UMQOMBOTHI

It was a serene, airy dusk. Supper was quite fulfilling. It was “fufu ne abenkwan”, a traditional Ghanaian dish made from pounding together boiled cassava and plantain, which I ate with palm nut soup, prepared with crabs, snails, roasted beef, dry herrings, and love. I sat right on our veranda after the heavy meal in the company of my grandparents and my cousin, Osaa. Adjacent to where we sat, there stood an ancient palm tree, diligent and longer-lived than anyone could remember, waving its leaves without resistance in the direction of the wind. According to my grandfather, the tree had been there before he built the house twenty-nine years ago, and he had made it clear to the workers that it should remain untouched.

It was an ordinary Saturday, or so it seemed, and Osaa, who was about to graduate from high school, had come to spend the weekend with us. She sat on a bench that was intentionally placed there, especially for visitors who couldn’t enter our living room. Our grandparents, Mr and Mrs Donkor, soon joined in on our discussions and started sharing their experiences and stories- stories we had already heard a million times over.

We talked about several things: school, politics, church, and the poor educational system in the country. I was only confident to speak on such touchy subjects when I was with family. On a regular day, talking about these issues with the ordinary Ghanaian may result in losing your two front teeth, especially if you do not agree with their opinions. As we talked, Osaa played some old highlife music from her Samsung phone, “gifted” to her by my aunt, who had bought a new iPhone 11. Some of the artists were dead, yet we enjoyed the nostalgic tunes, humming along and tapping our feet as we talked about personal experiences regarding the songs as they shuffled one after the other. We shared where and how we heard each song, and the reasons why we liked or did not like it. Mr Donkor particularly did not appreciate music that had hints of profanity in it, as he believed it was one of the major reasons why our generation seemed to be corrupted. My grandmother, on the other hand, was indifferent to such matters. The evening was remarkable for me, as we didn’t get to do this often as a family, knowing how the busyness of life can stretch people far apart from those they love.

Our grandfather, whom we affectionately called Old Boy occasionally, moved from the topics of music and started sharing our childhood stories. This, he started with Osaa. Some I couldn’t believe, and others, no matter how many times I have been told, still embarrassed me. I did not like the fact that my childhood was being mocked. However, I laughed at Osaa too, so when it was my turn, I endured it silently. The music continued, and at some point, we were no longer attentive as we were deeply engrossed in our conversations until a piece of South African music began to play. I remembered that song. We all did. We could all relate to it. It was like a second Ghana anthem. Every child, every adult, every male, every female, every boy, every girl, every Christian, every Muslim, every idol worshipper knew the beat, tune, and rhythm...well, except for the lyrics, but who cared? All we knew was that it made us feel powerful and proud as Africans, more like a patriotic song. Everybody had some form of appreciation for it. It seemed that this music broke down the barriers of gender, ethnicity, religion, and anything that tends to pit Africans against one another. It was so because you could meet people of different religions and ethnicities, who on a normal day did not see eye to eye, dancing to the rhythm of this song.

“Umqombothi”, my grandmother said, smiling.

“What's that?” I asked with a curious face and leaned towards her to listen again, as the word sounded gibberish in my ears.

“That is the title of the song Osaa is playing”, she continued. Osaa and I looked at each other in surprise. We did not expect my grandmother, of all people, to know the title of such a song. We looked at my grandfather, expecting him to say something in her defence as he knew we had turned into doubting Thomases.

"Umqombothi means beer," she began explaining, her voice filled with enthusiasm as she sensed our nosiness. "You know this song has been in existence for thirty-six years- older than you both”, she stretched her wrinkly index finger towards Osaa and me “, and it is about beer”.

I could neither hold my laughter nor hide my startled countenance. As old as I was, I thought that song was a song about freedom, from colonisation, from betrayal and from the apartheid that bedevilled the nation of South Africa from the 1940s through to the 1990s.

She continued as though she had read my thoughts,

“Well, though many think it is a song of freedom, the lyrics only describe the process of making a special beer, exclusive to South Africans. It’s quite an important part of South African culture and tradition. It's made from fermented maize and sorghum and is usually served during weddings and other special occasions. We make the same here, you know it already, and we call it pitoo," she concluded in a whispering tone and with a mischievous look.

She went on to recount her personal experience with the song, sharing how she first heard it during her time at Teacher Training College. As a first-year student, she and her classmates had to perform several activities during their first week as freshers, including a choreography night.

“There were about twelve groups, and my group was the fifth. We all performed with Umqombothi as the song of choice for our year group and spent hours rehearsing the drama and dance routine to match the lyrics and rhythm of the song. I played the character of the woman making the beer.”

She continued as we were still silent, though I was busily checking out the artist already.

“Do not change your mind about what and how you feel about this music because you are right. The lyrics may talk about firewood, water, and beer, but it is always about the spirit and passion behind every piece of music, and this one comes with a sense of togetherness, belonging and pride in African ancestry. Umqombothi encapsulates the vibrant culture of the South African people, and its significance extends beyond just being a popular tune. It represents the traditions and values that have been passed down from generation to generation.”

She coughed slightly and requested water. Osaa and I stood up simultaneously to get it for her. Osaa took the lead and smiled. I sat back on the bench.

“This song holds a special place in my heart because it took a lot of sacrifices for me to get into college, you know that story already, so I will not go into all that…”

I laughed in response. “But it was like a victory song to me. Every time I hear it, I remember that choreography dance on that night, and maybe, just maybe, that was how your grandfather took notice of me.”

“What?! You two met in college?”

“College?” Osaa repeated my question as she came out of the kitchen with the glass of water.

“That is a story for another day, girls.”

She winked and smiled at the husband of her youth. He smiled back. A naughty smile. We knew we were not going to hear that part of the story anytime soon. Her eyes became teary as she looked up to the sky. Tears of gratitude, perhaps. Night had taken over the day completely now, and mosquitoes were beginning to sing songs to register their unwanted presence.

