We had already lost everything.
Our names.
Our freedom.
Our brothers and sisters, taken one by one, devoured by the unrelenting jaws of suffering.
But Master John was not finished with us.
There was still more to take.
There was still more to break.
The news came with the morning sun, whispered among the overseers like the scent of rain before a storm. We saw it in the way they moved, their boots quick against the dirt, their hands gripping their whips tighter than usual.
Master John stood at the steps of his great house, watching as carriages and wagons rumbled through the gates.
The men who stepped out were different from the ones we knew. Their coats were heavier, their faces sharper, their words laced with a foreign tongue that twisted like serpents.
New traders.
New masters.
And they had come for us.
Master John smiled as he shook their hands. A deal had been made.
And we were the currency.
We were lined up in the field, the sun burning our backs, sweat sliding down our faces.
Master John's voice was loud, clear. "You are no longer mine," he said simply. "Be grateful I have found you new homes."
Homes.
As if we were not being thrown from one hell into another.
The traders walked among us, their cold eyes scanning our faces, their hands reaching out to prod arms, chests, teeth.
It was the same as before.
But this time, it was worse.
Because we knew what came next.
A mother was ripped from her child.
A husband was dragged away from his wife.
Screams filled the air, but the traders did not flinch.
They simply tallied their purchases.
I turned to Ekene, my heart pounding. "We must stay together."
He nodded, his jaw tight. "We will."
But when the trader stopped before me, his gaze lingered.
"This one," he said.
Ekene grabbed my arm. "We go together."
The trader's lips curled into a smirk. "No."
And with a nod, the overseer's whip lashed across Ekene's chest.
He staggered, gasping.
Another strike.
And another.
I lunged for him, but hands pulled me back.
The last thing I saw was Ekene on his knees, blood pooling at his feet.
And then I was shoved toward the wagon.
We were packed into the wooden cage, the stench of sweat and fear thick in the air. The wheels lurched forward, carrying us away from the only horror we had ever known—
Only to throw us into another.
Some wept. Others stared blankly ahead.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palm.
Master John was gone.
But his cruelty lived on.
Because the worst truth of all was this:
We were never meant to escape.
Only to suffer in new hands.
And so we did.
The wagon creaked beneath us, its wooden wheels groaning against the uneven dirt road. The iron bars caging us rattled with every jolt, pressing into our backs, biting into our skin.
The air was thick with sweat, filth, and the stench of unwashed bodies. We were packed together so tightly that even breathing felt like a battle.
And outside, the traders rode alongside us, their laughter sharp, their whips ready.
We were cattle.
Merchandise on the way to a new market.
And we were already breaking.
The first day, we moved in silence.
The weight of our fate pressed down on us, heavier than the chains around our wrists. The sky above was a vast, indifferent blue, mocking us with its beauty.
No one spoke.
No one cried.
We had already learned that tears did nothing.
By the second day, the thirst had set in.
Our tongues swelled in our mouths, our lips cracked. The heat of the sun blistered our skin, but no water was given.
By the third, hunger gnawed at our bellies.
Some of us had not eaten since the day we were taken. The traders tossed scraps into the wagon—moldy bread, rotten fruit—but it was never enough.
And the strong took from the weak.
Fights broke out in the darkness of the cage, whispers turning to snarls, hands grasping for the smallest morsel of food.
The traders only laughed.
Let the animals fight among themselves.
It made no difference to them.
By the fourth day, we lost our first.
An old man, his body withered, his breath shallow. He had been silent since the journey began, his eyes vacant.
He simply stopped breathing.
No one mourned him.
Not because we did not care—
But because mourning took strength.
And strength was something we could no longer afford.
The traders did not stop.
One of them rode beside the wagon, peered inside.
Then, with a careless shrug, he unlatched the door.
The old man's body tumbled onto the dirt road, his limbs limp, lifeless.
We watched as he was left behind, dust swallowing him whole.
And the wagon moved on.
By the fifth day, sickness had found us.
The heat, the filth, the lack of food—it turned our stomachs inside out. Some retched over the side of the wagon, too weak to hold it in.
