The Butcher believed he had ended the sickness.
He thought fear would keep us in chains, that the blood he spilled would drown the whispers of rebellion.
He was wrong.
We had seen too much. Lost too much.
Now, there was no turning back.
But war could not be won in a day.
First, we had to prepare.
We could not speak of rebellion where the overseers could hear. Words were dangerous.
So we spoke without them.
A hand brushing a shoulder meant "Tonight."
A glance toward the fields meant "Not safe."
A piece of straw left near a water barrel meant "Gather at the river."
The overseers saw nothing but exhausted, broken slaves.
They did not see the storm building beneath their feet.
A blade could be fashioned from many things.
A sharpened bone from the kitchen scraps.
A rusted nail stolen from the stable walls.
A hoe handle, sanded down to a point.
Even the heavy iron chains that bound us—if wielded correctly—could become weapons.
And so, piece by piece, we gathered them.
A sickle disappeared from the fields.
A wooden club went missing from the storeroom.
A knife, meant for butchering hogs, slipped into Jengo's hands.
We had nothing.
And yet, we were arming ourselves.
Not all who served the masters were loyal.
Some of them had suffered, too.
A kitchen woman, older than any of us, slipped extra scraps of food into our bowls. "For strength," she murmured.
A stable boy, no older than twelve, pressed a stolen flint into my palm. "For when the time comes," he whispered.
Even some of the house slaves—those closest to the masters—had begun to listen.
If we were to succeed, we could not do it alone.
And so, we waited.
We watched.
We gathered our army in the shadows.
But The Butcher was not a fool.
He did not know what we planned, but he sensed something shifting.
And so, he struck first.
At dawn, we were dragged from our quarters.
A young boy of not less than 18 years was thrown to the ground before us.
One of the overseers sneered. "Caught sneaking bread to the field slaves."
The Butcher stepped forward.
He did not speak.
He did not give a warning.
He simply raised his whip—
And brought it down.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the time he stopped, the boy lay still.
The Butcher turned to us, his cold eyes scanning our faces.
"I will not tolerate treachery."
He left us with the body.
A message.
A warning.
But warnings no longer frightened us.
They only fed the fire.
And soon—
The fire would consume him.
The time had come.
We had gathered what we could. Knives hidden in the folds of our rags. Chains loosened from our shackles. Fire, waiting in the darkness.
But war is never clean.
And fate never waits.
We had planned for the rebellion to begin when the harvest ended, when the fields were dry, when fire would swallow everything.
But something would force our hands sooner.
Something none of us expected.
We met by the river under the cloak of night, the moon our only witness.
Jengo placed a rusted blade onto the ground between us. "Not enough weapons."
Abeni, her arms wrapped around herself, shook her head. "Not enough people."
"We have enough," I said. "We have fire. We have anger. And we have nothing left to lose."
No one argued.
Tomorrow, it would begin.
I should have known.
I should have seen it in his eyes.
Juma, the stable hand. He had been with us from the beginning, but there had always been something hesitant in his gaze.
Fear.
And fear makes men weak.
He ran to The Butcher.
Told him everything.
And before the sun had risen—
They came for us.
The doors to our quarters burst open.
Torches. Whips. Guns.
Jengo moved first, slamming his fist into the first overseer's throat. The man choked, fell, his torch tumbling to the ground.
The fire spread fast.
Abeni grabbed a wooden club hidden beneath the floorboards, swinging it with all the fury of the ancestors. Bone cracked. Someone screamed.
And I—
I found The Butcher.
He stood at the threshold, watching, unmoved.
His pistol gleamed in the firelight.
Our eyes met.
This was it.
Everything we had suffered. Everything he had done.
It all led to this moment.
I lunged.
And the world erupted into chaos.
The night burned.
Flames licked the wooden walls of the quarters, turning them into blackened skeletons. Smoke thickened the air, choking our lungs. The screams of the dying rose into the sky, a prayer of agony to gods who did not answer.
We fought.
Oh, how we fought.
But war is cruel.
And we—chained, starved, beaten—were not meant to win.
Jengo was the first to fall.
He swung his stolen blade wildly, cutting into the flesh of the nearest overseer. The man howled, dropping his torch, and Jengo lunged for another—
A gunshot split the night.