COAST TO COAST

1

Charlie Baron, the son, woke up feeling a kind of heat as he had never felt
before. He struggled to open his eyes, simultaneously confused as to why
there was sweat sliding down his nose from his forehead, and immediately
remembered they were now on the West coast of Africa, as George Baron,
the father, had mentioned. They had been on the sea many weeks, and now,
seeing land, he could only be grateful. Charlie sighed heavily, recalled
explicitly telling his father his stance on the matter when he had brought it
up the first time; the matter of travelling with him on his last voyage. The
first time this discussion was brought up, in their house in London, he said
nothing. But his silence had meant consent to George, and many weeks
later, he was on the ship Pearl, sailing from the West India Docks.
“Has anyone seen the captain?” he asked no one in particular, now
standing on the deck.
“He went out early this morning to see the chief of the village,” said a
crewman who stood nearby. Charlie nodded a thank you.
Charlie went into his cubicle, his left hand lazily attached to his waist, and
searched through his box with his right hand, his mind suddenly hazy. His
eye caught the small mirror that lay on the bottom of the box. He smiled.
Wistfully. He had not seen his face for such a long time and feared for a
minute that he had forgotten what he looked like.
‘How long do you think we are going to be in … this place?’ he asked
the crewman beside him. He was back on the deck. He suspected him to be
the cook, the guy who stood beside him. He had always been the one who
served him and the others while they were at sea. Even now, he was
vigorously making mashed potatoes. Usually, there is no stipulated time for
these things, Sir. It depends on the availability of resources, and until we
have the number already agreed on with the chiefs, we don’t move, was the
response.
“Can you take me to see Captain George?” The crewman nodded a yes.
“Your name is?” Charlie asked again.
“Liam”.
Charlie wore a pair of black breeches and the same white shirt he woke up
in. Liam wore the same thing too, and every one of the crewmen, really. As
they left, many of the resident officers came to the docked ship to carry
supplies into the castle.
“There are not many people around at such a time because most of
them have all gone to the farms”. Liam said, as if to answer the questions
that lingered on Charlie’s mind as they walked on the lonely path. It was
unsettlingly quiet.
Charlie and Liam were ushered into a throne room, where the captain
discussed with the chief. The chief sat in the middle on a huge asesedwa,
and two other men sat opposite him, on their own little asesedwa too. They
laughed amidst their conversation while they drank the diluted brandy the
captain had brought for them. Charlie had seen him many nights ago while
they neared the coast as he and the other crewmen had opened the bottles,
poured parts into empty bottles and added water and a bit of cayenne
pepper to mimic its hotness. As the locals did not know what the real tasted
like, how were they to know the fake? There also stood a young man beside
the king, interpreting everything the king said to George, and vice versa.
From Fante to English, from English to Fante. Captain George noticed
Charlie’s presence and was introduced to the chiefs and the two elders, first
as his son, and secondly as a surgeon in charge of the commodities they
would buy later. They shook their heads in approval.
At the end of the meeting, it was finalised that the captain was going to need
about two hundred and fifty bond men and women, and four sacks of
sikakokoo, and in turn, George would give them more guns, brandy, knives,
mirrors and other stuff that were of lesser value as compared to what
George took from them, if they had any value at all.

2

“We are going to be here for about two weeks, and then we will be on
our way. I need you to prepare your body and mind, and your equipment.
Your work begins from here, not just on the ship. Though many of the
diseases start on the ship. With this voyage, I hope we will make it without
any significant record of death, and I’m counting on you to make that
happen”. Captain George rattled on like a broken record; Charlie only shook
his head in affirmation after every sentence.
Sleep was exiled from Charlie’s eyes when George left. He stood up from the
bed and stared outside through the window. The raging waves calmed him,
which was quite ironic because they made him restless while he was at sea.

3

The people had a simple life. They worked with their hands. The men
married as many as they could, their children too many to count. The
younger children bathed outside until breasts protruded from their bodies
and penises stood erect in the mornings, and they had no desire for the
world beyond the seas.
In the evenings, children gathered in circles, with fire burning in their
middle to keep them warm, and old men or women told them stories, stories
they called anansesem. One of the stories Charlie learned was the story of
Nana Nyankopon, the supreme god in Akan folklore, who gave Ananse, the
spider, a pot of wisdom. Ananse was the most cunning creature in Akan
folklore, and being the greedy creature that he is, decided to hide the pot on
top of the highest tree, so that no other person could get wisdom. While he
struggled to climb the tree because the pot hung in front of him, his son
Ntikuma came and asked him to hang the pot behind him instead and that
it would be easier to climb the tree. He did and, realising that his son still
had more wisdom than him, threw the pot of wisdom on the ground in
anger, and it scattered all over the world, and that’s how everyone in the
world came to be wise.
It had been four days, and Charlie began to enjoy the village. Yet in the quiet
of the night, his heart wrestled against his mind. Because beneath him,
beneath his room in the castle, beneath his comfort, were souls captured
from far and near, and he could hear their faint cries. The captured people
were mainly from other villages far and wide, on the Gold Coast. The captain
had mentioned that there was a time when raids were instigated against an
entire village just to supply a broad range of captives from little children to
very old people, which left the village barren to this very day. Some were also
usually kidnapped and taken into captivity as they worked on their farms.
The unfortunate ones were even captured in their homes, on their very beds,
while they slept. The kidnappers used guns, the ones the white men
supplied, to break them into obedience. By his explanation, Charlie realised
how slave traders preyed upon the vulnerability of individuals and families,
and communities, especially those without strong leaders, single-handedly
transforming the entire Gold Coast into a predatory environment. They were
souls ready to be shipped coast to coast, to places their minds had never
conceived, yet their feet were forced to touch, to be forced to live with a
different kind of people, with a different language and culture. He wanted to
be unbothered. It was legal after all. And that was how he pushed out the
thought from his mind, night after night, before he would drift into sleep.

