floor and plunge it deep inside the fruit.
Up on the top deck of the ship, I heard the women talking. They said that the grand chief of the toubabu was built like a donkey and never gave the women anything but the stink of his body. The women said that hair covered his neck, his back and even his toes. Fanta just grunted, warning that one of us would surely end up in his stomach, right next to his hairball.
After ten days at sea, the toubabu removed the irons from some of the men allowed up on deck, but reshackled them later when they were pushed back down the hold. Biton encouraged me to learn all the toubabu words that I could, so that I could give him information. And he was always telling me to take objects from the medicine man’s cabin.
“If Biton loved you like a father,” Chekura warned, “he wouldn’t try to put you in danger. Tell him you can’t find anything.”
FOMBA STAYED SILENT AND CHAINED. I knew that Biton had told me not to ask for favours for Fomba, but I couldn’t bear looking at the raw skin and the blood on his ankles. He wouldn’t even complain to me. I got the medicine man to understand that Fomba could be trusted to be let out of chains and slop the food from the cooking pots into the buckets. I also managed to get a waistcloth for Fomba. But after that, it worried me to see women sometimes approaching Fomba and passing him objects when the toubabu were not looking.
Keep away from trouble
, I imagined my father telling me,
and stay safe
.
I saved food from the medicine man’s cabin for Fomba, Chekura, Fanta and Sanu, passing it to them on deck. One day, when I brought Chekura an orange, he ripped it apart, slurped out all the guts, and threw the remains overboard. He had juice and pulp all over his lips and face, and he looked like a child just learning to eat with his own hands, but he didn’t care. He was bursting with news.
“Fomba may not speak, but he sure can use his hands.”
“What did he do?”
“Down in the hold, he brought out a nail and snapped off his shackle. Biton thought it was a fluke. Fomba closed it back up, and snapped it off again. Biton tried to do it, but couldn’t. All night, he tried to open his own shackle with the nail. Couldn’t do it. Called over Fomba, who did it for him in an instant.”
ON DECK ONE AFTERNOON, before the captives’ meal, the toubab chief showed up carrying the carcass of a picked-over chicken. He tossed it into the thick of the male captives. The men kicked and fought for the remains, licking and sucking what they won, combing bones for scraps of meat and crunching them for marrow. Another chicken carcass was thrown into their midst, and once more the men wrestled. The sailors doubled over in laughter, then threw in another.
Biton was among the group of homelanders on deck. I heard him issuing orders, and saw the men stop fighting and back away from the third carcass. Biton picked it up and threw it back at the toubab chief. “You don’t dare kill me,” Biton shouted. “I’m too valuable.”
The toubabu had no idea what he was saying, but they whipped him anyway. Ten lashes, on the back. I watched the first lash tear into his flesh, and then I went to the medicine man’s room. I couldn’t bear the sight of Biton being whipped.
The next day, he was back up on deck, walking stiffly but without complaint. From that day forward, Biton was the undisputed chief of the captives.
THE HOMELANDERS HATED NOTHING MORE than being made to dance over a whip that the assistant raked over the deck. One day, when the toubabu’s helper had taken ill and left a toubab sailor in charge of the whip, I began to sing a song while we danced, naming all the people I saw. I tried to name every single face, and give the name of the person’s home village. Already, I knew a few.
“Biton,” I began, “of Sama.”
“Chekura,” I sang, “of Kinta. And Isa, of Sirakoro. Ngolo, of Jelibugu. Fanta, of Bayo.” The homelanders’ spirits picked
Up on the top deck of the ship, I heard the women talking. They said that the grand chief of the toubabu was built like a donkey and never gave the women anything but the stink of his body. The women said that hair covered his neck, his back and even his toes. Fanta just grunted, warning that one of us would surely end up in his stomach, right next to his hairball.
After ten days at sea, the toubabu removed the irons from some of the men allowed up on deck, but reshackled them later when they were pushed back down the hold. Biton encouraged me to learn all the toubabu words that I could, so that I could give him information. And he was always telling me to take objects from the medicine man’s cabin.
“If Biton loved you like a father,” Chekura warned, “he wouldn’t try to put you in danger. Tell him you can’t find anything.”
FOMBA STAYED SILENT AND CHAINED. I knew that Biton had told me not to ask for favours for Fomba, but I couldn’t bear looking at the raw skin and the blood on his ankles. He wouldn’t even complain to me. I got the medicine man to understand that Fomba could be trusted to be let out of chains and slop the food from the cooking pots into the buckets. I also managed to get a waistcloth for Fomba. But after that, it worried me to see women sometimes approaching Fomba and passing him objects when the toubabu were not looking.
Keep away from trouble
, I imagined my father telling me,
and stay safe
.
I saved food from the medicine man’s cabin for Fomba, Chekura, Fanta and Sanu, passing it to them on deck. One day, when I brought Chekura an orange, he ripped it apart, slurped out all the guts, and threw the remains overboard. He had juice and pulp all over his lips and face, and he looked like a child just learning to eat with his own hands, but he didn’t care. He was bursting with news.
“Fomba may not speak, but he sure can use his hands.”
“What did he do?”
“Down in the hold, he brought out a nail and snapped off his shackle. Biton thought it was a fluke. Fomba closed it back up, and snapped it off again. Biton tried to do it, but couldn’t. All night, he tried to open his own shackle with the nail. Couldn’t do it. Called over Fomba, who did it for him in an instant.”
ON DECK ONE AFTERNOON, before the captives’ meal, the toubab chief showed up carrying the carcass of a picked-over chicken. He tossed it into the thick of the male captives. The men kicked and fought for the remains, licking and sucking what they won, combing bones for scraps of meat and crunching them for marrow. Another chicken carcass was thrown into their midst, and once more the men wrestled. The sailors doubled over in laughter, then threw in another.
Biton was among the group of homelanders on deck. I heard him issuing orders, and saw the men stop fighting and back away from the third carcass. Biton picked it up and threw it back at the toubab chief. “You don’t dare kill me,” Biton shouted. “I’m too valuable.”
The toubabu had no idea what he was saying, but they whipped him anyway. Ten lashes, on the back. I watched the first lash tear into his flesh, and then I went to the medicine man’s room. I couldn’t bear the sight of Biton being whipped.
The next day, he was back up on deck, walking stiffly but without complaint. From that day forward, Biton was the undisputed chief of the captives.
THE HOMELANDERS HATED NOTHING MORE than being made to dance over a whip that the assistant raked over the deck. One day, when the toubabu’s helper had taken ill and left a toubab sailor in charge of the whip, I began to sing a song while we danced, naming all the people I saw. I tried to name every single face, and give the name of the person’s home village. Already, I knew a few.
“Biton,” I began, “of Sama.”
“Chekura,” I sang, “of Kinta. And Isa, of Sirakoro. Ngolo, of Jelibugu. Fanta, of Bayo.” The homelanders’ spirits picked
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