Jengo staggered.
His hand clutched his chest.
Blood seeped through his fingers, dark as the night itself.
I reached for him. "Jengo—"
Another shot.
This one to his head.
He crumpled like a broken thing, his body collapsing into the dirt.
Abeni screamed.
But there was no time to mourn.
They were upon us.
I drove my fist into an overseer's gut. He grunted, stumbling back, and I snatched the knife from his belt, driving it into his throat.
Warm blood sprayed my face.
I did not stop.
I turned, searching for another—
A whip lashed across my back.
I fell to my knees, gasping.
More gunfire. More bodies hitting the ground.
I saw Abeni swinging her club wildly, her face twisted in fury. A rifle was raised behind her—
"No!" I shouted.
The shot rang out.
Abeni fell.
She did not rise again.
All around me, my people were dying.
Some burned in the fire. Some were trampled. Some were shot where they stood, their weapons nothing against steel and bullets.
The overseers had horses.
The Butcher had his pistol.
And we—
We had nothing.
Nothing but pain.
Nothing but death.
The End of the Fight
I do not know when I fell.
A heavy blow to my head sent me into the dirt. My vision blurred, the world spinning.
I saw the bodies.
Jengo. Abeni. Kato.
Their eyes stared at nothing.
The Butcher stepped over the dead. His boots crushed the fingers of a fallen man, but he did not notice. Did not care.
His gaze swept the battlefield.
The rebellion was over.
And we had lost.
Tears in t
I did not know I was crying until the salt touched my lips.
The world smelled of blood and fire.
The sky, once full of hope, was now full of smoke.
I had believed—truly believed—that we could win. That we could break free.
But now, all that remained was ruin.
The Butcher knelt beside me. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"You thought you could change your fate," he murmured.
He let go, standing.
"Now you understand. You were never meant to be free."
He turned to his men.
"Take the survivors. Brand them. Let them never forget."
Strong hands grabbed me.
Dragged me away.
And I wept.
For the dead.
For the dream.
For the freedom that would never come.
Pain.
That was all that remained.
We were dragged back in shackles, our bodies broken, our spirits shattered. The rebellion was nothing but ash in the wind, and those of us who survived wished we had died with the others.
But The Butcher would not grant us such mercy.
No, he had something far worse in store.
The sun burned high when they took us to the branding post.
The dead had been cleared away, the blood washed from the dirt, but their ghosts still lingered. I could still see Jengo falling, Abeni's lifeless eyes staring at the sky.
Now, it was our turn to be marked.
The overseers moved like butchers in a slaughterhouse, grabbing us one by one, forcing us down against the wooden post. A man screamed as the red-hot iron was pressed to his flesh, the sizzle of burning skin filling the air.
The smell turned my stomach.
I clenched my fists as another fell before me, sobbing, his chest now branded with the mark of the master.
Then it was my turn.
They forced me down, my cheek pressed against the rough wood. I felt the heat before I felt the pain.
Then—
Agony.
The iron burned deep, searing flesh and bone, the pain so overwhelming I thought I might die right there.
But I did not.
I lived.
And that was the worst part.
The branding was only the beginning.
For every drop of blood we had spilled, they took a hundred more.
Some were whipped until their backs were nothing but raw flesh.
Some were forced to kneel in the sun, their hands tied behind their backs, their heads bowed, left without water for days.
Some—those they deemed the worst—were given a fate worse than death.
The Butcher made an example of them.
I watched as three men were bound and thrown into a pit.
Then the dogs were unleashed.
The air filled with screams.
We were made to watch.
To understand.
To fear.
When it was over, we were sent back to the fields.
There were fewer of us now.
The strong ones were dead.
The ones who had dared to hope were gone.
And those of us who remained—
We were not the same.
The overseers no longer needed whips to break us.
We had already been broken.
I moved like a ghost, my hands raw from labor, my branded skin throbbing. I did not speak. I did not dream. I did not think of escape.
Because I had learned.
Freedom was not for men like me.
Only suffering.
Only chains.
And so, the days passed.