4

The dreaded day Captain mentioned was finally here. The day father and
son would select the finest bond people, kept beneath the castle. Old and
fresh bond people all together, to be selected and priced as mere
commodities. Charlie barely closed his eyes the previous night. He had
imagined himself in their stead. Oh, even that imagination hurt. Charlie
spent the entire night wondering how this trade started. At first, it was their
gold, their minerals, their artefacts. Now it was themselves. They gave, gave
until they had to give themselves. Questions flew through his head like a
swing. Up, down, up, down. He knew his father’s company, the Royal
African Company, was a trading company established by the House of Stuart
and City of London merchants to trade along the West Coast of Africa,
mainly in gold. He did not know where the idea to trade in slaves started
from. Now it had become its largest trading commodity.
Charlie was to observe about fifty bond people, slaves, Captain George
called them. Charlie hated that word. What did he mean by " slaves? People.
They were people. In their own land. They were not slaves. Yet Charlie’s
feelings were irrelevant. Irrelevant because it did not change their status as
slaves. Irrelevant because it did not stop the unfair treatment being meted
out to them.
Charlie went down the stairs onto the large expanse of the parade grounds
on the floor of the castle. He hadn’t dared to pass by their little dark
dungeons since he arrived. A few of the officers were ordered to bring the
bond people out of their cells to be examined. As they brought them, he
thought about how some of them were captured. Some wives in some
polygamous families even worked with these kidnappers to capture their co-
wives’ children, to inherit their husband’s properties all to themselves and
their own children. Some even intentionally sold their most stubborn kids
out to be free of them. Some were dragged here as far as from Ashanti Land
and the northern lands. His thoughts didn’t travel far; they were interrupted
by the clanking, the rattling, the jingling of the heavy chains that bound the
slaves together, as the officers dragged them out.
Out they came, bound in chains of heavy irons on their necks, their hands,
their feet. They could barely walk due to the weight of the chains that
constrained them. The officers marched them, made them stand in a
horizontal queue before Charlie. He couldn’t look at them. Their eyes had
this sadness in them. It was as if he could touch it. Both tangible and
intangible. The bodies were ashy, dry, and covered in dirt, faeces, vomit,
menstrual blood. Their hair tangled, locked in dirt.
Thirty were released from the first dungeon, another thirty from another
dungeon. His eyes caught some of the officers dragging a corpse out of the
same room where the first group had been brought from had been brought
from. He breathed heavily. They weren’t checked on daily, and if someone
died, the corpse stayed, decomposed with them until the officers went to
check on them. An officer came up to rearrange them properly and in order
of importance – men, women and children. The stench that emanated from
their bodies could make one pass out. Charlie had to stop himself from
vomiting. They smelt of urine, of faeces, of menstrual blood, of vomit. They
smelled like death. Kept in that room for weeks and months, they didn’t
have the luxury to bathe or brush their teeth. They urinated, vomited,
menstruated, and defecated in those dark dungeons they were kept in.
The officer who had brought them out beckoned to Charlie with a hand
gesture to start the inspection. That was when Charlie became conscious of
their nakedness. The first man he touched pulled away from him, quite
sharply. Rightfully so. He looked like pain. He tried to touch him again; this
time, he stood still. He checked his eyes, his nose and the sides of his
mouth to see if there were any lingering sores. Then he checked his penis
and pressed his scrotum a few times. He noticed a few bruises on his chest,
which he was sure were from the struggle when he was being captured, and
dried faeces clung tightly to his back. He moved on to the next, same
procedure. Then again and again. Minutes passed. It got to the women. The
first woman to inspect was beautiful. Beneath all that dirt, she was
beautiful. As uncomfortable as checking the first man felt, this felt even
more torturous. It felt like an invasion. Like he wasn’t supposed to be this
close. From the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, every touch felt
like a violation of her sacredness, of her purity, of her humanness. This he
did one after the other, again, again, again, as they stood like corpses with
souls. In about an hour, Charlie had inspected sixty bond people, and
according to George’s preference, only thirty-five were to be bought.

5

This would be his Charlie’s time in Kwesi’s house since he had been at the
Gold Coast. Kwesi was the man who translated the conversation between
the chief and Captain George. He walked past mahogany trees, daffodil
flowers, mango and pawpaw trees with ripened fruit hanging so low he could
just yank one off if he wanted to, tufts of mud houses, a few naked children,
before he reached his destination. Charlie saw Kwesi’s sister, Kakra, seated
right next to him, as they ate ℇ to. She smiled briefly. Charlie hadn’t been
called for any inspection for days. In the deepest part of his heart, he
expected Kwesi to know better, and he did know better, yet he didn’t do
better. He perceived that Kwesi, the king and Captain George did not see
themselves as receivers of stolen human property but as participants in a
legitimate commerce. He wondered how they were happy to be part of a
system that created a threatening environment in which every person at the
Gold Coast, regardless of status, became a potential target for slavery. Even
the people assigned to the job of kidnapping sometimes lost their lives in the
process. Other times, they were captured too, if they were unlucky enough
to meet a stronger group.
Charlie pitied them for their blind trust in Captain George. He was very
much aware of his father’s deep-seated inferiority, he harboured against the
locals, and how he used their lack of exposure, civilisation and ignorance
against them.

7

The next day was another day for inspection. Fresh commodities had been
brought over the course of the days. Charlie went downstairs into the
parade grounds of the castle. These looked fresher, more energetic, and
cleaner. There were about threescore of them. His last inspection. George
had mentioned he was running out of time. Charlie, on the other hand,
hoped that this time all of them would be good enough to add to what he
had already taken. The first person he inspected was a pregnant woman.
They were not arranged men, women, and children as the first group he had
inspected. It seemed like she was in her second trimester. He stared into her
bulging eyes. She looked at him slowly, almost like she wasn’t going to. He
checked her eyes, her neck and noticed a few bruises on her arms. It was
from the struggle with her kidnappers, he was certain. All of them had it,
those bruises. He touched her belly. He felt her baby move. She smiled
momentarily. She felt it too. On a normal day, if George’s old physician had
inspected a pregnant woman and declared her fit and healthy, George would
have still declined, yet he went with it this time, because it was Charlie. At
the end of the day, they had about forty-five more slaves added to what they
already had from the previous inspection.
“Good job, son”, George commended him, the slaves being dragged
back into the underground cells. They trampled on one another. “We
journey back tomorrow evening. I will go see the chief and his friends to
settle our bargain from here”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow. You should be happy; you didn’t want to be here
anyway”.
True that was, but something held him back. He couldn’t figure out what it
was, but tomorrow felt too abrupt, too sudden. He shook his head in
agreement. It wasn’t like anything he said was going to change George’s
mind anyway. He left for Kwesi’s house.

