Kwame sat quietly in the backyard of his home’s mud hut. He was still a young man of 28, but the strenuous daily workout he had just finished had left him winded. He enjoyed rising before dawn to exercise and train, before the village of Mogoto around him woke. He wanted the quiet as he thought about his upcoming day. He was a tall, black African man. He had broad shoulders and a mighty frame. Despite his age, his piercing gray eyes seemed to bear the weight of many trials. As usual, he ate a small breakfast and rose to stroll through his village.
As he walked, Kwame took in the sun that washed over the many thatched roofs of the other huts. Some people were beginning to stir, walking along the pathways that formed a web throughout the town. A few children were already awake and playing. The sound of their laughter brought a smile to Kwame. He loved his home and all of the people here.
Baobab trees were thriving throughout the village. The large trunks had many broad branches providing shade. Some village elders had already gathered an audience to listen to their stories. Flowers were abundant, filling the air with a sweet scent. Drummers began beating a rhythmic sound.
As he strolled along, several villagers stopped to greet Kwame. He strode confidently through the village, waving and speaking to many villagers, who respected his many contributions to the community, not least his role as leader of the warriors who guarded it.
Kwame stopped at a small shop where Musa, a merchant, was preparing his wares for customers. “Good morning, Musa,” he said with a broad smile, “I hope you have a very profitable and enjoyable day.”
“Thank you, Kwame, Musa replied, wiping sweat from his aged brow and stretching, “I think I am ready, and I have something for everyone, perhaps even you, my good friend.”
Some children ran up to Kwame, their faces lit up. “Kwame, will you tell us a story?” One of the children asked.
Kwame smiled as he knelt to be at their eye level. “Certainly, children. I will tell you about a time when our warriors defended our village from invaders.”
The children listened carefully as he started his story.
“Children, I’m going to tell you about a day when our village faced a great danger. Invaders from a distant land wanted to conquer and plunder our town.
Fortunately, our village had wise and brave leaders, just as we have today. The elders and the warriors met to devise a plan to defeat these treacherous invaders. I spoke to our people the night before the battle.
‘Tomorrow we must meet and defeat our enemy,’ I said. ‘Remember, our strengths are our unity and our spirit. We will fight not only for our land, but for our children’s future and the honor of our ancestors.’
The first light of dawn spilled over Mogato like a blade drawn from its sheath–sharp, bright, and full of promise. Mist clung to the palm crowns, drifting low across the village clearing where the warriors gathered, their silhouettes rising from the haze like spirits called into being.
A low drumbeat began. Not music, this was a heartbeat–the village’s pulse. The warriors stepped forward one by one, their bodies gleaming with palm oil, muscles catching the early sun. Indigo-dyed wrappers hung at their waists, the cloth dark as river water.
A thin line of white kaolin cut across each face, cheek to cheek, glowing ghost‑pale against their skin. It gave them a fierce, otherworldly calm, as if they had already crossed into the realm of ancestors.
Smoke was curling from a small fire outside Mma Thandi’s hut. Our healer crushed leaves and chanted incantations. Her hands, as always, were steady and sure. The soldiers each knelt before her, bowing as she pressed a thumb dipped in red ink to mark their foreheads. Each warrior bore a charm pouch on their chest. Many spears stood upright as did the men.
I stepped into the center of the clearing, there in front of Mma Thandi’s hut. I raised my spear, bringing the warriors to attention. The drums stopped.
I began the transitional battle chant, and one by one, the rest of my army joined in. We were ready.
We had steeled our hearts for the confrontation we knew was coming. The elders gave us blessings and offered their prayers. The spirits of our ancestors were called on to guide and protect us.
I led the Warriors to the camp where the invaders were. The warriors were the hope of our people. I stood fearlessly and approached the invaders. They seemed to hesitate.
I demanded, ‘Leave here now while you can. You are facing people of honor and courage. You will not destroy our village.’
Their leader stepped forward–a proud, fierce warrior. ‘Your courage is admirable, but courage alone will not save you,’ he said.
