The sky was heavy with clouds when it happened.
The air smelled of rain, thick and swollen, but no storm could wash away the blood that would be spilled that day.
We were in the fields, the weight of the sun pressing down on our backs, when the first cry shattered the silence.
A scream.
Sharp. Desperate.
I turned just in time to see him fall—Kwame, a boy no older than sixteen. He had been cutting the cane, his hands moving slower than usual. Weak from hunger, exhausted from labor. His body gave out before he could finish his row.
The overseer was on him in an instant.
"You lazy dog." The white man's boot slammed into Kwame's side, knocking the breath from his lungs. "Get up."
Kwame tried. His fingers clawed at the dirt, his body trembling, but he couldn't.
The overseer's face darkened.
"Maybe you need a lesson in obedience."
The whip cracked.
Once.
Twice.
Blood sprayed across the ground, staining the cane red. Kwame's screams filled the air, but no one moved.
Because we all knew.
To interfere was to die.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. The old man's words echoed in my head. Fire left untended dies quickly.
But what could I do?
Master John arrived not long after, his horse kicking up dust as he rode into the fields. He dismounted with ease, his cold eyes sweeping over the scene.
"What's the problem?" he asked, almost bored.
The overseer grinned. "Boy refuses to work."
Kwame gasped, lifting his head. "No, Master, please—"
The overseer's boot silenced him.
Master John sighed. "We can't have laziness spreading, can we?"
The answer was already decided before the question was even asked.
He turned to one of his men. "Bring the axe."
My blood turned to ice.
The others stiffened, eyes darting between each other, but no one dared speak.
We had seen it before.
A lesson. A warning.
Kwame began to sob. "No… please… I'll work, I swear it!"
They did not listen.
The axe was brought, its blade dull but heavy. Two men grabbed Kwame's arms, dragging him toward a tree stump near the edge of the field.
I wanted to move. I wanted to scream.
But my legs were stone. My tongue was useless.
All I could do was watch.
The men forced Kwame's left arm onto the stump. His fingers curled into fists, his entire body trembling.
Master John crouched beside him, tilting his head. "You need to understand something, boy." He smiled, as if explaining something to a child. "Your hands belong to me. Your life belongs to me. And if you can't use what I've given you, then you don't deserve to have it."
Kwame sobbed. "No, Master, please—"
The axe came down.
A sickening crunch.
A scream like I had never heard before.
Blood poured onto the dirt, mixing with the sweat and rain that had begun to fall.
Kwame collapsed, clutching the place where his hand had been, his body convulsing.
Master John wiped his hands and stood. "Get him cleaned up. If he survives, he works. If not…" He waved a hand dismissively. "Bury him."
Then he mounted his horse and rode away.
That night, the slave quarters were silent. No songs. No whispered prayers.
Kwame lay on the floor, his arm wrapped in rags, his breath shallow. He had not spoken since the axe fell.
I sat beside him, staring at the bloodstained cloth, my hands shaking.
The fire in my chest was no longer a flicker.
It was roaring.
And I was done waiting.
I turned to the old man, my voice a whisper.
"When do we leave?"
His eyes met mine.
And he smiled.
Kwame did not speak for days.
His breathing was shallow, his skin hot with fever. The wound had festered despite the rags we wrapped around it, and the stench of rotting flesh filled the air.
Some said he wouldn't last the week.
But others—others said he should have died the moment the axe fell.
The weak did not survive here.
And yet, Kwame clung to life, his good hand trembling as he reached for whatever scraps of food we could spare. He was more ghost than boy now, his eyes sunken, his body shaking.
But he was still one of us.
And we would not leave him behind.
The old man—his name was Ekene—gathered us that night. Not all. Only those with fire left in their hearts.
We huddled in the farthest corner of the slave quarters, speaking in hushed voices.
"The river is two days' journey west," Ekene murmured. "If we can reach it, we can follow it to the swamps. Beyond that, there are others. Free men."
Free men. The words were foreign, almost impossible to believe.
"We'll need weapons," someone whispered.
Ekene nodded. "We'll take them from the overseers when the time comes."
It was madness.
And yet, it was the only choice we had.
Escape or die a slave.
I felt the rusted knife in my waistband, hidden beneath my rags. My fingers curled around the handle.
