Thy Kingdom come

Thy Kingdom come

Immediately as I wake I remember what day it is. It is the day I have chosen to take my own life. I am not sure I have slept but I do not feel tired. My back aches as it always does, for every single day since my captivation I have slept on the floor. It has been two hundred and twenty-three days if I have counted correctly. I am not certain as to what month it is but summer should not be far away. The thought of unbearable heat, sweat and work reminds me of home. But at home I was free.
All the other niggers still sleep. Their snores are familiar and give me a sense of comfort I only feel in the morning when the world around me is safe and sound. I look out the small, molded window of our cabin. The sun casts a golden glow over the plantations. Mornings are the only times this land is ever beautiful. Not a single human being is in sight only birds and cotton plants as far as the eye can see. Birds sing songs understandable only to each other. I wake the other niggers with a song, like the birds woke me. It is not one of the songs that we sing on the job but a religious one. I don't believe in a God anymore, they still do. Hope is stronger than fear, or so I am told. As the sleepy workers raise their heads I hear a bell ring in the distance.

Back at home in Oyo I used to work for my father. He was never cruel but he was not kind either. He had married an immigrant and everything in his life was affected by that. His fellow tribesmen often refused to trade with him for they felt he had betrayed his own. My parents' marriage was peculiar. My mother only spoke the common tongue while my father knows only Yoruba. I am not sure how they communicated before having children. My mother had two children before dying while having the third. I never knew my mother but my siblings say she was kind and loving. One would likely not think my father would grieve her, a woman who gave him much more trouble than good. But he did. In the years after my birth, he never smiled. He was never cruel to me for causing her death. But he was never kind.

The bell rings and I snap back to reality. The birds who just seconds ago sang for joy now sing out of necessity. I try my best to hold on to the feeling of comfort and relaxation but it is gone for good. For a moment I realize this is the last time I will feel this way. I push the thought away and hurry myself out with the other niggers. Nothing is allowed to look different today, everything needs to be as it was yesterday and every day before yesterday.
I feel my hands shake as I walk towards the morning gathering. I fold my arms and try to look as easy going as I can manage. Mr. Davis stands in front of the niggers. In his hand, he holds a black bible. He recites the same verse every morning before we pray the Lord's prayer. Mr. Davis looks around the group gathered before him. He starts "whatever you do work at it with all your heart as working for the Lord, not for men". His voice is rough and loud. His face is worn, the hard look on his face is familiar and frightening. He continues "this is what Colossians taught us and it's what we shall do". For a short moment, the crowd is silent. The first Amen breaks the silence. "Let us pray," Mr. Davis says after the choir of amens has silenced. "Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come...". The words are powerful when spoken by so many. The voices of black slaves are almost important when calling to Him.
Mary Ann sits beside me. She is one of the few slaves my age. She does not know her exact age but I guess she is around fifteen years old. We became friends shortly after our arrival, we were bought at the same trade market. She is a dreamer, every day she thinks of new ways to break out of here. To fall in love one day and start a family. This place has not managed to burn out the fire that lights her candle. She has promised to help me. We both sit in silence as the rest pray, although she usually does not stay silent. I look to her, to comfort her but she does not look back at me. We sit in silence as the rest leave. We are the last ones to stand up, besides the white folks who always pander, they have no need to hurry. Mary Ann and I move side by side towards the cotton fields and whisper to each other like we have grown used to. It is different today. Today she does not giggle and tell me how cute the men are. Today she tells me only to meet her behind our cabin during recess. Her voice is stiff and emotionless. I feel a short sting in my chest.
Our plan is simple. Mary Ann and I will tread towards a nearby stream. Hopefully, we will get there unseen, otherwise, she may get in trouble. When we reach the stream, I will bend down and she will hold my head in the water until my body goes limp. Fast and painless.