And we endured
The darkness had become a part of us—a constant, oppressive shroud that never lifted. In the weeks that followed the brutal branding and public punishments, our days merged into one endless cycle of pain, hunger, and despair. We toiled in the fields from before dawn until the dying light of sunset, each step a reminder of the chains that bound our bodies and our spirits.
Every morning, the air was heavy with dust and sorrow. The overseers' orders were delivered in a tone that brooked no argument, their voices echoing across the barren fields. We rose with aching limbs and hollow eyes, the memory of yesterday's agony etched into every scar. The branding had not only marred our flesh but had also burned the memory of who we once were into our souls. We had been reduced to numbers, to objects to be used and discarded, and every beating, every lash, and every whispered curse from our tormentors added another layer to the ever-growing weight of our suffering.
I remember the first time I awoke to find my skin raw and unrecognizable beneath the cruel marks of the branding iron. It was as though the fire had not only seared my flesh but had also scorched my very identity. I lay for a long time, staring at the scarred reflection in a shard of broken mirror, unable to recognize the man I once was. The pain was constant—an ever-present reminder of my captivity and a punishment for the defiance that once flickered in my heart.
The overseers had grown more ruthless with each passing day. Their punishments were meted out without mercy or pause. It was not uncommon to see a man or woman dragged from the fields, their body already trembling from exhaustion, only to be hauled before the cruel figure of The Butcher or one of his equally merciless subordinates. Their methods varied—sometimes it was a public whipping so severe that it left deep gashes and shattered bones, other times it was forced labor under the scorching sun until one could barely stand. There were days when hunger was so intense that the very act of swallowing the thin, bitter gruel felt like a betrayal of the body. We were given barely enough to survive, and even that was taken away if we faltered.
Night, which should have offered even a small measure of relief, became a time of dread. In the dim light of our cramped slave quarters, the silence was punctuated only by the soft sounds of our labored breathing and the occasional whimper of those who could no longer hold back tears. Many of us had ceased to speak at all. Words had become a luxury we could no longer afford, for fear that even the sound of a whispered hope might draw the attention of our captors. Instead, we communicated with glances and shared looks of silent resignation.
In those long, oppressive nights, memories would resurface—memories of laughter, of a time when we were free to dream and love without fear. I remembered my mother's gentle lullabies and the comforting warmth of my father's embrace. Those recollections, however, were like distant stars—glimmers of light that only made the darkness feel even more profound. They were reminders of what had been stolen from us: our homes, our families, our identities. The loss was as tangible as the scars on our skin.
There were moments, rare and fleeting, when even in the depths of our suffering, whispers of defiance would echo among us. But these whispers were almost entirely smothered by the omnipresent terror. I recall one night when a frail, old man, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and sorrow, attempted to recite a prayer in his native tongue—a prayer that once held the promise of deliverance. Before his words could form a clear cadence, the door was flung open and a pair of overseers stormed in. The man's prayer was cut short by the sound of a merciless lash that silenced him forever. His body crumpled, and the quiet that followed was punctuated only by the soft, unheeded cries of the others. In that moment, any remnant of hope was extinguished, replaced by the bitter certainty that any act of rebellion, even one as quiet as a prayer, would only invite further suffering.
In the days that followed, the cruelty intensified. The overseers, emboldened by their unchecked power, began to use methods designed not only to punish but to break us utterly. We were forced to stand in the scorching midday sun, our bodies tethered by chains that cut into our flesh, while they paraded us like animals in a twisted display of ownership. Some of the stronger souls attempted to move even a fraction faster, driven by the desperate urge to escape the relentless labor. Those who faltered were met with immediate, brutal retribution. I witnessed a man—whom I had come to know by the quiet determination in his eyes—fall to his knees after a particularly savage series of lashes. His body convulsed with pain as the overseers gathered around him, their eyes cold and unfeeling. They spat curses at him and then left him there, a broken figure under the indifferent sky, a living testament to the price of even the slightest sign of weakness.
Starvation gnawed at us as much as the physical beatings. Each morsel of food was a cruel reminder of our degraded state. We were given thin, watery gruel that did little to fill the emptiness in our bellies or to restore our strength. The food was often contaminated—sour, and sometimes spoiled—adding poison to the already lethal mix of our daily existence. The constant hunger rendered our bodies weak and our minds foggy, but it also magnified the anguish of our captivity. When a child's stomach growled or when an elder's voice cracked with hunger, it was as if the sound itself echoed our collective despair.