8

“Your clothes have been packed into the ship, Sir”, Liam confirmed
when Charlie asked him if his possessions had developed legs and walked
out of his room, after he went there later that evening.
Liam watched him quietly, his countenance blank with no defined
expression. He went out and downstairs and watched as the slaves, still
chained, were being led through the Door of No Return into George’s ship. It
was said that if you went through that door, just as the name depicts, there
was no returning.
Their hair was completely shaven. One after the other, they were led as
sheep to the slaughter, to wash themselves of the sweat, the filth, the vomit,
the faeces, and then they were led into the ships. While the immediate
motive of the shaving of their hair was hygiene, the act also anticipated the
social and cultural death that awaited them on the other side of the coast.
They were like chattel, entering the new world– stripped of their own
identities, ready to take on a strange identity, strange names they
themselves cannot even pronounce. Also, to George, the black man’s hair
was not hair but wool, like literal wool on a sheep. The unstated implication
was, of course, that if they belonged to a woolly sheep-like species, it was
morally justifiable to treat them as they were being treated, as animals. In
total, they had bought about seventy-five male slaves, twenty female slaves
and five children. They were in perfect condition, healthy, agile, young, with
no imperfections whatsoever, as had been instructed by George. The males
had no marks in the groin or swelling around the anus. There was none
with loss of a tooth or a blemish in the eye. George had rejected all of such,
and before they were boarded onto the ship, they had been marked from
number one to one hundred.
Hours passed, and all the slaves had been boarded onto the ship. It was
dark now. Charlie, from his room, saw someone who he thought might have
been Kwesi, considering his stature and the clothes he wore, dragging many
weak slaves to the sea, whipping them as he dragged them. There were also
three able-bodied men who he was certain were the guards of the chiefs, and
for what he wished he had not witnessed ever, the three men slit their
throats one after the other and drowned them in the sea as they shook
vigorously, battling as their souls exited their bodies. While he watched on
with teary eyes, he figured those were the ones that had been declared unfit
for sale awhile. No buyer wanted them. They called them refuse slaves. Too
old. Too sick. Too frail. They punished them with the ultimate punishment,
death, for their inability to attract buyers. As if they had been intentional
about being unsellable. As he watched in utter disbelief, he knew it was
these actions that had solidified the perceived lack of worth these refuse
slaves were believed to hold. After this horrific sight, he left his room and
went onto the ship to see how the slaves were being arranged. He saw the
three guards who had just murdered the refuse slaves on the coast on the
deck with some of the officers, sipping the brandy, the undiluted ones.
As he stood there, his papa came up behind him, asked if he could sleep on
the ship since everything had been taken from the castle. Charlie agreed.
Hoped to bid his last farewell to Kwesi the morning before the ship sailed.

9

Charlie was awakened by the roaring of the restless sea and the cold that
tightly embraced his half-naked body and immediately realised his father’s
trickery. The ship had sailed.
George called him out from his cubicle to see what a ‘fine prize’ he had got,
and to his uttermost surprise, it was the three guards he had drunk with
the previous night. George had witnessed how able-bodied they were and the
good prizes they would offer at the slave market. But he knew he couldn’t
convince the chief and his friends to sell those. They were their finest. So, he
brought them on board, under the guise of entertaining them, made them
drunk and sailed the ship. That was why they had moved in the middle of
the night. The missing pieces all came together. Charlie looked at them,
completely oblivious to their surroundings.
While he stood there watching over them, one of them opened his eyes, not
being exactly familiar with his environment, tapped the other, first gently,
then forcefully, until the other awoke from his slumber, still heavy with
sleep. They looked around, at the officers and the crewmen, and spoke in
their Fante language, asking each other where they were and how they got
there. George immediately ordered the officers to put them among the male
slaves, and before long, they were in irons. In silence, they looked at each
other as the officers led them away, down into the slave quarters. After a
while, Charlie had heard them make lamentations in songs and words. As to
what they said in their distress, Charlie did not understand, but he knew
they lamented because they believed themselves free men, not deserving to
be sold.
The day had fully broken now. The lamenting from the two guards-turned-
slaves had stopped, and Charlie’s duties had officially begun, as had Liam’s
and every other officer. Liam made food for the slaves. George had drawn up
a routine for them. Their inspection had to be done before the meals. In the
slave quarters, they were packed and flipped over one another, like herrings
caught in a net, and could neither move to the left nor the right. There was
no room to stand or sit upright, and as such, they were forced to remain in a
twisted, hunched posture. It was dark in there, almost airless, with ceilings
no more than three feet high. The air was thickened with the stench of
sweat, of vomit, of urine, of faeces, of menstrual blood, all mixed up together
almost immediately. George did not care about their ventilation because, in
his words, they are used to heat. Charlie stood there, watching them
struggle for space, air and a chance at life. In the nakedness of their bodies
and the hopelessness on their faces, some moaned, some cried, some
shouted, alongside their chains clinking and the constant creaking of the
ship as it sailed on the many waters.

