one another, each one marked by the rising of the sun, the crack of the whip, and the aching of my body. The fields became my prison, the overseers my jailers.
But worse than the whip was the silence.
No one spoke unless commanded. No one cried, no matter how deep the wounds. The ones who had been here the longest had learned what happened to those who resisted. Their eyes were hollow, their bodies moving only because the lash demanded it.
I refused to become one of them.
The thought of escape came to me every night as I lay on the dirt floor of the slave quarters, my body exhausted but my mind burning. I had nothing—no weapons, no allies, no knowledge of this land beyond the fields of cane. But I knew one thing.
Freedom was worth dying for.
Obinna's words echoed in my mind. Do not forget who you are, Adewale.
I had not forgotten. And I never would.
One morning, as we were marched into the fields, I noticed a boy ahead of me—no older than twelve—struggling to keep up. His hands trembled as he reached for the stalks, his small fingers weak from hunger.
The overseer saw.
"You lazy little rat."
The words were followed by a blow. The boy crumpled into the dirt.
The overseer struck him again, harder.
"On your feet."
The boy did not move.
I held my breath, my fists clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms. Around me, the others kept their eyes down. No one would interfere. No one could.
Another blow. This time, the whip.
The boy whimpered.
Something inside me snapped.
Before I could think, before I could stop myself, I moved.
I lunged forward, shoving the overseer away from the child. The world seemed to slow, as if even time could not believe what I had done.
Then—
Pain.
The whip lashed across my back, tearing through skin. A hand grabbed my hair, yanking me down. A boot slammed into my ribs.
The sky blurred, the ground spinning beneath me. But through the haze of pain, I heard the overseer's voice.
"You think you're strong, boy?"
The blows kept coming.
"We'll see how strong you are after this."
Then came the chains.
They dragged me from the fields, through the dirt, past the white men's houses, to the center of the plantation.
The whipping post stood there, tall and splintered from years of blood and pain. I had seen men tied to it before. I had seen what was left of them after.
Now, it was my turn.
They bound my wrists above my head, stretching me until my toes barely touched the ground.
The others were forced to watch. A warning.
Master John stepped forward, his face as calm as if he were inspecting a crop. "You must learn your place," he said simply.
The whip cracked.
Fire.
Another strike.
Then another.
I bit down on my scream, but my body betrayed me. Blood ran down my back, soaking into the dirt below. The world blurred at the edges.
Still, I did not beg.
The last thing I saw before darkness took me was the faces of my people. Some filled with fear. Others with sorrow.
But some—just a few—burned with something else.
Something dangerous.
Something like hope.
When I woke, I was back in the slave quarters, my wounds burning like molten iron. Someone had tended them. A hand pressed a wet cloth to my back.
"You are foolish," a voice murmured. "But you are not alone."
I turned my head, my vision clearing. A man sat beside me, older than Obinna, his face lined with scars. I had seen him before, working silently in the fields, his eyes always watching.
"You fight back, and they punish you," he said. "But they cannot break what is already broken."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
He leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper.
"They think we are weak. They think we are afraid. They are wrong."
A pause.
"There are others. Others who want to fight. Others who are ready."
My heart pounded.
An escape. A rebellion.
A chance to be free.
For the first time since I had been taken, I felt something stronger than pain, stronger than fear.
Hope.
And I swore—I would not let it die.
Pain became my shadow.
Every movement sent fire across my back, each breath a reminder of the whip's cruelty. Sleep was impossible; the wounds throbbed even in stillness. But the pain did not matter.
I was alive.
And I was not broken.
The others moved around me in the slave quarters, their eyes avoiding mine, their silence thick with unspoken words. Some were afraid. Others were angry. But a few… a few looked at me differently now.
With something like respect.
The old man who had tended my wounds returned at dusk, pressing a damp cloth to my torn skin. His touch was rough but careful.
"They watch you now," he murmured.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "Who?"
"The ones who still have fire in their hearts."
I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. I knew what he meant. There were those among us who had given up, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of the chains. But others still clung to the embers of defiance. I had seen it in their eyes when I was tied to the whipping post.
"You woke something in them," he continued. "But fire left untended dies quickly."
I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze. "What are you saying?"
A pause.
"There is talk of escape."
The words sent a shiver through me—of fear, of hope, of something dangerous.
The next morning, I was dragged from the slave quarters before the sun had fully risen.
Two white men hauled me to the main house, their grips like iron. My body ached, but I did not struggle. There was no point.
Master John waited for me on the porch, a cup of dark liquid in his hand. He sipped it slowly, his expression unreadable.
"You're a stubborn one," he said finally.
I did not respond.
He set the cup down and stepped toward me. "I own you, boy. Your body, your life, your very breath—all of it belongs to me."
His voice was calm, almost gentle. That frightened me more than the whip.
"I could have had you hanged," he continued. "Or worse." He lifted a hand, running a finger along the rim of his cup. "Do you know what we do to slaves who cause trouble?"
I knew. I had seen it before. The missing hands, the missing tongues, the bodies left to rot as warnings.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're lucky I see value in you."
A breath. A pause. Then he straightened, his smile returning.
"You'll return to the fields tomorrow. I suggest you keep your head down."
With a wave of his hand, I was dismissed.
But as they dragged me away, I knew something had shifted.
Master John saw me as more than a slave now.
He saw me as a threat.
That night, I sat in the dirt, staring at the wooden beams above my head, my thoughts racing.
Escape. The word was dangerous. It carried weight heavier than chains.
But freedom…
I closed my eyes, remembering home. Remembering the village. My mother's voice. My father's laughter.
I had been beaten. I had been humiliated. But I was still breathing.
I would not die a slave.
A quiet rustling pulled me from my thoughts. The old man crouched beside me, his face unreadable.