I gave the signal for our warriors to advance. The battle was raging. Our leadership and strategy proved sound. Our brave warriors turned the tide in our favor. We fought bravely to defend our home with everything we had.
The invaders retreated as the sun set. The enemy had been defeated. The would-be conquerors were humbled. The spirit of our village had triumphed. We cheered and embraced one another, filled with pride and relief.
We were tired but victorious. I spoke to the people again. ‘We have shown that our strengths lie not in the weapons but in our unity and love for our community. We will always protect our village.’
And so, children, our village remains peaceful and prosperous to this day.”
Kwame continued his stroll through the village. He had learned from his father how to become a community leader. He knew everyone had a unique role in the town, and he knew that a good leader recognized this and frequently praised the people.
Kwame was thinking of Yaw, a young boy who had recovered from a severe injury, showing resilience and a spirit that embodied his people’s courage and fortitude, when he came upon a group of villagers building a new well. Kwame told the group, “This looks like a good way to spend the morning!” He pitched in and began helping with the digging.
As he worked, Kwame’s mind returned to the memory of that day when Yaw had fallen down a rocky slope. The boy’s scream echoed through the dense forest. He tumbled over and over. His leg snapped loudly as it was twisted. The pain hit him immediately and radiated from his shin to his thigh. Yaw lay there for a while, gasping for breath, fighting back the tears. He wondered if anyone had heard him.
He was alone for minutes, but it seemed like hours as the pain continued. Suddenly, Yaw heard rustling in the brush around him.
Yaw sighed with relief as he saw Mma Thandi step out of the heavy bushes and knelt beside him. In English, her name translates as “Mother Thandi”. She was one of the village’s main healers and wore a wrap of dyed cloth, its ocher-and-indigo designs symbolizing her healing and protective powers. “Yaw,” she said softly, “Do not worry. I am here. Let me look at your injury.”
To this day, Mma Thandi’s life is still taught to children in this ancient village. The legends tell of a woman who “spoke to the wind and made it listen.”
Mma Thandi examined Yaw quickly and gently. “You have fractured your leg, my boy. I see many minor scratches and bruising, too.” She reached into the satchel at her waist and drew out a vial of liquid. “Drink this, it will help with the pain.”
She waited a few minutes for the medicine to take effect as she gathered some branches to make a splint and a stretcher to drag Yaw back to the village.
Looking deeply into Yaw’s eyes, she said, “You must be brave, my boy. I am going to set your leg. It will be painful.”
Yaw tensed and replied, “I will do my best, Mma. Thank the gods that you were nearby.”
Mma grasped Yaw’s leg and manipulated it into the proper position. Yaw tried not to cry out but moaned as she did. Mma quickly secured the leg by wrapping vines around it. She gently placed him on the makeshift stretcher, demonstrating a strength that exceeded her size. She then began the slow journey back to her hut. Thankfully, Yaw fell into a deep sleep.
Yaw was determined to regain his mobility and strength over the next few weeks of his recovery. He followed Mamma’s advice and worked hard every day to improve.
This ship was designed and built to look imposing. Solid and steady, the ship could withstand the long crossings from Africa to wherever its human cargo would be sold. Her purpose was to carry the profitable cargo, enforce order completely, and turn human lives into profit. A floating prison, not only for the slaves, but also for the crew, who led pitiful lives, many of whom were not expected to survive the entire voyage.
Many people in the city watched as the slave ship approached. Traders, fishermen, and curious onlookers were watching the La Concorde as it glided into port. A fort overlooked and protected the area with many cannons, silent now but always ready.
La Concorde proudly displayed the French flag. The ship had been built with intricate detail. The wooden deck had seen many sailors, yet it remained sturdy and well-maintained. This ship had spent many years voyaging the sea. A motley crew of seasoned sailors worked together to prepare the boat for docking. These were hard men with tanned, rugged faces. Most of the crew were coerced to serve on the ship by various methods, often to avoid going to jail for true or often fictitious crimes.
