WHAT IF !

Ashes of the innocent

Akello, the elderly woman on the farm, was more than just a figure of reverence—she was the bedrock of my education, strength, and understanding of the world. Widely believed to be one of the last enslaved persons taken directly from Africa, Akello carried the grace and gravitas of a queen. Her presence alone commanded respect. Whispers floated through the quarters that she had once belonged to an elite all-women’s army—trained in the art of war, survival, and discipline. And though she possessed the strength to overthrow any man, she never once attempted escape. When I once asked her why, she only said: “A true warrior knows which battles to fight, and which ones not to.”

It was Akello who first taught me to read and write in different languages mostly from Africa, tracing letters and signs in the dirt with a twig when no one was looking. Her voice, deep and wise, taught me the rhythm of languages, the power of words. She schooled me in numbers and ideas, sneaking pages from old newspapers and books discarded by the master's children. Even my first lessons in fighting came from her—her hands showing me how to block, to strike, to defend. “Your mind is your sharpest blade,” she would say, her eyes always serious but kind. In many ways, Akello raised me more than anyone else, and I owe much of who I became to her quiet, unwavering guidance.

Every Sunday evening, she made her special flatbreads for the masters—a tradition she upheld with a quiet dignity. But she never forgot me. Always, she’d tuck away one or two pieces and slip them to me in secret. Still warm, soft, and buttery, they were the most delicious treats I’d ever known—not just for their taste, but for the care she poured into them. Those moments felt like small acts of rebellion, tokens of love in a world that often forgot what love looked like.

One evening, after a long day of harvesting in the fields, Papa, Kelor, and I returned to our quarters only to find Kai and Kalon burning with fever. Their skin was hot to the touch, their bodies drenched in sweat. Papa and I quickly brewed a fever remedy from herbs Akello had taught me to recognize and use. By the time Ma returned, the boys were already sitting up, even smiling. Ma brushed it off as a minor fever—but fate had other plans.

The next day, as a sudden rainstorm drove us indoors, Papa and I returned early to the quarters—only to find Kai still in bed. Still and silent. His skin had turned an unnatural yellow—the mark of the dreaded yellow fever. Our hearts broke as the truth sank in: he was gone.

We rushed to the mansion, the rain soaking us to the bone, to find Ma in the kitchen. The moment she saw our faces, she knew something was wrong. Papa spoke through tears, and when he said Kai’s name, Ma collapsed in a scream of anguish. Her wails filled the room as her fellow slaves stopped what they were doing and rushed to her side. They comforted her, cradled her, whispering soft words that maybe—just maybe—Kai had been spared a life of cruelty. That perhaps he now danced with the ancestors.

Then Akello entered. Her presence silenced the room. When she heard the news, her eyes softened—but her tone was firm. “Enough of the circus,” she said. “ZuriMandwa is coming.”

ZuriMandwa—that’s what we called Mrs. Abigail Millers. A blend of Swahili and Ganda words: beautiful and evil spirit. It suited her well. Pale and regal, she walked with cold authority, her beauty matched only by her cruelty. Even the overseers feared her. When she entered the kitchen, Ma was still weeping. ZuriMandwa’s cold fury erupted when a plate slipped from Ma’s trembling hands and shattered.

“You pathetic i***t!” she screeched. “Do you know how much that plate cost me?”

Ma dropped to her knees, begging for time to bury her son. But ZuriMandwa laughed—a cruel, empty sound. “Why should I care about your dead brat? Who will cook if you’re gone?” She refused Akello’s offer to step in, declaring that Ma was better suited for servitude.

Ma wiped her tears and returned to work, her grief buried beneath obedience. As she served the evening guests, her hands steady but her soul trembling, the Miller children sat nearby—each a stark reflection of their upbringing. George, the eldest and most cruel, laughed raucously among the guests, indifferent to the suffering his family inflicted. In contrast, Savannah and Irene—ZuriMandwa’s daughters and the kindest among them—noticed the sorrow in Ma’s eyes. After dinner and with quiet sympathy, the girls leaned toward Ma and whispered, “Go. Say goodbye to your son.”

Ma fell to her knees in thanks and rushed home, finding us preparing Kai’s body. Some refused to touch him, fearing infection. But Ma, strong and still, looked at her child and said, “At least you’re free now, my son. May the ancestors welcome you with dancing feet.” She didn’t cry again. Something in her had changed—like she could already feel his spirit at peace.

We buried Kai under a sycamore tree, joined by only one white man—Jeremy, the overseer who had once taken a whipping meant for Kai. The ceremony was quiet, save for the songs we sang: Wade in the Water, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. We lit a fire and shared stories about the boy who had brought light into our lives. The fire crackled as the night deepened, and though the sorrow clung to us, we found strength in our unity, our memory of him.

And in the shadows of that night, as the flames danced and voices sang low, I felt the presence of Kai beside me.