Chimamanda

chapter 3

Seventeen days, they journeyed, dragging tired bodies and numb minds along the way, only stopping at night for sleep.

All thoughts of escaping completely disappeared after a man, about twenty-two years old, somehow managed to loosen the ropes tied on his hands and try to run.

But he was quickly caught and brought back, restrained, and whipped until his buttocks bled, then bound with chains made from cold melted iron. It was a warning to the others.

The food was rationed, given once every day, and water was only provided when they were lucky enough to pass a stream. Otherwise, it was given once in two days.

Chimamanda tried to count the days, but by the twelfth day, she had grown tired of keeping track, dragging her feet along the way.

By the time they reached the coast of Calabar, it was just past dawn. They were now thirty-one, having lost one child, a boy of about seven years, to an unknown illness.

Chimamanda was amazed at the vastness of the water before her. Six ships floated like extra-large coffins, waiting to carry their almost lifeless bodies.

The captives were led toward one of the ships at the far end of the port. A British man with short brown hair and teeth coloured by tobacco sat with a blunderbuss — a type of gun — under his arm, inspecting the slaves and branding them.

One by one, he marched the captives, branding them with a small hot iron in the shape of the letter D.

Chimamanda felt uncomfortable under his gaze as it travelled from her face down to her chest and waist.

She almost felt pity for the man — he was so pale she thought he might be sick. His eyes were a strange blue, unlike any she had ever seen.And he spoke through his pointed nose, as though trying to stop a catarrh.

She concluded that this man must be one of the ghosts the rumours spoke about. There seemed to be no other logical explanation.

The man heated the D-shaped iron lightly, then pressed it hard against her thigh, burning the skin.

She screamed loudly at the sudden pain, earning a slap at the back of her head from one of the men.

He then took a black substance resembling the one used by the elders in her village whenever they inscribed tribal marks on little children. It was cold and itchy on her skin, but she couldn’t cry out or risk another slap.

She was then directed toward one of the ships, one that seemed ready to swallow her whole.

Inside, other captives lay chained, their eyes vacant and unfocused.

The small confinement was dusty, with just one barred window as the only source of light and air.

The air smelled of dry sweat, dirty bodies, and blood seeping from their branded burns.

There was an eerie feeling in the room. It felt like emptiness, making the hairs on her body stand on end.

Despite her mind protesting, she was shoved inside by the men, forced to lie down and bound.

Her hands were chained to a strange-looking man she had never seen before, a nineteen-year-old from Cross River who didn’t even pay her mind.

The branding and chaining of over 150 people took about four hours, and by the time the ship left the coast, it was almost noon.

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The door to the deck opened again for the 121st time since Chimamanda had been confined. She had thought she knew what to expect: men bringing in food — usually watery porridge or undercooked beans served in wooden buckets that smelled of rot — once or twice a day. Or men dragging crying women away at night.

Until the day a storm came, shaking the whole ship.

The door opened, and the men entered, dragging out over fifty people, including the strange man beside her.

Chimamanda didn’t dare ask why they never returned, ignoring their absence like all the other captives.

So when the door opened for the 121st time, the now fifteen-year-old Chimamanda felt her stomach drop, fear crawling from her gut to her throat.

Eleven white men dragged every single captive forcefully toward the door.

Chimamanda felt her knees buckle from standing so long, but she had no time to steady herself before being dragged upright again.

She was taken with the remaining captives toward the deck, a place that felt familiarly unfamiliar.

At the shore were people — no, ghosts — pale like the ones that had haunted her during those eight weeks of the endless voyage, stopping only at Cape Verde for food and supplies.

The people spoke a language that made her head hurt. They moved constantly — men in tight trousers, women in strange long wrappers, or at least that’s what she thought they were.

The captives were dragged toward a large, dark room, illuminated only by a dim fire torch at the far end of the port.

Chimamanda felt her breath catch. The place smelled of dirty, sweaty bodies and something else, probably rats.

She was pushed inside forcefully, her knees scraping the floor.

The people there flinched only slightly, their eyes carrying a weight far beyond Chimamanda’s comprehension.

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Thirty minutes later, Chimamanda sat still, staring at the flickering dim light, ready to go out at any minute.

The men were long gone after barking orders to the captives, probably about staying put and not attempting escape. Chimamanda didn’t try to understand them. She had nowhere to go, and running would be a death sentence.

After two hours, some men came in and dragged out six girls, Chimamanda included.

They scrubbed the girls’ skin forcefully, as though trying to erase their melanin, rubbed them with strange oils, and dressed them in thin layers — just enough to cover breasts and private areas.

The girls were then put on display.

Their buyer, a man in a military uniform with a pistol hanging loosely around his belt, stepped forward.

Chimamanda felt his eyes — empty, calculating, brown — staring her down.

She knew, deep down, that if this ghost of a man decided to own her, her life would never be the same.

And so he did.

He bought her and changed her life forever.

Her master, General Lucien D’Armont.