I was ready.
Or so I thought.
Morning came too soon.
The fields stretched before us as they always did, the sky painted in gold and blood. The overseers watched from their horses, whips coiled in their hands.
But something felt different.
The air was wrong. Heavy. Tense.
Then, just as the sun reached its peak—
A shout.
"Them!"
I froze.
An overseer pointed straight at us, his face twisted with fury. "Them!" he shouted again, voice sharp as a blade. "They're planning to run!"
My heart slammed against my ribs.
No. No, this wasn't possible.
They couldn't know.
Unless—
A hand grabbed my arm. Ekene's grip was tight, his eyes filled with the same realization.
"We've been betrayed."
Before I could move, the overseers were upon us.
Fists crashed into ribs. Boots slammed against flesh.
The whip tore through skin, and this time, I could not hold back my scream.
Blood filled my mouth.
Around me, the others fell, one by one, dragged to their knees, their cries swallowed by the roar of the overseers.
I struggled, my body screaming in protest. But it was useless.
Cold iron snapped around my wrists.
Chains.
Again.
Master John arrived as the sun began to set, his face carved from stone.
The overseers had dragged us to the center of the plantation, forcing us to kneel in the dirt. The others stood in a circle, silent, watching.
Waiting.
Master John dismounted, his boots crunching against the ground. He walked past us slowly, as if inspecting cattle.
His eyes landed on Ekene.
"I expected better from you."
Ekene did not respond. He only stared.
Master John sighed. "I could have you all killed."
My breath caught in my throat.
This was it.
This was how it ended.
But then—
"I will spare you," Master John said. "Because one of your own has already chosen to be spared."
He turned—and then I saw him.
The traitor.
Standing beside the overseers, head bowed, hands trembling.
Kwame.
My chest caved in.
No.
No, it couldn't be.
He could barely stand. His face was streaked with sweat, his body weak from fever. But his lips moved, his voice hoarse.
"They… they were planning to run, Master," he whispered. "I heard them… I swear…"
Master John smiled.
The others gasped, whispers of fury curling through the air.
Ekene spat at the ground. "You little fool."
Kwame flinched, but his gaze stayed on the ground.
Master John patted his head, like a master rewarding a loyal dog.
"You've done well, boy," he said.
Then—
He snapped his fingers.
A gunshot rang out.
Kwame's body jerked, a hole blooming in his chest.
His eyes widened. He staggered, choking, blood spilling from his lips.
He collapsed into the dirt.
Dead.
Master John turned to us, his smile gone.
"Let this be a lesson," he said.
No one moved. No one spoke.
I could only stare at Kwame's lifeless body, my mind hollow.
He had betrayed us.
And still, he had died a slave.
Master John mounted his horse. "Put them back to work."
The overseers moved, unchaining us, dragging us to our feet.
The night swallowed us whole.
Back in the quarters, silence reigned.
I lay on the dirt, my body bruised, my wrists raw. The others sat around me, their faces shrouded in shadow.
No one mentioned Kwame.
No one had to.
Ekene knelt beside me, his voice barely above a whisper.
"The fire is still burning," he said.
I turned my head, looking at him through the darkness.
"We cannot trust anyone," I said.
He nodded.
"But we will not stop."
Kwame's body was gone by morning.
No grave. No marker.
The overseers had dragged him away in the night, his corpse discarded like waste. His name was never spoken again.
But we did not forget.
His betrayal lingered in the air, thick as the stench of rotting cane. Some cursed him under their breath. Others pitied him. But I—
I only felt cold.
Because I knew, in the end, we were all desperate men.
And desperate men will do anything to survive.
The plantation was restless that day. Something was different.
The overseers snapped their whips more than usual. Their eyes were sharper, their tempers shorter. Even Master John stood on the porch of the main house, watching us with quiet calculation.
Then, as the sun reached its peak—
They came.
A line of carriages rolled through the gates, drawn by fine horses, their polished wheels kicking up clouds of dust. They stopped just beyond the slave quarters, their doors swinging open.
And from them stepped a man unlike any I had seen before.
He was tall, draped in dark velvet, his coat lined with gold buttons that gleamed in the light. His boots shone without a speck of dirt, and when he removed his hat, I saw his hair was white as bone, his face smooth, untouched by age.
