There was a time when we prayed for death.
Now, even death had abandoned us.
The Butcher had taken everything—our strength, our hope, even our will to weep. But he was not done.
He wanted more.
He wanted to break something deeper than our bodies.
And so, the worst was yet to come.
It started with a name.
Kofi.
A boy, no older than sixteen.
He had been caught stealing a handful of dried corn from the storeroom. Not even enough to fill his palm, but enough to sign his death sentence.
The Butcher did not have him whipped.
He did not have him branded.
He wanted something worse.
We were gathered in the square. The sun burned our backs, the chains on our ankles already too heavy to bear.
Kofi knelt in the dirt, shaking.
Beside him, his mother.
The Butcher turned to her, smiling.
"You will punish him," he said.
The woman froze.
She looked at her son, her body trembling.
She did not understand.
None of us did.
The Butcher gestured, and an overseer stepped forward, holding out a whip.
"Fifty lashes," he said. "Or I kill him."
The woman gasped, shaking her head. "Please—"
The Butcher did not move.
"Do it," he said, "or he dies screaming."
A gun cocked.
The boy sobbed. "Mama—"
The woman reached for the whip with shaking hands.
Her first strike was weak.
The overseer struck her across the face.
"Again."
She obeyed.
The second lash was harder.
The third tore through the boy's skin.
The fourth made him wail.
By the time she reached twenty, he was unconscious.
By thirty, the ground was red.
By fifty, the woman had no voice left to scream.
The Butcher only smiled.
It did not end with Kofi.
The Butcher's cruelty took new forms.
He made fathers beat their sons.
Made daughters choose which parent would live.
Made brothers dig graves for their sisters.
He did not just punish us.
He made us punish each other.
He turned us against ourselves.
And that was worse than any whip.
That night, I could not sleep.
Not because of the hunger gnawing at my belly.
Not because of the burns on my skin.
But because of what I had seen.
Because of what we had done.
I thought of Kofi's mother, of the emptiness in her eyes.
I thought of the overseers, laughing as they forced us to tear each other apart.
And I realized something.
They were not afraid of us.
Not anymore.
We had lost our fire.
We had lost our fight.
And as I lay there, staring at the wooden beams above, I knew one thing.
If we did not find it again—
We would never be free
The nights were the worst.
The day brought the whip, the sweat, the endless toil under the sun. But the nights… the nights were where the pain settled deep, where the ghosts of the dead whispered in our ears.
Where we dreamed of what we had lost.
But even dreams were dangerous now.
Because to dream was to remember.
And to remember was to suffer.
The Butcher had grown inventive with our suffering.
The punishments had become more than just beatings, more than just starvation.
Now, he wanted to break us from the inside.
One night, he ordered the overseers to shackle two men together by the neck.
One was strong, the other weak.
"If one fails, the other suffers," the Butcher had said. "If one falls, they both do."
For days, they worked as one.
One ate, the other starved.
One stumbled, the other was dragged.
When the weaker one collapsed from hunger, the stronger man begged for food.
The Butcher only laughed.
"Eat or starve, it makes no difference. You will both meet the same end."
By the time the weaker man died, the stronger one was a shell of himself.
The overseers unshackled the corpse, tossed it into a pit, and clamped the iron collar around someone else's throat.
And so the cycle continued.
That night, I sat in the dirt, staring at my hands.
Once, they had built homes. Planted fields. Held the hands of loved ones.
Now, they were nothing but tools for survival.
I clenched them into fists, nails biting into my palms.
I could not do this anymore.
I could not watch them suffer.
I could not endure another day of this endless cycle of torment.
And yet, what choice did we have?
We had tried to fight before.
We had failed.
We had tried to run.
We had been hunted down like animals.
The Butcher had shown us the truth—hope was an illusion, a cruel joke whispered by fools.
But still…
Something in my chest stirred.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But something close.
A seed, buried deep beneath the weight of despair.
A whisper.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
But someday.
Someday, we would not bow.
Someday, we would not suffer in silence.
And someday, they would learn—
Even a dying flame can still burn.
We had always known we were trapped.
The Butcher made sure of that.
The lash reminded us. The chains reminded us. The hunger, the torment, the endless days of suffering reminded us.