Captain Pierre Dossett scanned the people and city before him. This wasn’t his first voyage to this seaport. He knew Juida to be bustling and fascinating, with a rich culture and many merchants and traders.
The ship docked, the gangplank was lowered, and most of the crew disembarked seeking relief from the long voyage in the bars and whore houses of the city. Juida was home to a diverse mix of people, including the Fon and many from distant lands. The crew was welcomed by curious, wary city dwellers eager to profit from the visitors. The air was rich with the smells of salt, spices, and other aromas of a thriving trade port.
Captain Dossett was immediately offered many deals in palm oil, ivory, and the dark trade he sought. He wanted a whole ship of healthy slaves that would bring him high prices in America. Captain Dossett knew how to negotiate with these merchants and spoke with many of them.
In his dealings with the locals, in fact, with everyone, Dossett sought and usually succeeded in gaining control.
Adegoke was a local merchant who knew Captain Dossett from many previous dealings. “Ah, yes, hello, Captain Dossett. It is so good to see you again. Welcome back to Juida. We have much to offer today. I am sure you will find our goods to your liking.”
“Merci, Adegoke,” replied the Captain with a smile and a nod, “I am looking forward to seeing what high-value treasures you have to show me.”
Adegoke led the Captain through the busy market. The wide variety of colors in the many items was fantastic. They stopped at a stall filled with palm oil and ivory.
“These are some of our very best products,” Adegoke boasted, “Palm oil, harvested with meticulous care, and beautiful ivory. “
Dossett looked over the goods carefully. “They are truly exceptional. As you know, though, I am interested in a much more valuable quality item.”
Adegoke looked into the captain’s eyes, losing his smile. He nodded, “Of course, my friend. You usually seek a product and a deal that is delicate yet lucrative. Come with me.”
They strolled to a more secluded area. Here, the merchants and buyers gathered spoke in quiet tones, their eyes darting around, looking for unwanted listeners.
“This trade,” Dossett said softly, “demands trust and much discretion. This trade must be beneficial to both of us.”
“I agree,” Adegoke said, his hands spread, “We Fon people value our European partners. Of course, we will negotiate fairly and privately.”
Adegoke nodded almost imperceptibly as he signaled another merchant who led several Africans towards Captain Dossett. Except for one, these men and a few women were shackled and looked dejected. Kwame stood tall and proud.
“These are strong and capable workers, “Adegoke said quietly, “They will serve exceptionally in whatever duties you need from them.”
Dossett walked among the group, carefully examining each person. “They seem to be in good health. I will take them,” he said. His handshake was all that Adegoke required to seal the deal.
Kwame stood out to Dossett. He was tall. He was strong. He was calm, as if he were overseeing the situation.
Dossett thought, “This slave will be difficult to train, but he will bring a perfect price.” He approached Kwame, “I am Captain Dossett, your new master. You look like a strong man. What is your name?”
Kwame looked into Dossett’s eyes. His piercing gray eyes seemed to reach inside Dossett’s mind. His eyes seemed to exude strength and power. He said proudly, “Greetings, Captain.” My name is Kwame; I am a warrior of my people. Somehow, a mistake has been made. You will release me immediately.”
Kwame’s words haunted Dossett for a long time, even long after that day. Dossett thought that, in most cases, he was helping Africans toward a better life in the colonies. Kwame’s pride, intelligence, and bravery troubled him. He began to question his beliefs about the slave trade.
The captain laughed heartily, “I cannot release any of you, you are my property now. You certainly have an air about you. Your name will not fit in the American colonies, your new home. I will rename you Josiah, after an ancient king. You seem very royal to me.”
Captain Dossett told himself he was kind and helpful to slaves in his possession.
The sun began to set, and the rhythm of drums reminded Josiah of his home, where he wanted to be, and he wondered how these Fon people could participate in this crime against him and his fellow captives.
