Slave River - an excerpt

When you look at it, you see muddy water, still, unstartled. You hear the whispering of wails but only if you listen.

She digs into her bag and brings out a little notebook.

Her eyes affixed on the river, she starts scribbling.

When you look at it, you see muddy water, still, unstartled. You hear the whispering of wails but only if you listen.

In front of her, the conjuring begins. She sees people—men, women, children, old, young—chained together, bathing themselves, but their strength fails them, wounds of big gushes fed on by leeches.

They fall, the strong ones try to raise them, they fail, hands are frail. She sees people toppling over, fighting to stay afloat as the masters stand watching, laughing, betting on who survives, many drowning.

Then she writes:

If only the land could speak, scream.

...if only the trees would whisper, instruct.

...if only the rivers would wail, plead.

Our ears’ paths cannot contain

the thumping saunters of the stories untold,

of pains unfelt,

of hands unheld,

as the angry waters swallowed them whole;

Serenity found.

Standing on the land, many souls perished,

assorted skulls unearthed.

Bending on the soils of muffled laments

and shackled tears

and hope lost in the scorn of whips

and freedom exchanged

at the feet of imprisoned sighs...

and

and

and

Nothing. Gone. Sold. dead.

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