10

His concentration was broken by the officer in charge that morning. He
came down into the quarters suddenly, shouting exaggeratedly. This
overzealousness. He instructed them to stand up and climb up onto the
deck for their morning inspections and breakfast. They didn’t fathom what
he said; some stood, some lay down weak, some watched him clueless, until
the officer beckoned to them with his arms to start moving. It was going to
be done daily, the daily inspections, knowing that there was always a good
chance of diseases creeping up into their system due to the unhygienic
conditions they were kept in. They walked slowly past Charlie, their chains
clanking, his eyes fixated on the visible bruises on their necks, wrists and
ankles because of the constant friction of their bodies with the iron chains.
While some stared at Charlie as they passed, others did not even raise their
heads. He watched them one after the other, and he saw a face he could
swear was familiar. All the faces were familiar, yes. He had inspected them
before the voyage. But this one was familiar. And her hair had not been
shaved off, yet.
Kakra? Charlie stopped her in the queue, touched her chin, and raised it. It
was Kakra, in flesh. Kwesi’s sister. But how did she get here? She wasn’t
part of the slaves he had inspected. She was at Kwesi’s house the last time
he saw her. Charlie’s mind raced through the events of the previous day,
from the morning to the evening. No event correlated with Kakra being on
their ship. And oh, he had been proven right eventually. No one was safe. It
didn’t matter whether you were wealthy or affluent. It didn’t matter whether
you lived in the chief’s palace or were homeless. No one was really safe. He
watched her pass by, and one thing was certain: he couldn’t let her be there.
He needed to do something to keep her out of those female slave quarters.
And quick.
His heartbeat was faster than normal. He had followed the last slave to the
deck. Basins of water were passed around for the women to wash their
arms, faces, and mouths. At first, they all tried to rush towards the basin
like happy ducks in want of refreshment in the harmattan season, their
sweaty sticky bodies clambering over one another. Charlie’s eyes met
Kakra’s. She had cried throughout the night, he could tell. He asked to
examine the woman first. Their bodies were considered more delicate than
those of the men. Under the scorching sun, he checked them with a gloved
hand, one after the other - their eyes, their noses, their mouths, their
breasts, their vaginas. Until now, Charlie had no idea that breasts came in a
wide range of shapes and sizes. Some were round, full at the top and bottom
and evenly balanced in volume. Some were shaped like a teardrop, slightly
less volume at the top than the bottom, with a natural, gentle slope. Some
were asymmetrical, one breast visibly larger than the other. Some were bell-
shaped, narrower at the top, fuller and rounder at the bottom. And many
other shapes he couldn’t find the perfect description for. It felt horrendous
to his soul as he squeezed, touched, shook, and even slightly caressed such
delicate parts of the woman’s body. He could not touch Kakra when he got
to her. He touched only her hair. It felt both dense and soft, coarse, and was
a completely different texture from his, but he loved the cushioning it gave
to his white fingers.
Every eye was on Kakra. He felt it, like an energy. Maybe because she was
easily noticed. However, if he couldn’t save her from being sold as a slave, he
certainly could save her from the predatory environment on the ship.
Charlie made her stand aside from the rest of the slaves. He did not know
the extent to which women were raped and sexually assaulted on the slave
ships, but he had heard more than once that the women’s quarters were
referred to as whore hole. That was enough confirmation.
The inspection of the male slaves was no less horrific than that of the
women. Their chains were not removed. There were lingering stories and
memories of how male slaves, once freed from their chains to take baths or
eat, rebelled in a futile attempt to return home. He checked them one after
the other, from their noses to their mouths, their uncircumcised penises
and their scrotums. He didn’t understand why they were uncircumcised
and, for a moment, imagined how they had sex comfortably with the
foreskins on the tip of their penises. Just like the female breasts, penises
came in many shapes and sizes, even ones he didn’t know existed. Charlie
was only familiar with his. Some were straight. Some were curved upward,
bent slightly and noticeably upward when erect. Some curved downward,
arched gently and prominently downward when erect. Some were curved to
the side, either to the left or right. Some had prominent visible veins on
them. And many others, he couldn’t find the perfect description for, just like
the female breasts.
“All in perfect condition for now”, Charlie declared loudly. He took a
paper and a quill that lay on a chair on the deck, carefully dipped the quill
in the black ink and wrote a daily report on the condition of the slaves.
After all the inspections of the slaves, they were made to sit down to be fed.
Liam was called upon to distribute the food that had been prepared for
them.
Liam brought the food over to the deck: boiled yams and palm oil with
onions and cayenne pepper. He asked the crewmen to help him serve the
food. Charlie’s eyes wandered. They wandered till they landed on Kakra; it's
the destination all along. She sat there, still separated from the rest of the
slaves as he had. Liam served them three slices of yams each for the women
and four each for the men, taking into consideration that male slaves had
more value in the slave market, and they needed them to be as healthy as
possible by the time they arrived at the other side. Some of them ate all their
apportioned meals, some only one or two. The latter were forced to eat by
the officers. Not eating meant malnourishment, and it was not good for
business. By the time they were done, it was past midday. Time was not of
the essence on the voyage; keeping the slaves alive was. They were
instructed to march down slowly into their quarters, starting with the men,
followed by the women.
“This one has signs of an ailment I may need to check out, and I won’t
advise she be taken back into the quarters with the others to avoid possible
contraction,” Charlie said out loud, taking Kakra out of the group.
Caleb, the assistant captain, came towards Kakra, attempting to touch her.
“Don’t!” … Charlie did not know how or when he shouted at him.
“She has possible signs of an ailment, as I said, it may be contagious”.
“You must tell the captain then”.
Charlie nodded. Caleb didn’t like him. Charlie didn’t like him either. They
kept out of each other’s way. An unspoken agreement, but an agreement,
nonetheless.

11

Charlie took Kakra into his little cubicle, after all the slaves had left for their
quarters and sat her on his bed. She looked at him sadly, her eyes wet, as if
eye salve had been administered onto them.
“You are not sick”, he said in whispers. “I just had to take you out of
there”. She did not understand his language, but he hoped she would.
Charlie wondered what was going on at Kwesi’s home and how stressed the
entire family would be. He pitied Kakra. He did not pity her family. And he
did not know how to pity her without pitying her family.
“How did you get here”? He asked. She looked at him again. He
immediately remembered she was without clothes. He opened his box that
sat on the side of the small bed and gave her one of her shirts to put on.
There was a knock on his door. Liam.