Others shivered, feverish, their eyes rolling back in their heads.
A woman collapsed against me, her breath hot and ragged.
"They won't let the sick live," she whispered, her voice barely there. "They will throw us away like the old man."
And she was right.
That evening, they came into the wagon, their boots heavy against the wooden planks. They moved like butchers at a slaughterhouse, eyes scanning for the weakest among us.
The woman beside me—she had no strength to hide.
They grabbed her by the arms, dragging her out.
She did not struggle.
She did not scream.
She simply let herself be taken.
And then, in the darkness, I heard it.
A single gunshot.
The traders chuckled as they climbed back onto their horses.
"The dead don't need feeding," one of them said.
And the wagon moved on.
By the sixth day, death was no longer a stranger.
We traveled through lands unfamiliar to us, the air colder, the trees taller, the rivers dark like ink.
The faces of those around me blurred, some slumping forward, never to rise again.
I stopped counting the bodies we left behind.
I stopped hoping we would ever stop moving.
There was no end.
There was no mercy.
There was only the road.
And the suffering that came with it.
The gates of our new prison loomed before us, taller than any we had seen before. Iron bars stretched toward the sky, their jagged edges warning us of the fate that awaited within. Beyond them, the land was vast—rolling fields of sugarcane swaying in the wind, their golden stalks hiding the suffering buried beneath.
The wagon shuddered to a stop. The traders dismounted, their boots crunching against the dry earth. We did not move. We barely breathed.
But we had no choice.
The gate groaned open, its rusted hinges screaming like the souls trapped behind them.
And then they pulled us inside.
The air here was different. Thick. Suffocating. The scent of blood, sweat, and decay clung to the very soil.
A man stood waiting.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with skin as pale as bone. His face was sharp, carved from cruelty itself, his blue eyes cold, calculating. A thin scar ran down his cheek, a cruel smile twisting his lips as he watched us stumble forward.
"Ah," he mused, his voice smooth, laced with mockery. "Fresh stock."
Master John had been cruel. But this man—
This man was something else.
They called him The Butcher.
We would soon understand why.
We were divided like livestock. Men on one side. Women and children on the other.
The Butcher strode between us, his eyes scanning, judging. He did not ask for names. We had none.
He stopped before a young boy, barely ten, his ribs pressing against his skin, his eyes wide with terror.
The Butcher crouched down, gripping the child's chin between his fingers.
"You will work," he murmured. "Or you will be nothing."
The boy whimpered.
And then, with no warning, The Butcher's hand lashed out.
The crack of his whip split the air, striking across the child's back. A scream tore from his throat, raw and piercing.
The Butcher smiled.
"Good," he said. "You understand."
We did.
But understanding did not stop the pain.
The slave quarters were worse than the last. Dark, cramped wooden shacks with no beds, no blankets, no mercy. The air inside was thick with suffering, the walls soaked with years of silent weeping.
We were given one bowl of gruel a day, if we were lucky. Water was a privilege, not a right.
And the punishments—
They were worse than anything we had endured before.
A man tried to run on the first night.
He didn't make it past the gates.
They dragged him back at dawn, his body torn, his breath shallow. The Butcher stood before us all, his boots pressed against the man's bloodied chest.
"There is no escape," he declared.
Then he lifted his blade.
And severed the man's left hand.
The scream was unlike any we had heard before.
It was not just pain.
It was the sound of a soul being shattered.
The Butcher wiped the blood from his knife, his gaze sweeping across our faces.
"Work," he said simply. "Or you lose more than a hand."
Dawn came with no mercy.
The overseers stormed into the quarters, dragging us out by our collars. The sun had barely risen, but the fields were already waiting.
We worked until our bodies could no longer stand.
Then we worked more.
The lash of the whip was constant, tearing into flesh, painting the fields red. Some collapsed under the heat.
They were not given rest.
They were given death.
Every sunset, we returned to the quarters with torn backs, trembling limbs, and empty stomachs.
But the worst part—
The part that made us truly broken—
Was knowing that tomorrow would be the same.
And the day after.
And the day after.
