The slaves of Freetown

CHAPTER FOUR

The first buildings in Freetown are known to house slaves descended from European and Oceanian ancestors. I pass by porch number three and wave timidly to the woman at the window. Becky was one of my foster mothers, and it is mostly thanks to her that I have reconstructed all these beautiful images of my biological mother.

"A problem with your Master? How do you always have so little chance with them?" she asks, pointing to my face with her cigarette. "You're a Bad Master magnet."

Uncomfortable, I greet her with the symbol of the slaves; she quickly copies me. "Be careful, my son," she adds, exhaling smoke from her nose. "And eat a little! You look so sick, almost fragile. They'll put you out of service if you continue like this. Programmed obsolescence is not a myth, and we all know what truly happens to so-called "confined" and "quarantined" slaves who are forced into "social distancing"!"

To punish lazy or rebellious slaves, the government came up with the solution of imposing on them social distancing by removing them from the system and their community for a few months, keeping them locked in special isolated cells of the local police stations. No one ever really got back sane enough from being quarantined to explain what truly takes place in those cells.

The following dwellings house laves of Asian and Eurasian descent. Across the street, on the same alignment, were those of Middle Eastern descent. Then, following the same pattern, I arrive near the buildings of slaves of North, South, and West African origins. On one of these floors, a landing has been left for the Fulani slaves. It was there, in apartment 36, that I spent my first years, brooded by the indifference of my blood relatives. Our neighbor Aissatou, also from the Fulani-Pular Fulfuldes Tribal Nation of the Sahel, did not stop talking to me immediately after the 9/11. She tried to include me and continued to give me solid cultural information about my origins.

Nevertheless, the stigma attached to my parents' actions, carried by the whole of the Pular heritage, was too much to bear. Eventually, she distanced herself, and she walked away. By sharing with me the gift of the Pular language that my parents could no longer teach me, she gave me one of the most precious possessions that I have as a slave.

I also lived in this building for a while, together with Imane, in the Ali host family. It was a rather difficult time.

The communal hall, functioning as a church, mosque, temple, and a meeting place for the weekly assembly of the neighbors, but above all, as an additional room for the dispensary, according to the schedule, comes next on my left. The smell of the large rubbish dump near the orphanage gets stronger.

As I walk towards the central square delimited by the black market stalls, where tight barter negotiations are taking place, I distinguish Imane's colorful hijab in the small crowd. I get closer again; she is busy amid the Activists, helping to set up the Collection, the weekly ceremony to celebrate our unique day of rest and share an esoteric treatment protocol. The Revolutionary Freetown established this event as a gesture of mistrust against the meager food, drugs, clothes, and books distributed by the Activists.

The smile that illuminates her face dulls; when arriving near the lamp post that lights the square, she notices my eye.

"Who did this to you? What happened?" she questions, putting her hand on my cheek.

"Do not worry. It was just a bad-tempered citizen; he was in a bad mood," I answer quickly.

"So it wasn't your Weekmistress? You know that he has no right to... Come on; we'll talk to Master-Activist Olade to fill in a form."

"That will not be necessary, Imane. I will put some ice on it; it will pass. Do not do anything. Please."

She shakes her head, annoyed. Unlike my brother, my sister never tries to hide anything from me, so I also understand that this random outburst tries to mask her nervousness. Lately, we have been keeping her out of our discussions with Ho-Jin; we have been silent with my father whenever she enters the room. Until now, she feigns indifference, but I sense that the situation worries her. Her pride, the shield that always accompanies her, prevents her from letting anything too obvious to appear.