But deep inside, there had always been a whisper.
What if?
What if we ran?
What if we fought harder?
What if there was a way out?
That whisper died the night the hunters came.
It started with a whisper.
Three men—Tunde, Ekene, and little Chijioke—had slipped away into the darkness.
It was a fool's dream, but we all envied them for trying.
No one had ever escaped before.
Not because they didn't want to.
But because there was nowhere to go.
We were in another man's land, far from home, surrounded by endless forests and rivers that led to nowhere. The soil beneath our feet did not belong to us.
And yet, they tried.
For one night, we let ourselves believe they had made it.
For one night, we let ourselves dream.
Then morning came.
And so did the hunters.
They dragged the three of them back in chains.
Their bodies were torn, covered in wounds that oozed blood and dirt.
Chijioke, the youngest, could barely walk.
But the Butcher did not care.
He stood before us, the dawn light casting a long shadow over the yard.
"No one escapes," he said. His voice was not loud, but it did not need to be. It sank into our bones like poison.
We knew what came next.
We had seen it before.
But this time, it was worse.
This time, he wanted to make sure we never thought of running again.
He started with Ekene.
Two overseers forced him to his knees.
A third brought the machete.
One swift swing—
And his foot was gone.
The scream tore through the air, sharp as the blade itself.
Tunde struggled, shouting curses, thrashing in the overseers' grip.
The Butcher did not hesitate.
Another swing.
Another scream.
Blood soaked the ground beneath them.
Then it was Chijioke's turn.
The boy was too weak to fight.
Too weak to scream.
He just stared up at the Butcher with empty eyes, his lips barely moving.
"Please."
The machete fell.
And the boy's world went silent.
The Butcher turned to us, his hands stained red.
"No one escapes," he repeated.
We did not look at him.
We did not look at the bodies.
We stared at the horizon.
At the endless land that was not ours.
And we knew—
There was no way out.
Not by running.
Not by dreaming.
Not by hoping.
We were trapped.
Forever.
Hope was a dangerous thing.
It had been beaten out of us, starved from our bones, crushed beneath the weight of the Butcher's cruelty.
But sometimes, even in the deepest darkness, a light flickered where we least expected it.
And on that day, it came from a woman we did not know.
She arrived at midday, riding in a carriage pulled by two dark horses.
We were in the fields, backs bent, the sun carving sweat into our skin. The overseers watched us like hawks, their whips curled in their hands, ready to strike at the slightest misstep.
But when the Butcher stepped outside to greet his guest, something shifted.
A silence settled over the yard.
We stole glances at her from beneath our lashes.
She was not like the others.
Her dress was fine, her voice smooth, her posture elegant. But there was something else—something that made the Butcher's lips press into a thin line.
She was not here for business.
She was here for us.
"I have heard stories," she said.
Her voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.
The Butcher smirked, leaning against the railing of his porch. "Stories?"
She nodded. "Of your slaves. Their condition."
The Butcher chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah. And you've come to scold me, is that it?"
"No," she said simply. "I've come to make you an offer."
The overseers stiffened.
We stopped working, our hands frozen around our tools.
A breeze moved through the yard, rustling the trees.
The Butcher studied her for a moment before speaking again.
"I'm not in the business of selling what I need," he said.
The woman met his gaze. "Everyone has a price."
A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face.
He turned, looking out at us.
I lowered my gaze before his eyes could find mine, my heart pounding.
"You think you can buy them?" he asked.
"I think we can come to an arrangement," she said.
The Butcher let out a laugh—low, amused, but cold.
"Madam," he said, shaking his head, "I'm afraid you misunderstand."
He took a step toward her, his boots clicking against the wooden steps.
"I don't just own them," he said. "I break them. I mold them. I shape them into something useful."
His voice dropped lower.
"They are not merchandise to be sold when I grow bored."
Silence.
The woman's hands curled into fists at her sides.
For a moment, I thought she might press him further.
Demand a price.
Demand mercy.
But instead, she smiled.
A slow, knowing smile.
"I see," she said.
She turned, walking back toward her carriage.
The Butcher watched her go, amusement glinting in his eyes.
Just as she reached the carriage, she paused.
And without looking back, she spoke.
"Everything changes," she said softly.