12

It had been the same routine. Day in, day out. They wake up, they bring the
slaves up onto the deck, Charlie does his inspections and writes his reports
carefully with his quill, they eat, and they go back to their quarters.
In the evenings, they bring them up again for their dinner and back into
their quarters. George only came out to check on the officers, the crewmen
and the slaves’ well-being occasionally. George’s job was now getting them
safely to London.
Caleb had not asked about Kakra, nor had George or any other person. She
was off their radar for the time being. For the days she had spent in his
room, they shared his food and water. He would wake up earlier than any
other person on the ship to get water and, with one of his shirts, soak up
some water, squeeze some of it out and clean her from head to toe. She
never spoke. What was there to say? She was traumatised, and thoughts of
the comfort she had back home and the uncertainty of the life ahead of her
were enough to keep her awake at night. Twice in the previous night, she
had woken abruptly with choking sobs. He had held her in his arms and
soothed her to sleep until the day broke.
In the beginning, it was about a friendship. His short friendship with Kwesi
gave him a sense of duty to protect Kakra. He felt duty-bound. But as the
days unravelled, and though she never spoke because of the language
barrier, he had started to enjoy her presence, and he felt terrible about it.
He felt terrible because it was to her detriment. There was this joy, this good
anxiety, this jumping in his stomach anytime he had to come back to his
cubicle. He anticipated her smile, though it was a rare sight. Somewhere in
his heart, he began to be grateful for his presence. Was he a villain for not
wishing she were in her father’s house? And so was he constantly torn
between the two worlds – Kakra on this voyage with him, or with her people
in comfort.
One evening, Charlie sat on the deck with Liam and helped him wash the
dishes. The rain was drizzling on and off, like it couldn’t make up its mind.
Suddenly, Caleb came up on the deck and asked one of the officers to find
him a slave for the evening. He went into the whore whole and came back
with number 15. The pregnant one. Caleb had a fetish for having sex with
pregnant women. All the officers and crew members knew. It was also the
reason the officer knew exactly who to bring. He looked at Number 15, with
both disdain and lust plastered on his face, like someone who doesn’t want
a particular meal, but in the face of hunger, is forced to eat. It was not the
first time he had sex with Number 15. It was the fourth time in two days. He
dragged her weak body into his cubicle, and soon they were abhorred with
shouts of despair and painful moans as he lay with her like a brute. Her
cries of pain and torture continued awhile, then ceased.
“Unfortunately, this is how their bodies are routinely sexualised
throughout every voyage”, said Liam. “The buying of female slaves is more
about the sexual functions that they served in the minds of crewmen. Before
Liam’s last word fell, Caleb climbed back up onto the deck with a lit tobacco
on the left side of his mouth, went to stand on the side of the deck, opposite
them. Caleb stared at the liquid matter beneath the ship, the raindrops
falling lazily on his shirt. He asked the officer to retrieve number 15 from his
cubicle and return it to the slave quarters. Charlie, on the other hand, had
had enough of what the evening had to offer. He stood up and went into his
cubicle to hold onto that which was becoming dear to him.
Kakra lay on the bed quietly as he entered. He saw that fear on her face
again. He saw it anytime he opened the door; the fear of what if it’s someone
else. They had learned to communicate through their facial expressions –
every raised brow, every wink, every smile, every opened mouth, every falling
of the countenance- they were beginning to understand each other. But this
time he wanted to talk. He knew everything he was going to say would be
like blather, but he started talking, and Kakra watched him. She stared
straight into his eyes so much that he couldn’t contain it any longer. He
drew her into his arms, continued his story of what Caleb had done, with
little droplets of tears here and there. She closed her eyes, confused. It
wasn’t long until they heard a loud knock on his door.
There was an emergency with the pregnant woman. Charlie had expected
some possible complications after her multiple sexual encounters with
Caleb, but he hadn’t expected it to be this quick. He lay Kakra on the bed
and kissed her on her forehead. She smiled. Adrenalin rushed throughout
his whole body, but this was no time for emotions. Talk about wrong timing.
Two lives were at stake. He rushed out to the slave quarters only to meet
blood all over the woman. She bled, and it was no small bleeding. Caleb
stood there, no remorse on his face. Charlie stared at him, said nothing.
Charlie rushed back into his cubicle to get something that could stop the
bleeding, napkins mainly. As he got back, some of the female slaves knelt,
some stood, their naked bodies all stained with blood on them. She
lamented in the Fante language, and they tried to calm her down as they
spoke to her. Her body had been forced into labour. Charlie held her in his
arms as she wailed in agony, her nails almost buried deep in the skin of the
arm she held onto. There wasn’t much he could do. They neither had the
equipment to deliver a newborn nor to keep it alive and healthy. He had
calculated she would deliver when they got to their destination. She was
helpless, and so was Charlie. He tried to clean her with his right hand, as
she lay on his left. Moments passed, and she began to turn pale. She was
dying. He knew it. He had seen too many people transition from life to
death; it was always the same. They struggle to hold on to life until they
cannot anymore, and then they give in to death’s call. He held her tightly.
Tears welled up in his eyes. Everyone stood there, watched them. He
thought of whose wife she probably was, whose daughter she probably was,
whose sister she probably was, whose mother she probably would have
been. Then suddenly, he felt her grip on his arm loosen, her deafening wail
voice quieting. The women suddenly started crying loudly, and the crewmen
shut them up. Charlie still held onto her. He didn’t want to let go. He didn’t
know how to let go.
Caleb commanded that the female slaves be moved onto the deck of the ship
to wash the blood off themselves. The cleaning officers were asked to clean
off the blood to avoid contamination. Charlie finally let her go, laid her on
the floor. Left alone in the slave quarters with the dead body, his shirt and
breeches fully drenched in pregnancy blood. The crewmen carried the dead
from Charlie’s arms where she lay; they did it so quickly, threw her and her
unborn into the sea. Forgotten.
Charlie went into his cubicle, soaked in blood and sweat and tears. He
smiled at Kakra as he entered and said nothing to her.
Days passed.Or perhaps weeks.
Charlie had lost count of the days on the voyage. He had stopped counting.
It scared him. Counting. It scared him because it made him realise how
close they were getting to the other side. It was breaking him. The thought of
Kakra’s life when they got to the coast. Every day, the cracks in his soul
were enlarged, little by little, like a rift. And it took so much effort to stop
himself from fully breaking into smithereens.
He and Liam hadn’t spoken in a while, as they used. But he had brought
them food this day. After the food, he lay on the bed, drawing Kakra into
himself, and cuddled her. She looked at him intensely whenever he did that.
The cuddling. He was weak in not just his knees but his whole body. Oh,
how much he wanted to speak with her and she with him. But Fante and
English had no correlation whatsoever, perhaps so were their lives.
He had also found a little container in which Kakra eased herself in, and in
the night, he would carry the container that contained faeces and urine and
throw it into the sea.
“You know, I think the two guards your dad tricked had something to
do with her getting on here”, Liam said when he brought their dinner one
evening. Charlie had the same suspicions, but at this point, there was no
need to cry over spilt milk. The deed had already been done, and except for a
miracle, Kakra was lost forever, and at this point, she was.
As they spoke, Kakra beckoned to Charlie for help from the bed. When
Charlie got closer, there was blood, menstrual blood. He scavenged his box
of clothes for napkins, shirts, breeches, anything that could soak up blood.
He folded them into squares, laid them on the bed and made her lie back on.
She was a heavy bleeder. The few days that followed were the same routine
for them. The napkin she laid on her in the morning was washed and dried
in the evening for the next morning. The napkin she laid on for the evening
was washed and dried for the next evening. So, it was till the blood ceased.

