WHAT IF !

The day the sky wept

Mr. and Mrs. Miller's stern faces greeted Savannah and Irene in the parlor the next morning. "You made a grave mistake by letting Debra return home without our permission," Zurimandwa said, her voice icy. "Your naivety puts our entire household at risk."

The Millers' expressions twisted with cruelty as they pronounced their verdict. "You think you can defy us and go unpunished? You will watch as the two slaves Debra left behind are whipped, and their tasks doubled. And to drive the lesson home, every slave on this plantation will suffer the same fate."

Savannah and Irene felt like the wind had been knocked out of them. They knew the slaves were already overworked and brutalized. This punishment would only further crush their spirits. As the Millers' chilling words echoed in the air, Ma's companions were dragged to the whipping post. Their screams rang out, haunting and raw, echoing across the fields. The slaves watched in silence, their faces carved in pain and resignation, their eyes pleading for mercy that never came.

Savannah and Irene exchanged horrified glances, realizing the magnitude of the pain their actions had indirectly caused. The weight of guilt settled over them like a shroud.

Tasks were doubled. Boys aged 14 to 19, previously expected to pick 100-150 pounds of cotton, now had to gather 150-200 pounds. Men were required to bring in 200-250 pounds, while even women, once relegated to housework during harvest, were now forced into the fields, their quotas stretching from 120 to 200 pounds. Breaks vanished. The whip became an ever-looming threat.

Each day blurred into the next, a relentless cycle of labor, fear, and pain. Muscles burned, feet bled, and spirits wilted. The sun had barely risen when the first cries began, and it had long set before the fields were quiet.

One such day, Papa stumbled. He’d been working with a fever, refusing to rest. His breathing was ragged, his steps slow, but he would not stop. He was short by only a few pounds when Mr. Jackson approached.

Jackson sneered. "You're a disappointment, nigga," he spat. "You'll pay for your laziness."

Papa lifted his head, his voice a husky rasp. "I'm sorry, sir. I did my best."

Jackson’s laugh was void of any warmth. "Your best isn’t enough. You’ll get twenty lashes today. Tomorrow, double if you fail again."

Each c***k of the whip was a cruel punctuation to Papa’s suffering. He stood as long as he could, but his knees finally buckled. I ran to him, but other slaves held me back. His back, once broad and proud, now lay split and bloodied under the overseer’s lashes.

Later, I helped him home, my hands trembling as I cleaned his wounds. That night, we gathered in our dimly lit cabin. "We can't keep going like this," Ma whispered, voice raw.

But what choice did we have?

Fatigue crept in. Hunger hollowed our stomachs. Papa's cough worsened. His wounds festered, and the light in his eyes dimmed. Yet, he worked. He worked until one day, his legs gave out under him.

Aya, who acted as our nurse, examined him. "He needs rest and medicine," she said, her face grave. "But he can't get that here."

That night, we gathered by his side. The moon cast silver streaks across his face. Ma held his hand.

"We have to escape," Papa whispered. His voice was weak but full of steel. "We can’t stay."

I remembered Jeremy—an overseer rumored to have helped others escape. Some said his wife was a former slave. I approached him the next day.

"Jeremy," I whispered. "Please. My father... we need your help."

He hesitated, fear in his eyes. "I don’t know what you mean," he said too quickly.

Caleb’s voice pierced the air. "What are you doing over there, n****r?"

Panic seized me. I turned to run. Too late.

Caleb’s whip sang through the air like a serpent striking from hell, tearing into the flesh of my back with a sound that split the air. The pain was white-hot, blinding, and I collapsed to the ground with a scream that was half-choked by the dust and agony. I heard footsteps pounding the earth—Papa’s. “Son!” he roared, the desperate cry of a father in fear.

But he never made it to me.

George, hulking and grinning with cruelty, met him halfway with a thunderous boot to the chest. The sound was sickening—like wood splintering under pressure. I heard it before I saw it—his ribs shattering, a c***k louder than any whip, a sound that didn’t belong in the body of someone I loved. Papa’s feet left the ground, his body folding inward as he crashed back onto the earth with a hollow thud.

He twitched once—his arms flailing wildly, a grotesque, involuntary dance like a puppet whose strings had been cut—but then his movements slowed. His mouth opened in a silent scream, blood bubbling up from his lips, his breath rattling like wind through broken glass. His eyes rolled toward the heavens, wide and disbelieving, as if even he couldn't comprehend the violence he'd just endured.

Caleb approached again, his whip casually slung over his shoulder. “What a waste,” he spat, kicking Papa’s motionless body with indifference. “Can’t even protect his boy. You’re dismissed today, Call it a gift.”

He laughed.

George joined him, smirking as he adjusted his gloves, wiping the blood from his boot onto the grass like it was dog filth. "Man died quicker than I thought," he muttered with a shrug.

I crawled toward Papa, my own wounds forgotten. His blood soaked through my pants as I lifted his head. His eyes were fixed on the sky, unfocused and glazed with frost, as if death had painted over them. His chest no longer rose. His skin, once warm and strong beneath my hand, had gone cold—too cold, too fast.

I pressed my forehead against his, willing him to breathe again. “Please… Papa, please,” I whispered. But the silence answered.

Around us, no one moved. Slaves stood frozen in the fields like gravestones—silent, still, grieving through the shackles of fear. I screamed, but it wasn’t a cry for help. It was grief torn from the throat, raw and unforgiving, echoing across the fields where no one dared respond.

Papa was gone. Not from sickness. Not from age. But stolen—ripped from me by the very hands that claimed to own us.

Ma came running. She didn’t cry. She looked down at Papa’s body and said, "Take care of our little Kai. My boys don’t cry. He’s not gone. He’s just crossed over to peace."

She began preparing his burial. Her hands moved with purpose, her eyes dry and resolute.

"Khalion," she said to me, "look after your brothers. If anything happens to me, they’ll need you."

We buried Papa that evening besides Kai. The slave community surrounded us. Even Akello and Aya came, rare as their appearances were. Savannah stood at a distance. She owed Papa her life—he had healed her asthma when doctors had failed but his herbal remedies didn't fail her. Her face was pale, lips pressed together in guilt.

As we laid him down, I thought of the man who had died trying to protect me. He wasn’t my blood, but he was my father. My hero.

That night, the moon didn’t shine. Instead, a strange, radiant star burned in the sky. It lit the fields in silver-blue light, a beacon in the darkness. We didn’t sing that night. We didn’t light fires. The pain was too fresh.

We returned to our cabin in silence where Jeremy sat waiting, his face unreadable.

"My condolences, Debra," he said, his voice solemn. "May I speak with you privately?"

I remembered the way he’d held me back earlier, whispering, "You must live. One of you must live."

Jeremy and Ma spoke in hushed tones. When they finished, Ma turned to us. "We’re going to the mansion," she said. "We’ve been asked to prepare for the arriving guests. Kalon, Khalion—get ready. Kelor will stay with mr. Milton tonight."

As we left, the weight of Papa’s death pressed into my chest, but so did something else—resolve. He hadn’t died in vain. We would carry his spirit. We would survive. And one day, we would be free.

In the face of cruelty, we would endure. In the shadow of death, we would find purpose. For Papa. For Kai. For all those who couldn’t make it to the other side.

And when the time came, we would run—not in fear, but in hope. Toward the freedom Papa had dreamed of, the peace Ma spoke of, and the justice that still flickered, however faint, in the distance.