Then she climbed inside and was gone.
The moment the carriage disappeared, the Butcher turned on us.
His smile was gone.
"Back to work!" he barked.
The whips cracked.
The sun burned.
The chains dug into our wrists.
And yet—
For the first time in a long time—
We felt something new.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But something close.
Something dangerous.
Because for the first time, we knew—
Someone out there saw us.
Someone out there cared.
And perhaps, just perhaps—
Someone out there was waiting.
Hope was a cruel thing.
It teased us, whispered in the dark, then left us to rot.
And yet, after so many years of silence, someone had finally spoken on our behalf.
We did not know her name.
We did not know her intentions.
But she had looked the Butcher in the eye and dared to push back.
And now, against all reason, she had returned.
It was late when the carriage rolled up the dirt road once more.
The night was heavy with the scent of damp earth, the air thick with the distant hum of insects.
I was in the yard, shackled with the others after a long day's labor, our bodies too exhausted to flinch at the sound of approaching hooves.
Then we saw her.
Stepping out of that same carriage, her fine dress sweeping over the dirt, her shoulders squared with quiet defiance.
The Butcher was waiting for her this time.
A glass of whiskey in one hand, a smirk on his lips.
"Well," he said. "You're persistent, I'll give you that."
She did not waste time with pleasantries.
"You've reconsidered?" she asked.
The Butcher chuckled, sipping his drink. "Oh, I do enjoy a good optimist."
She remained still. Unmoved.
"I've come with an offer," she said.
"I told you," the Butcher replied, voice slow, patient, like he was speaking to a child. "I don't sell what I need."
"And I've told you," she said, "everything has a price."
A flicker of irritation crossed his face.
"Then let me be clear," he said, stepping closer. "They are mine. Their lives, their work, their suffering—it belongs to me. You think I would trade that away for gold?"
She did not flinch.
"I think you're a businessman," she said.
The Butcher's smirk deepened. "I am something far worse than that, madam."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The wind rustled through the trees.
Then the woman took a step closer.
And in a voice so low I almost did not hear it, she said—
"I know what you've done."
Silence.
The Butcher's fingers tightened around his glass.
"Careful," he murmured.
She did not stop.
"I know the bodies you've buried," she continued. "I know the deals you've made. The enemies you've crushed. The ones who might still come looking."
The Butcher's smile remained, but something cold flashed in his eyes.
She was playing a dangerous game.
"Perhaps," he said smoothly. "But you forget one thing."
He gestured toward us, toward the shackled bodies in the yard.
"I own the only witnesses."
The woman exhaled softly.
A pause.
Then she nodded.
"Then I suppose I'll have to come back with a better offer."
She turned, walking back to her carriage.
And as the wheels rolled away into the night, I felt it again—
That whisper of something dangerous.
Something that had been beaten out of us long ago.
She was not finished.
And neither were we.
The woman returned sooner than we expected.
It had been only three days since her last visit, but this time, there was no carriage. No guards.
She arrived on foot, wrapped in a heavy cloak, moving through the night like a shadow.
We saw her from the fields, our backs bent beneath the weight of our chains. The overseers had not noticed her yet, but I had.
And so had the Butcher.
He was waiting for her on the porch, a cigar between his fingers, his expression unreadable.
She climbed the steps slowly, her face hidden in the dim light of the lanterns.
And then she spoke.
"I know what you are."
The Butcher exhaled a slow curl of smoke. "Do you?"
She pulled back her hood.
And for the first time, I saw something in her eyes that I had not seen before.
Not just determination.
But desperation.
"Yes," she said. "And I know what you fear."
The Butcher chuckled, tapping the ash from his cigar. "You amuse me, madam, but my patience has limits. I have already told you, they are not for sale."
"I'm not here to buy them," she said.
The words settled between them like a knife.
For the first time, the Butcher hesitated.
A slow smile spread across his lips. "Then why are you here?"
She took a step closer.
"I know who you answer to," she said. "I know the debts you owe. The enemies watching your every move."
The Butcher's smirk twitched.
For the first time, he did not look so amused.
"You are playing a dangerous game," he murmured.
"I am offering you a way out."
Silence.
The air was thick between them, heavy with unspoken threats.
Then, the Butcher leaned forward.