But it was his eyes that unsettled me.
Cold. Empty.
A man who had never known suffering.
A man who never would.
Master John descended the porch steps, his smile wide, his arms open.
"Ah, Mr. Caldwell," he greeted. "A pleasure, as always."
Mr. Caldwell. A merchant. A trader.
But not just any trader.
A dealer of flesh.
My stomach turned.
We were lined up, hands bound, heads lowered.
Mr. Caldwell walked among us, studying us as one might study cattle. His gloved hands prodded arms, chins, legs. He inspected scars, measured muscle.
He stopped before a woman—Abeni.
She was young, barely past girlhood, her skin smooth despite the years of toil. Her dark eyes met his, defiant.
Mr. Caldwell smiled.
"This one," he said simply.
Abeni flinched.
Master John gave a slight nod, and at once, the overseers moved. They seized her, dragging her forward. She thrashed, her screams sharp with terror.
"No! No, please!"
Her cries cut through the air, but no one moved.
Because we could do nothing.
The lash fell upon her back, once, twice, until she collapsed into the dirt.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palm.
One by one, they took others. The strong. The young.
Men. Women.
Children.
Sold like grain, weighed by their worth, stripped of their names.
By sundown, they were gone.
And the plantation was silent once more.
The Spark in the Ashes
That night, I sat in the dirt, my heart hollow.
Abeni. Gone.
Kwame. Dead.
And still, we remained.
Still, we suffered.
The fire inside me flickered, weak.
Then—
A hand on my shoulder.
Ekene. His grip firm.
I turned, my breath shallow.
His voice was steady.
"The fire is still burning," he said.
And this time—
I believed him. And all we could do was wait.
They came for us before dawn.
The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, but there was no warmth in it. Only the chill of what was to come.
The overseers stormed into the slave quarters, boots pounding against the earth, whips coiled at their sides. Their faces were carved from stone, their eyes sharp with purpose.
Something had angered them.
And when men like them were angry, it was we who paid the price.
Master John stood at the entrance, his arms crossed. He did not speak. He did not need to.
A single gesture of his hand—
And the nightmare began.
They pulled us from our beds, dragging us into the open, where the morning mist still clung to the fields. Women clutched their children, men stood rigid, their backs straight despite the chains.
But we all knew—there was no escaping this.
Master John stepped forward, his boots crunching against the dirt. He looked us over, as if choosing cattle at the market.
Then he turned to one of his men.
"Bring him."
We did not know who "him" was.
Not at first.
But when they hauled the boy forward, my stomach twisted into knots.
It was little Kofi.
A child no older than ten, his wrists bound, his face smeared with dirt and dried tears. His tiny chest rose and fell in quick, panicked breaths.
A woman—his mother—cried out. She tried to run to him, but the lash found her back before she could take another step.
She crumpled to the ground, her screams swallowed by the wind.
Master John sighed. "I am a patient man," he said, his voice slow, measured. "But my patience has limits."
He turned to us, his gaze sweeping over our faces.
"Someone has been stealing."
The silence was thick, suffocating.
I glanced at Ekene, saw his jaw clench, his hands ball into fists.
The truth was, it was no secret.
Some had taken food from the storerooms in the dead of night. Not out of greed—never out of greed—but out of hunger.
Hunger that gnawed at our ribs, hollowed out our bodies.
Hunger that made men desperate.
And desperate men make mistakes.
Master John knelt beside Kofi, his tone almost gentle.
"You know, boy, I have always been kind to you."
Kofi shook his head, trembling.
"I've given you work. A roof. Life." He cupped the boy's chin, lifting his face. "But when one of you disobeys, you all suffer."
Kofi sobbed. "I didn't—"
Master John's grip tightened.
"I know," he whispered. "But that does not matter."
Then he stood and motioned to the overseer beside him.
"Cut off his ear."
The world stopped.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Kofi thrashed, his screams raw, animalistic.
The overseers forced him to his knees, one gripping his hair, the other drawing a small blade from his belt.
The mother fought against her captors, wailing, pleading.
"Please! Not my son! Please, Master, have mercy!"
Master John did not even look at her.
The blade gleamed in the morning light.
Kofi sobbed, his tiny fingers digging into the dirt.