13

Charlie had finished his inspections and written his daily report, and
though most of them were now weak, even Kakra too, they were all in good
health. He sat on deck, just watching the blue ocean. He pondered on the
mysteries it harboured, the many lives it had taken. It looked so calm, so
innocent, yet had become a graveyard for many. His thoughts of the sea
were quickly overtaken by thoughts of home. He yearned to be home, then,
like a pendulum, they switched to Kakra and the future that awaited her.
After the death of the pregnant woman, many distasteful things happened
indeed. These occurrences increased his fears concerning Kakra’s future. It
scared him. It destabilised him.
As he sat in there, a crewman came to me to deliver him a message. Captain
George. He wondered what his father was up to, this time. He stood up to go
see him, where the messenger said he was.
“You did not tell me you were harbouring a female slave in your
cubicle.” He blurted out.
“How did you find out”? There was no need to deny it. He didn’t know
how to answer his question, because it was not an actual question but a
statement that merely informed Charlie of his discovery.
She is not a slave, was what he said first, and then she was not part of
the slaves we bought, followed.
“And you think I do not know that? Do you know the family she comes
from and their strong seed? It will be good to have such strong children on
the farms.” He responded with a smirk on his face. “You have had your fun,
and today it ends. You are free to sleep with whosoever you want; it’s your
privilege, but harbouring one for yourself is not allowed. What if all the other
crewmen also decide to harbour their favourite slaves in their rooms? Will
there be any in the quarters?”
Charlie left his father angry, went up to the deck and immediately knew. It
was Caleb. He was the one. He had found out. Before he could get his
thoughts straight, Charlie rushed towards him and punched him twice in
his face. Blood oozed from his very pointed nose. Caleb fell heavily on the
wooden floor with a heavy thud. Charlie pounced on him like a lion on its
prey and began beating him. Caleb screamed in pain, trying to retaliate with
his arms and legs. He struggled to breathe and couldn’t do much, than just
wiggle and writhe in pain, as Charlie kept hitting him all over his face. Caleb
was all fat and no muscle. All the crewmen and officers watched them,
mortified. No one said anything, first out of bewilderment and then
confusion. They didn’t know how to separate them from each other’s grip
either. Suddenly, Caleb lay still, pretending he had fainted. Charlie stood up
from Caleb’s bruised body and left.
She saw his ripped shirt, the sweat on his face, his tangled hair. Kakra. She
knew something was wrong. She stood up and hugged him. He held onto
her embrace for as long as he could. He couldn’t bear to see her leave. With
her in the slave quarters, he had no say over what happened to her or what
did not happen to her. He told her what his dad had instructed him to do.
Though he knew she understood nothing of what he was saying. She
watched him quietly, trying to understand, wishing to understand him. She
couldn’t. He screamed aarrgghhh in exasperation. I will protect you, I will
protect you with all I have, I cannot let anything happen to you, I cannot bear
it was all he kept saying. He repeated it as he held her hands and stared
into her eyes, eyes of a rich shade of brown that drew him into her. He
repeated it as he held her body, that body that stood out among hundreds of
other naked bodies. He repeated it in hopes that she would understand,
maybe magically. It was fruitless. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his eyes
couldn’t hold onto them, so much so that they fell on his cheeks. He was
helpless.
“I will take her to the quarters, I understand you are not able to take
her down there”, Liam offered after he came in, seeing that Charlie would
not speak. Charlie nodded a thank you.
Liam tapped Kakra on the bed and gestured to her to follow him. She looked
confused. She looked at Charlie, expecting an explanation she wouldn’t even
understand. There were tears in her eyes. The expressions on her face were
questions of why?, of what is happening? of what did I do? She attempted to
take off the shirt she had on. He gestured for her to keep it on; she took it
off and gave it back anyway. As Liam took her right hand, Charlie held the
left. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t watch those feet walk away, and he did not
know how he moved from where he stood and kissed her. All that love, that
passion, that lust, that wanting, that yearning bottled up inside of him all
these weeks. He could not hold back anymore. He couldn’t keep it in
anymore. She kissed him back. She cried. Then, as their mode of
communication and understanding was, she knew it wasn’t his doing. He
kissed her many times amidst tears, amidst promises, amidst assurances.
Kakra didn’t understand but nodded. They kissed again and again.