Until we had nothing left to give.
Until we were dust beneath The Butcher's boots.
We did not live.
We existed.
Each day bled into the next, a cycle of suffering that knew no mercy. We rose before the sun, our bodies broken before the day had even begun. The fields stretched endlessly before us, the golden stalks of sugarcane hiding the blood-soaked soil beneath.
The overseers watched us from horseback, their whips ready, their laughter sharp. And above them all, like a vulture waiting for death, was The Butcher.
His cruelty knew no limits.
And neither did our suffering.
It did not take much to earn a lashing. A step too slow. A breath too heavy. A gaze held too long.
The overseers took pleasure in their work, their arms swinging, their whips cutting deep. Flesh split open. Blood seeped into the earth. But no one screamed anymore.
Screaming only made it worse.
I watched as an old man faltered, his hands shaking, his legs too weak to carry him forward. He had been strong once. A warrior, perhaps, before the chains.
Now, he was nothing.
The overseer's whip struck his back, the sound a sickening crack in the heavy air. The man stumbled.
Another lash.
He fell to his knees.
The Butcher rode forward, his boots gleaming in the sun.
"Stand," he said, his voice as calm as death itself.
The man tried. His arms trembled, his breath came in gasps.
But his body had no strength left to give.
The Butcher sighed.
And then, with one swift motion, he drew his pistol and fired.
The man slumped forward, his blood soaking into the dust.
The Butcher did not spare him another glance.
He simply turned to us, his cold eyes unreadable.
"If one of you falls, you pick them up," he said. "If one of you slows, you push them forward."
His lips curled into a smile.
"I have no use for the weak."
We understood.
And so we worked.
Even as our bodies screamed.
Even as our souls withered.
We worked.
The nights were worse than the days.
In the fields, at least, we could lose ourselves in the labor. In the quarters, there was nothing but the silence of the broken.
And the screams of the chosen.
The Butcher did not just want workers.
He wanted something more.
Every night, the strongest of us were taken. Hauled from the shack, their cries swallowed by the wind.
They always came back.
But they were never the same.
Their eyes were hollow. Their hands trembled. They did not speak of what had been done to them.
Perhaps they could not.
Perhaps the pain had stolen their words.
But we knew.
And that knowing was its own kind of torment.
On the seventh day, it rained.
It should have been a blessing. The cool water washing away the filth, the heat, the blood.
But The Butcher saw it differently.
The storm slowed our pace. The mud clung to our feet, the wind lashed against our backs. We struggled, the weight of our suffering doubled beneath the heavens' tears.
And The Butcher was not pleased.
At midday, he called for punishment.
Not just for one.
For all.
We were made to kneel in the rain, our wrists bound behind our backs. The overseers walked among us, their whips singing, their hands eager.
The lashes fell like the storm itself, relentless, merciless.
I counted each one.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
By fifty, my body was no longer my own. It was pain. It was fire. It was agony made flesh.
The Butcher watched from the steps of his great house, sipping his wine, his face carved from stone.
When he finally called for them to stop, many did not rise.
And those who did—
We did not look at one another.
We did not weep.
We did not rage.
There was no room left in us for those things.
Only survival.
Only suffering.
Only the knowledge that tomorrow would come—
And with it, more pain.
The Butcher believed he had broken us.
Every whip, every lash, every body left rotting beneath the sun—he thought they had crushed what little spirit we had left.
And for a time, perhaps he was right.
But even in the darkest night, a single ember can smolder.
And in the heart of our suffering, something had begun to stir.
Something small.
Something dangerous.
Something that, if given the chance, could set the world ablaze.
It started with a name.
We had not spoken our names in so long, we had almost forgotten them. The traders had stolen them from us, stripped us of everything that made us who we were.
But one night, as we lay in the filth of the slave quarters, someone whispered.
"I am called Jengo."
The voice was weak, barely more than breath. But it was there.
A name.
A claim to something that was once his.
A piece of himself that the Butcher had failed to steal.
For a long moment, no one responded.
Then another voice, hoarse and trembling—
"Wekesa."
And then another.
"Mosi."