And then—
A single slice.
A shriek tore through the plantation.
The severed ear fell into the dirt with a sickening thud.
Blood streamed down Kofi's face, staining his tunic, pooling at his feet.
The mother screamed so loud it did not sound human.
Some of us turned away. Others stared in horror.
But no one moved.
No one could.
Master John wiped his hands with a cloth, as if dusting away filth.
"Let this be a reminder," he said, his voice calm, unshaken.
He turned on his heel, walking back toward the house.
The overseers followed.
The punishment was over.
But the nightmare never ended.
That night, Kofi did not cry.
He lay in the corner of the quarters, his mother cradling him, whispering lullabies he no longer believed in.
The fire inside me should have burned bright.
Instead, it smoldered.
Dying.
Because what use was fire in a place where mercy did not exist?
I closed my eyes, but the darkness offered no peace.
Only the echoes of the past.
And the promise of more horrors to come.
The sky bled red that evening.
A storm loomed on the horizon, thick clouds curling over the fields like the hand of an angry god. Thunder rumbled, distant but foreboding, as if the heavens themselves wept for what was to come.
But no god had ever saved us before.
And none would save us now.
The overseers patrolled with more cruelty than usual. Their whips did not need reason to fall. A glance in the wrong direction, a moment's hesitation in our work—these were sins worthy of pain.
Kofi did not leave his mother's side. His head was wrapped in cloth, the fabric dark with dried blood. His eyes, once so full of life, were empty now.
But he was not the only one they had broken.
We were all ghosts walking in flesh.
Near midnight, they came for Juma.
It happened without warning.
One moment, we were huddled in the quarters, our bodies pressed together for warmth. The next, the doors crashed open, and the overseers flooded in like wolves into a den.
They dragged him out by his wrists, his feet scraping the ground, his screams splitting the night.
Juma was a quiet man. Strong, but reserved. He had survived longer than most, his back carved by more lashes than any of us.
But that night, his strength meant nothing.
They pulled him into the center of the plantation, where Master John stood waiting.
His expression was calm, as it always was before the storm.
A lantern burned beside him, its light casting long shadows over the dirt.
I dared to creep to the doorway, peering out through the cracks in the wood.
And that was when I saw her.
The white woman.
She stood beside Master John, draped in fine silks, her golden hair pinned neatly atop her head. Her hands were gloved, untouched by labor, her face painted with disgust.
"This one," she said, her voice sharp with disdain. "He looked at me."
Juma's breathing was ragged. "I—I did not—"
The crack of a whip silenced him.
Master John sighed, rubbing his temple. "You must understand, boy," he said, his tone almost patient. "A beast does not gaze upon its master's wife."
Juma shook his head violently. "I swear—I did not look—"
Another lash.
His knees buckled. Blood splattered onto the dirt.
But the white woman was not satisfied.
"He should suffer," she said coldly.
Master John exhaled. Then he turned to the overseers.
"Remove his tongue."
The world tilted.
Juma's cries turned to choked gasps as they forced his mouth open, their fingers cruel, unrelenting.
The blade glinted in the lantern light.
His struggles meant nothing.
And then—
A single stroke.
His scream—muffled, gurgling—was the sound of a man being unmade.
Blood poured from his lips, dark and endless.
They tossed his severed tongue into the dirt like refuse.
The white woman did not even flinch.
Master John patted her hand. "There, my dear. It is done."
She smiled.
And then they left him there.
Bleeding. Writhing.
Dying.
We were not allowed to touch him.
The overseers watched, their rifles poised, their eyes daring us to defy them.
Juma lay in the dirt, twitching, his breath wet with blood. His hands clawed at the ground, as if trying to hold on to life.
And then, just as dawn broke over the horizon—
He stilled.
Gone.
They left his body there for the whole day, a warning to the rest of us.
A reminder.
We were nothing.
We would always be nothing.
That night, the quarters were silent.
No one ate.
No one slept.
We sat in the darkness, the air thick with grief, with rage.
I stared at my hands.
I imagined them around Master John's throat.
I imagined them crushing the white woman's delicate bones.
But I did not move.
Because I knew what would happen if I did.
Because we all knew—
Hope was a dangerous thing.
And those who reached for it would always be the first to die.