"And what, exactly, do you think I need an 'out' from?"
The woman's voice was steady.
"The Governor."
A muscle in the Butcher's jaw twitched.
She saw it.
And so did I.
"The Governor is coming for you," she continued. "He has been watching, waiting for the right moment. Your empire is built on blood, and he is looking for an excuse to dismantle it."
The Butcher's fingers tightened around his cigar.
For the first time, I saw something almost like uncertainty cross his face.
"You think I fear that old fool?" he scoffed.
"I think," she said, "that you are smarter than you pretend to be."
She stepped even closer.
"Let them go," she said. "Sell them to me. Let me take them off your hands. In return, I will make your problems disappear."
The Butcher's eyes gleamed.
And then—
He laughed.
A deep, cruel laugh that sent chills through my bones.
"You think you can bargain with me?" he asked.
"I think you are running out of choices."
A long silence.
Then, the Butcher's smile faded.
And in a voice colder than death, he said—
"You do not know what you are asking for."
The woman did not move.
She did not speak.
But I saw something in her eyes.
A flicker of something dangerous.
She was not afraid of him.
Not yet.
And that, more than anything, was what unsettled him the most.
d come to us.
And just like that, it had been crushed beneath the Butcher's heel.
Days passed.
Then a week.
Then another.
She did not return.
And so we buried our hope in silence.
The Butcher had proven his point—there was no rescue coming. No salvation.
The days stretched long after the woman's departure.
No one spoke of her.
No one dared.
The Butcher had made his point in blood and screams, and his message was clear—hope was a weakness, and weakness would be punished.
The boy he had used to break her was still alive, but barely. His back was torn open, raw flesh peeking through ragged wounds. He could no longer work. No longer stand.
And so, he was left to rot in the shadows, waiting for death to claim him.
We did not say his name.
We did not say hers.
We did not say anything at all.
But the silence was heavier than chains.
I saw it in the way the others moved, their bodies stiff, their hands shaking when they thought no one was looking.
The fear had always been there, but now it had taken root deep in our bones, twisting like a sickness that could not be cured.
Some of us had clung to the woman's presence like a lifeline, daring to believe in something beyond the Butcher's cruelty.
But he had crushed that belief beneath his heel.
And now, all that was left was despair.
"She will not return," Bayo muttered one night, his voice barely above a whisper.
We sat in the cramped darkness of our quarters, pressed together like cattle in a pen. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and sickness.
I did not respond.
"She ran," he continued. "Like a coward."
A few heads turned.
No one spoke.
But we were all listening.
"She thought she could change things," he spat. "She thought she could stand against him." His voice was bitter. "But she saw the truth, didn't she? She saw what he is. And she ran."
Still, I said nothing.
I wasn't sure I disagreed.
Another voice broke the silence—this one softer.
"She tried."
A woman named Dada. Young, but not naïve. She had seen enough suffering to know that hope was a dangerous thing.
Bayo scoffed. "And what did trying get her? What did it get him?" He nodded toward the corner where the boy lay, his breaths shallow, his skin slick with fever. "Trying is what got him killed."
Dada's hands clenched.
"She's not dead," she murmured.
"She may as well be," Bayo snapped.
For the first time, I met his eyes.
And I saw what I feared most.
He had given up.
Not just on the woman.
On everything.
On himself.
On us.
And he was not the only one.
The Butcher did not mention the woman again.
He did not have to.
His overseers worked us harder than before, their whips striking with renewed cruelty. They sensed our brokenness. They fed on it.
The stronger ones among us—those who had once whispered of rebellion—fell silent.
The others withdrew into themselves, their eyes empty, their backs bent lower with each passing day.
Even I felt it.
Like a slow, creeping poison.
Like something we could never recover from.
And then—
One night, in the dead of silence—
A cry split the air.
A cry of pure agony.
I jolted upright, my heart pounding.
It came from outside.
From the boy.
I scrambled to my feet, rushing to the door.
The others followed, their breath tight with panic.
We pushed through the heavy wood, spilling into the night—
And then we saw it.
The boy was gone.
His body.
His blood.
All that remained was the dirt where he had lain.
And the Butcher, standing in the torchlight, his knife dripping red.
He turned to face us.
And he smiled