I wish this was a nightmare

I wish this was a nightmare
January, 11, 2009
Genevieve H Christensen




I wish this was a nightmare. If it was, the red welts that stripe my back would have wakened me. The hot tears that wear paths down my face would be tears of joy, not anguish. The built up filth on my body would have been washed away long ago. I would have never known the sickening, rocking movement of what is now my entire world.


I cannot even move from where I am. The hot, sticky atmosphere makes even the tiny rags I wear cling to me. I have never felt so alone, even though I know there are others like me. I can hear them moan and I can feel their shoulders rub against mine. I know that they, too, feel discomforted by the humid atmosphere and the heat and the nausea.


I’ve heard rumors of our destination. They captured us from our home and took us to the coast. There they kept us for a few days. There are a large number of them, and many were often drunk from rum the pale foreigners bring them. Then they pack us tight into ships to a land where rice, cotton, sugar, and indigo grow in large amounts. That is where we are headed.


I try to forget my present state and visualize my home. I close my eyes (not that it makes any difference) and tune out the noises of those around me. I can hear my brother’s sweet voice as he sings a traditional tune. I can feel the dirt floor of our house beneath my feet. I can taste that sweet yam from lunch on my tongue. I can smell the healthy sweat of my goat as I milk it. I can feel my mother’s little hands touch mine as she takes the milk back into the house. I can hear the step of my father coming in from the fields where the cows graze. I can smell the delicate flowers from my mother’s garden, where she grows yams, maize, and beans. I was torn away from all of this, I remember in shock.


I fall asleep and when I wake, we have stopped. Our captors didn’t tell us we would arrive so soon. I am unshackled and housed with the others in a small, cramped building. We stay there for a week, and then are moved to a rough wooden platform. There a man starts calling out in a harsh, loud squawk, which I can barely understand. I am grabbed and half-marched, half-dragged to the center. The crowd is hushed and I hear someone say, “Nobody wants to buy a blind slave.”