14

“Is it just me, or do I hear a child crying?” Liam asked. It was hours
after Kakra had been yanked from him.
Charlie had heard it too. It had gone on a while. They just did not pay heed
to it. Now the cries grew louder and louder. Five children had been brought
alongside their mothers. They did not seem to hold much value in the slave
market; yet it seemed to pay off later in the future. Children who grew up in
slave masters’ houses were more easily trained and accustomed to the ways
of the white man than the adult slaves. They easily learned the English
language and were easily moulded to fit into the white society. They
wondered what the incessant crying was about. Liam left to go find out.
The cubicle door opened suddenly, breaking his concentration. Liam’s face
flushed. Charlie gave him a what-happened-again look.
And thus, Liam explained. One of the children was crying incessantly, as
they had all heard. Angry Caleb had gone in to warn the mother of the child
to soothe it, else he was going to silence it. His warning scared the child; he
cried even more. The mother, weak and tired, did everything possible for the
child to cease crying. The next thing, Caleb just went in there, yanked the
child off its mother, brought him onto the deck and threw him into the sea.
Charlie just shook his head. There was no end to the horrors on this ship.
Really.
A day passed. The evening was quiet. The sea, still. The slaves had been
brought up on the deck for their evening meals. They brought them up in
the same way they always did, the women relieved of their chains, the men
still bound up. It was oatmeal. Three ladles each for the men and two for the
women. They had had yams in the morning. Kakra was not wearing
anything, just as the others. Her body was one to behold. She was a work of
art, and among all the other naked bodies that stood in front of Charlie, it
was only hers that he saw and longed for. All the while she slept in his bed
in his room, He couldn’t bring himself to even touch her. He felt bad for
wanting her, for yearning for her in the manner he did. This was not the time
nor the place for this. This was not the time for him to be selfish with his
needs. But they were feelings, and feelings were funny things. They
understood neither time nor place.
They made them sit. He saw the look of satisfaction on Caleb’s face when he
looked at him. Charlie had refused to tend to the wounds he inflicted on
him. After the women sat down, the men were also instructed to sit, their
chains rattling, clanking, clattering. They were weak, plagued with sores and
bruises on the necks, wrists and ankles where the chains had bodily
contact. Most were lethargic.
They did not appreciate oatmeal. It wasn’t their fault. The texture was
overwhelming and had little to no sugar in it. Charlie could see the
displeasure on their faces when they saw it. One of the slave mothers, after
she was served, tried to serve it to her child, who was about 8 months old.
The baby refused. Liam explained to Caleb how the child had not been
eating for days. Caleb took the child into his arms, and while they thought
he was going to soothe her, he beat her with the cat-o'-nine tails. A nine-
knotted cord instrument of punishment, even feared by adult slaves and
specifically designed to lacerate the skin and cause intense pain.
Many a time, Charlie had seen some of the officers use it on women they
wanted to have sex with, scratching the skin as the claws of a cat would do
on human skin. When he started beating the child, the mother, alongside
the other female slaves, stopped eating, their eyes fixed on the unnecessary
wickedness being meted out on the barely one-year-old. After a few whips,
the child’s feet and hands were swollen. Liam was instructed to put some
water on the fire. They all watched on. Liam came back after a few minutes
with boiling water. To their surprise, Caleb ordered the child’s feet to be put
into the hot water. Liam said it was too hot and was told to shut up
instantly. Even the crewman who carried out the instruction was hesitant.
The child’s wail echoed throughout the ship and into the sea. The mother
wept and watched on. By the time his feet were brought out of the hot water,
the skin and nails had come off. With no emotions on his face, he asked for
oil. An officer rushed downstairs and brought it. Caleb applied the oil on the
child’s feet and wrapped them with a cloth, perhaps to take the fire out of
them. By this time, it was all dark, those who ate had finished, and plates
with leftover oatmeal sat sadly in front of those who had lost their appetite.
The crewmen were asked to take them down to their quarters.
Kakra did not touch her food; she was all Charlie looked at. After they had
been taken down, Caleb offered rice, mixed with palm oil, which was
supposed to be something they liked, yet the young lad refused to eat again.
Further enraged, he took up the child and flogged her again. I will make you
eat; he shouted in anger. The enforcement of punishment on the child
continued throughout the night, from one punishment to the other. Charlie
left the deck when the slaves were taken into their quarters. He stayed that
long only because he wanted to make sure Kakra was not harmed in any
way.

15

But Kakra was already being harmed.

16

Liam’s presence awakened Charlie the next afternoon. He explained in detail
everything that had happened. By the morning, the child had died. It was
still not enough for him. He had instructed the child’s mother to heave it
overboard. The mother, number 9, apparently distraught by the death of her
son and rightly so, was not willing to do so. Her disobedience prompted an
immediate flogging with nine-o-tails awhile until she agreed. Forced to bury
her son in the watery grave beneath, she took it in her hand, held her head
on one side because she would not see him go, and dropped him overboard.
According to George’s estimation, they were going to get to their destination
in a few days. Charlie started his daily checks on this day as usual, from
their heads, their teeth, as usual. Their breath was awful. It was to be
expected, as there was no avenue for them to clean them. Occasionally,
when they washed their bodies, they would wash their mouths with some of
the water, but that was not enough to clean the plaques that had turned
green, some even black. They were made to sit down after the inspections,
their chains clanking noisily.
He inspected the female slaves with a knot in his stomach, a feeling like
something was about to go wrong. He sighted the lady whose child had been
tormented the night before. Having to bear witness to the unprovoked
aggression imposed on her child had dumped a heavy psychological and
emotional trauma on her. She looked like she had not ceased crying. He got
to Kakra’s turn; a deep sense of failure rushed through him. He did not
protect her enough. He checked her eyes, her neck and her waist. She
seemed pale. He looked into her eyes, and she blinked. He did not know
Caleb and another shrewd crewman had been forcing her into his cubicle
and raping her in turns every night since their fight three days ago, and he
would never know this because she couldn’t tell him. In which language?
Charlie assumed it was due to the high heat in their quarters, which her
body was not used to.
He asked Liam to bring Kakra to his cubicle after their inspection and
breakfast. Damn the consequences. They were only a day away after all.
She was ashy and tired, yet she smiled when she came in with Liam. He
hugged her tightly, and she shivered. He detached, rummaged through his
box of clothes, and found her a shirt to wear. He kissed her. A tear fell from
her eye.
Kakra had truly taken ill. She was slow, unusually hot, and wouldn’t eat.
She was feverish. She burned. He tried to get her to take medications, but
she turned away, gesturing for him to stay with her. She refused any form of
treatment. So, he didn’t go anywhere. All day he stayed; he just stayed. He
sang for her. He cried for her. He had feared Kakra being sold; it seemed
that he had a bigger fear lingering now. Her possible death. She smiled
faintly. Liam brought him cold water at intervals to calm her hot body down.
He cried. Anytime she closed her eyes, she opened them. He feared they
might be closed forever.
Thus, they stayed until dawn, in his arms. The port, only a few miles away
from them.
It was quiet, save for both their faint breathing. Day was breaking. Charlie
too. Liam came in to check on them. A small, tired smile ghosted across
Kakra’s lips, medaase was all she said, as she held onto him. Then, with a
fainting, weak breath, she closed her eyes, and then nothing. No last gasp,
no struggles, just stillness. She was gone.
He couldn’t cry. He carried her in his arms. He was still. He held her. Her
dead body was stiffening slowly. He was confused. What had happened to
her?
The day was now upon them. Still, he held onto the dead. Liam sat beside
him, still. Charlie’s heart totally wrenched.
On the other side of reality, George anchored the ship Pearl, making ready to
make sales.