The deal was sealed. Dossett signaled his crew to prepare to bring the new purchases aboard La Concorde. The slaves, shackled and saddened, were marched to the ship; their expressions were a mix of fear, resignation, and wonder.
The slave ship’s name had once been painted clearly along the hull, though now only parts of the letters showed through the salt-stained wood. She had been built for war–narrow, fast, and armed to pursue merchant vessels during battles with Britain. When the war ended, she was sold. The number of her cannons was reduced to 26. Her purpose changed, and space for additional human cargo was a priority.
The refit was simple. More iron was brought aboard. Rings were set into the beams below deck. Chains were stacked in coils like rope. The cargo was measured not by weight, but by the number of humans that the coils could restrain in the hull.
The captives were driven up the gangway in groups. A mate stood nearby with a ledger while another sailor counted aloud.
“Keep them moving,” the mate said. “No delays.”
One man stumbled and fell. The sailor struck him once with a stick and pulled him back to his feet.
“That one’s weak,” the sailor said.
“Then don’t waste time on him,” the mate replied. “Once at sea, I’ll toss him over for the sharks.”
Below deck, the space had been divided into rows. Iron rings were fixed overhead. Men were shackled two at a time, wrist to ankle. When someone resisted, they were beaten until they were either unconscious or subservient. When one man cried out, a guard struck him across the mouth.
“Save your breath,” the guard said. “You’ll need it.”
The hatch was shut. Darkness followed.
Within hours, the air grew foul. There was no room to sit upright. Bodies lay pressed together, shifting only when the ship rolled. Chains scraped against skin.
Food was lowered once a day: grain boiled thin, sometimes a biscuit broken into pieces. Water was rationed carefully. A sailor poured until the level reached a mark on the cup, then stopped.
“That’s enough.”
When someone begged, they were ignored. When someone reached too far, they were struck.
During the first storm, seawater leaked through the seams and pooled on the deck. The slaves lay wet through the night and into the next day. One man began to shake with fever. He thrashed against his chains until a guard came down with a rope.
“Hold still,” the guard said, beating the man, “The storm is the least of your worries, slave!”
Afterward, the man lay still.
Kwame kept his face turned toward the beams. He spoke quietly to himself when he could, naming places from home, recalling the order of things as they had once been.
Each morning, small groups were brought on deck. The purpose was to make them move, to keep their limbs from failing. They were ordered to stand, to bend, to turn.
“Straighten up,” a sailor said, prodding a man with a stick.
When one man collapsed, two sailors dragged him aside.
“Dead?” they laughed. “Not yet.”
By the next morning, he was.
When someone died, the body was disposed of quickly. The chains were unlocked. The body was hauled up through the hatch. A weight was tied to the ankles. The ledger was marked, and the body was put over the rail, quickly ripped apart by the many sharks who followed the slave ships, knowing food was plentiful.
Kwame watched everything when he was brought on deck. He memorized the faces of the crew and the other captives. At night, he repeated the names he could remember under his breath so they would not be lost entirely.
Among the captives, small acts continued. A handful of grain passed from one person to another–a whispered prayer. At night, low voices told fragments of stories–names of villages, rivers, family lines. No one spoke of rescue.
Above deck, the crew lived under strict order. The captain was not a man given to shouting but was quick to anger. When punishment came, it came without hesitation.
A sailor was caught taking water without leave. He was tied to the grating and whipped until the captain said it was enough.
“Untie him,” the captain said. “We still need him able to work when we sell him.”
Another sailor spoke once of turning back when the water began to spoil.
The captain looked at him for a long moment. The sailor was chained to the mast for a full day and night.
“Next one goes over,” the captain said.
Supplies dwindled. Rats spoiled stores. The water stank. Some men drank when they could. Some spoke of bad fortune. Most said nothing.
During a heavy storm, a wave swept a sailor from the deck. He cried out once before he was gone.
“Hold course,” the mate said. “Don’t look.”
When the sea calmed, the older hands grew watchful. The ship had entered waters known for piracy. Watches were doubled. Weapons were kept close.