I felt my own lips part, the sound almost foreign as it left me.
"I am…" I hesitated. My name felt like a ghost in my throat, something I had lost long ago. But it was still there.
And I would not let them take it.
"…Omari."
A silence fell over us, heavy with something I could not name.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But something close.
Something like the memory of freedom.
The next day, we returned to the fields, our bodies beaten, our spirits heavy.
But something had changed.
I saw it in the way we moved. The way we carried ourselves. The way we caught one another when we stumbled, the way we shared the smallest scraps of food, the way we shielded the weakest from the overseers' wrath.
It was not rebellion. Not yet.
But it was defiance.
And The Butcher saw it.
His cold eyes swept over us, sensing something just beyond his reach. A flicker of resistance. A crack in the foundation of his empire.
He did not like it.
And so, he tested us.
A young woman, barely more than a girl, was caught moving too slowly.
An overseer grabbed her, dragged her before us all.
The Butcher stepped forward, his expression unreadable.
"She is weak," he mused. "And weakness must be cut away."
He unsheathed his knife.
We knew what was coming.
Another lesson.
Another warning.
But this time, something inside me rebelled.
Something inside me screamed.
Not again.
Not this time.
Before I could stop myself, I spoke.
"She is not weak."
The air went still.
The Butcher turned to me, his lips curling into something between amusement and irritation.
"Is that so?"
The knife in his hand gleamed. The girl trembled, her wide eyes pleading with me to stay silent.
I should have.
But silence had never saved us.
"She works as hard as any of us," I said, my voice even, though my hands shook. "She has endured. She is still here."
The Butcher studied me.
And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned the knife.
And sliced it across my arm.
The pain was white-hot, searing. Blood spilled down my skin, pooling onto the dirt. I bit down on my tongue, tasting iron, refusing to cry out.
The Butcher tilted his head.
"Strange," he murmured. "You do not beg."
I did not answer.
He smiled.
And then, as if I was nothing more than a stray thought, he stepped back.
"Get to work," he said.
The girl was released. The moment was over.
But something had changed.
The overseers had seen it. The others had seen it.
And I—
I had felt it.
A choice had been made.
There was no turning back now.
That night, as I pressed a rag against my wound, the others gathered close. Their voices were hushed, their eyes filled with something I had not seen in a long time.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But something close.
Jengo leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.
"If we are to die here," he said, "we should not die as slaves."
I met his gaze.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I did not feel alone.
The fire of rebellion smoldered in our hearts, but we were still prisoners. Still under the watchful eyes of men who believed they owned us, body and soul.
And some wanted more than obedience.
They wanted submission.
They wanted fear.
And for the women—
They wanted something worse.
At sunset, after a long day of toil, the overseers prowled the quarters like wolves among sheep. The air was thick with sweat and suffering, the scent of blood still clinging to our torn skin.
And yet, their laughter carried through the night like a sick song.
"Come now," one of them cooed, a man with yellowed teeth and cruel hands. "Won't you smile for me, girl?"
The girl in question—Abeni—kept her eyes on the ground, her hands clenched into fists. She was young, barely past womanhood, her skin dark as the earth beneath us, her beauty a curse in this wretched place.
The overseer stepped closer, the leather of his whip brushing against her arm.
"I can be kind," he whispered, his fingers tracing her jaw. "If you please me."
Abeni did not flinch.
I saw the fire in her eyes, the same fire that burned in all of us now.
But fire could not stop men like him.
And she knew it.
Jengo and I watched from the shadows, our muscles coiled, our breaths shallow. To intervene was death. We both knew it.
But that night, we were done watching.
I stepped forward before I could think better of it.
"The Butcher does not like his property touched without permission."
The overseer turned slowly, his amusement flickering into something colder. His fingers left Abeni's face, curling into a fist.
"And what would you know of what The Butcher likes?"
I forced myself to meet his gaze, to keep my voice steady.
"I know he would not take kindly to damaged goods."
The overseer laughed. A sharp, ugly sound.
He grabbed my chin, his fingers pressing into my skin. His breath reeked of liquor and rotting teeth.