The psychological torment was equally relentless. In the quiet moments, when the overseers were not present, we were left alone with our thoughts, haunted by the memories of our lost freedom and by the fear of what each new day might bring. Some of us would lie awake for hours, staring into the darkness, our minds replaying the brutal images of the past: the lash of the whip, the searing heat of the branding iron, the sound of screams as loved ones were taken away. These memories did not fade; they festered like open wounds, a constant reminder of our subjugation. In time, even our dreams turned into nightmares from which we could not awaken.
Our suffering was compounded by the knowledge that we were being systematically stripped of our dignity. Every mark on our skin, every bruise and scar, was a symbol of our enslavement—a brand that declared we were less than human. The overseers made sure that we never forgot our place, and the punishments were designed to remind us of that fact again and again. We were paraded through the fields, forced to bow our heads and avert our eyes, our shame made public in a twisted ceremony of degradation. And though we longed to cry out or to resist, fear kept our voices locked away.
In the midst of this relentless torment, I found myself clinging to what little remained of my identity. I recalled the fragments of my past—a name, a memory, a fleeting moment of joy—and I held them close. They were my only solace in a world where every moment was marked by loss. But even that small flame of remembrance was under constant threat, for the overseers had learned to crush any sign of individuality. They stripped away our names, our stories, our very souls, reducing us to mere objects, mere tools to be exploited and discarded.
Every time I looked into the eyes of a fellow captive, I saw a reflection of my own despair. In those eyes, I recognized the silent agony of a people who had been robbed of everything. Yet, in that same gaze, there was also a trace of defiance—a small, almost imperceptible glimmer that refused to be extinguished despite the overwhelming darkness. It was a reminder that even in our endless night, there was a part of us that still remembered freedom, that still dreamed of a time when we might break these chains.
But that dream was as distant as the stars above—a cruel taunt in a sky that offered no hope. Each day, we trudged through the fields, our bodies heavy with exhaustion, our hearts weighed down by grief. Our eyes were fixed on a horizon that seemed to retreat further away with every step. There was no reprieve, no rest, no promise of a new dawn. There was only the unending cycle of suffering, a relentless march toward oblivion.
And so, as the days turned into weeks, our numbers dwindled. The overseers claimed that those who could no longer work were to be left to die in the quarters. One by one, our comrades disappeared—swept away by starvation, by beatings, or by the cold finality of their own broken hearts. Their absence left a void that was filled only with the sound of our collective mourning—a silent dirge that echoed in the empty spaces of our existence.
I moved through it all like a ghost, my eyes numb, my spirit battered beyond repair. Every time I passed another fallen soul, I felt the weight of our shared fate—a fate sealed by the cruelty of men who cared nothing for life, only for profit and power. The pain of their loss mingled with my own, creating a sorrow so profound that I often found myself questioning whether there was any point to continuing at all. But even in those moments of utter despair, a small part of me clung to the memory of who we once were, a memory that whispered that we were more than the sum of our scars.
In that endless night of suffering, there was no redemption offered—only a slow, painful march toward oblivion. The overseers ruled with an iron fist, and every day was a brutal reminder of our worthlessness in their eyes. And as the cycle of violence and degradation repeated, we learned to live with the pain, to accept it as the price of our existence. There was no escape, no reprieve, only the constant, crushing reality of our bondage.
As I write these words in the quiet moments between beatings and labor, I know that the agony will never truly end. It is etched into our very bones, a legacy of torment passed down from one generation of captives to the next. And yet, even in this abyss of despair, I cannot help but wonder if there remains, buried deep within each of us, a spark—however faint—that one day might ignite a change we so desperately need. But for now, we remain under the heel of our masters, living proof of the cruelty that has robbed us of our lives and our dignity.
This is our endless night—a time when the weight of our chains is matched only by the heaviness of our hearts. And though we may be broken beyond repair, every scar, every tear, is a testament to our struggle, a silent chronicle of a people who once dreamed of freedom even in the face of overwhelming suffering.