Heart of a slave

Atlantic slave trade

Dear Readers please note that Heart of a slave may include Abuse and violent content. 

Chapter one

Atlantic slave trade, 1814

The stench was unbearable and the heat was like a furnace. Siwhetta searched the faces around her again. She did not recognize anyone; she could not tell their tribe of origin. Her stomach churned as she watched helplessly around her. People were sobbing, some hyperventilating from a strong feeling of confinement while some were groaning ceaselessly with pain. She often tried to cover her ears to deafen the sound of the blood-shrieking screams around her that continued to trigger chills down her spine. Many had endured the cruelty of whips upon their backs and inevitably succumbed bitterly to anguish. Siwhetta had never felt so much pain before in her eighteen summers, but she kept her chin up despite all she had endured. She would not let them witness her crying. 

Another wave of nausea washed over her as the sea angrily rocked the ship sideways. She had been praying throughout the journey and thus far had been protected. Though her ankles and wrists were sore and throbbing from their shackles, she remained focused. Siwhetta promised herself that she would always remain a Yoruba; her mother always told her to be strong – a feature of her tribe: A warrior's daughter should never show weakness even when the earth falls apart under her feet. This was how Yoruba women were meant to be. Strong, courageous and formidable fighters: especially as the daughter of the chief warrior whom strength was instilled in from a little girl. She felt butterflies in her stomach as she tried but failed miserably to suppress memories of her family back home. A solitary tear ran down her cheek slowly and she groaned inwardly from the blisters she received from walking day and night, previous to being thrown on the ship like useless cargo.

Before taken onto the vessel, their journey was quite strenuous. It began and remained on foot for several weeks in the scorching heat of the sun. Sometimes, they even sojourned when the stars shone brightly in the sky. Their captors provided very little water to avoid dehydration among them. Siwhetta liked to believe that she was used to walking long distances, however, after many days of inadequate sleep and not enough water, she had become quite lethargic and experienced an inability to remain vigilant. As a result, she became disoriented and lost track of time but accepted her fate knowing that she was miles away from home.

The journey was extremely uncomfortable as they were all tossed into the bottom of the ship, chained. She pressed on, whispering prayers for strength. Siwhetta used every little skill she had mastered to keep herself alive. She had seen so much over the past few weeks. Women were raped and beaten by her captors but she had managed to keep her mouth shut and pretended not to notice. They were occasionally brought on deck like animals to take fresh air and exercise; those who had died or were no longer strong enough for the journey were thrown overboard into the ocean. Siwhetta had never felt so angry before, she wished she could pull their tongues out of their throats.

Now, as she stood on the deck, hands free from the bonds which had constrained her for too long, she pulled off her scarf from over her head and let her hair fly free. Beads of perspiration ran down her body profusely. The headwrap was the only thing she had kept from her homeland since her capture. It was now damp and worn out. She gulped in anticipation as she inhaled deeply, enjoying the feel of the sea gust on her skin. The smell of the ocean freshly filled her lungs. Squinting, she continued to indulge herself in the astonishing sight of the horizon and stared desperately as the waves roughly rode beneath the ship.

Unaware of the stir she had caused, she continued to enjoy the feel of the wind upon her face. Suddenly, rough hands squeezed her buttocks. In reflex, she slapped her attacker; Siwhetta was shocked. She had never been treated this way before. Only when she heard the angry growl from the arrogant bulk of a man did she realise what she had done. She looked down at her feet worrying; her heart drummed against her chest anxiously. The captain among them, who was even more frightening, quickly called out an order to cease the chaos. Siwhetta breathed slowly, her throat parched, finally looking up at other captives who were observing her: some of the women with disdain in their eyes, some men with approval. She quickly tied and covered her hair once more, looking at the bold captain who had ended the fiasco. He was furious, he demanded the men to keep their hands off his slaves until he received his money's worth. Siwhetta gasped and her heart palpitated as the word reverberated in her ears: slaves!

That night, she remained deep in thought, knowing that she would never return to her family again. She was alone, alone on this vast, forlorn ocean.

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