"You're bold, boy," he murmured. "Bold enough to get yourself killed."
His thumb traced my jaw, and for one terrible moment, I thought he might kiss me just to prove a point.
Instead, he shoved me backward.
"I'll remember you," he promised. "And next time, I won't be so forgiving."
He turned back to Abeni, brushing a hand over her shoulder before finally retreating.
The moment passed.
But we all knew it would not be the last.
That night, the air in the slave quarters was different. Heavier. The others looked at me as if I had done something reckless.
Because I had.
"You are a fool," Abeni said quietly, as I tended to the gash on my arm from yesterday's lesson.
"And you are lucky," I replied.
She exhaled sharply, her fingers curling into the hem of her tattered dress. "You cannot save me."
I looked up at her.
"No," I agreed. "Not alone."
A silence stretched between us.
And then, so soft I almost didn't hear it—
"Then we should not be alone."
I turned to find Jengo watching us. Others, too. They were listening.
Waiting.
We were all afraid. But fear was no longer enough to keep us in chains.
We would not be alone.
And soon—
Neither would The Butcher.
The air had changed.
The overseers didn't know it yet, but something was coming.
We felt it in the way we moved, in the way we watched one another, in the way our silence became something sharp-edged. No longer submission—something else.
Something dangerous.
And The Butcher, in all his cruelty, was about to push us past the edge.
The sun burned high when The Butcher called for an assembly.
We were dragged from the fields, from the stables, from the kitchens. The overseers herded us like cattle to the clearing at the center of the plantation. The gallows stood tall before us. The bloodstained post beside it loomed like a god of suffering.
Something was coming.
And then we saw them.
Two men, bound, gagged, their eyes wild with fear.
Jengo inhaled sharply beside me. "No."
I knew what he had seen.
One of the men—Ndidi—had been missing from the fields all morning. I hadn't noticed the absence of the other, but now I saw—Kato, the man who worked in the stables.
Neither were weak. Neither were troublemakers.
So why?
The Butcher stepped forward.
"These men," he said, voice cold and steady, "forgot their place."
He turned to us, sweeping his gaze across the crowd.
"There is a sickness among you."
He paced, slow and deliberate, the hilt of his pistol gleaming at his side.
"I see it in your eyes. I smell it in the air. A disease of the mind, of the soul." His lips curled. "Defiance."
Silence.
He was watching us, looking for any flicker of resistance.
And then—
"I will cut it out."
His fingers brushed the handle of his whip.
We knew what came next.
The first lash struck Ndidi.
He flinched but did not cry out.
The second lash tore through his back.
He staggered.
By the third, his knees buckled.
By the tenth, blood poured freely.
I clenched my fists. My nails dug into my palm. Someone beside me trembled.
Still, Ndidi did not scream.
The Butcher sighed. "Pride," he mused. "It always makes this take longer."
He pulled his pistol.
Ndidi met his gaze, his chest heaving.
For one moment, everything was still.
Then—
A shot.
Blood.
Ndidi crumpled.
Dead.
The Butcher turned to Kato.
"You have one chance," he said. "Tell me—who else?"
Kato's breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes darted across the crowd, searching for mercy where there was none.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
His lips parted.
I held my breath.
But he did not break.
He spit at The Butcher's feet.
A final act of defiance.
The Butcher smirked.
And then he raised his blade—
A scream tore the air.
When it was done, Kato lay in the dirt, his left hand severed at the wrist. Blood pooled beneath him. He writhed, gasping, his face twisted in agony.
The Butcher turned to us once more.
"Let this be a lesson."
He left. The overseers followed.
Kato lay there, shaking, his breath wet and ragged.
We were not allowed to move until the sun began to set.
That night, we gathered in the darkest corner of the slave quarters.
Jengo's jaw was tight, his hands curled into fists. "It must end."
Abeni, kneeling beside Kato, wiped the sweat from his brow. Her voice was steady. "No more waiting."
I looked around.
For the first time, there was no hesitation in their eyes.
No fear.
Only rage.
Only resolve.
The fire had been lit.
And soon—
It would burn everything down.