When I was young, back in Oyo, my brother used to tell me stories. Many were beautiful but I was always drawn to the ones who were not. One I remember particularly well. I was just a child when he told it to me, but I can still remember how we sat in our hut, the fire had almost died down and an eerie silence lay over our village. That night he told me a story about three criminals. A thief, a murderer and a rapist. He described their crimes in detail, they all worked in different yet horrid ways. But their fate was the same. They were punished for what they had done. They were killed for what they had done. They all drowned in the Hadejia river. Their bodies burned in a fire while being cursed by a medicine man. Lost souls are said to haunt those who did them harm if the curse is not fulfilled. I hope that is not true, for not every criminal is burned by a medicine man. But in Oyo, my people believe every good soul who is wronged punishes for their harm until all those who did them wrong can be punished no more. That I do hope is true.

The work is easier than usual, though the wait seems endless. The weather is warm, as it usually is. The workers sing songs as they pick cotton, just like they do every other day. Yet I feel as if everything has changed. I try my best not to think about my fate being to live, to be freed, for I know that can not come true. Instead, I shall be freed by death. My spirit seems to have found a short-lived happiness. My hands feel lighter as I pick the cotton, the cotton itself feels softer than it usually does. I look around me. A few feet away sit two of Mr. Davis' white workers. Mr. Crowe and another whom I have never seen before. They are placed on a pedestal to see as many niggers as possible. They are both holding whips in their hands and look about ready to find their next victim. They are both handsome, Mary Ann and I have often wondered whether Mr. Crowe couldn't fall in love with us. Keep us safe from Mr. Davis and provide us a good life. The other man looks even more handsome if anything, but I know what a life with them would be like. I look away quickly. I hope they did not notice me stare.

I am so lost in thought that I do not notice the first call for recess. I only notice once the workers sit themselves down. I look around me. My heartbeat quickens and my hands start to shake. I must leave completely unseen. I look towards the white men. They are conversing, laughing, doing anything but watching me. I look towards the other niggers. Most sit with their heads down, resting while others whisper quietly to each other. Now is my time to go. I push myself through cotton trees to get to a clear pathway. The trees cut my skin and I can feel blood streaming on several places on my body but I do not care. I find the pathway and run as fast as I can toward the cabin. As I make my way from the cotton field and toward the slave cabins I note to myself to be careful. Before revealing myself I look around. No one is here, which is quite unusual, but then again I have never left the fields during work hours before. No white man in sight. I rush toward the trees behind the cabin. I arrive, finally. I place my hands on the wooden walls of the cabin and try to catch my breath, before noticing Mary Ann. She stands only a short distance from me. Her face is grave, her expression darker than I have seen before. Our eyes meet for a long while before either of us speak. "Are you ready"? I ask her, my voice dropping. She looks down before answering, I can see the pain reflect on her dirty, worn face. "I am sorry Safiye, I truly am." I am not certain what she is sorry for until I hear laughter coming from the trees behind Mary Ann. I feel my heart drop. Mr. Davis emerges slowly from behind a great, dark tree. His blue eyes colder than ever before. His slow pace continues, the moment seems never ending, yet before I can move a limb he is breathing down on me. I dare not look at him as he grasps my arm. I feel a strong smell of liquor as he whispers in my ear. "Did you really believe you would get help from her? No one betrays me ya dumb shit, not even your ugly, little nigger friend". His voice is as rough at is was this morning, reciting a bible verse. His grip on me hardens and he yanks my body toward him. I refuse to look back at him. I know exactly what awaits me, I tried to escape it by death but not even death could save me from him. His hands feel cold against my skin. I feel tears warm my cheeks but I know crying will do me no good now. He grabs hold of my hair as he starts for the cabin. I feel as if my head will tear off and I scream. My voice is loud and clear but no one comes to my aid. Instead, two white men come to help Mr. Davis chain me to the cabin. I scream and fight them despite knowing it will do no good. I am not going to let him do this to me again without a fight. Someone hits me in the chest with one of the chains. For a few moments, I can not catch my breath. The men tie me down while I try, between the pain in my chest and the flood of tears streaming down my cheeks and neck, to breath. As I regain my senses I recognise the men, the one who hit me was Mr. Crowe, the other was the handsome man sitting beside him watching us work. In the doorway stands Mary Ann, completely silent.
I am tied down. Stuck. Mary Ann and the two men helping Mr. Davis leave. We are alone once again and I have nowhere and no one to turn to. He looks at me for a moment. His eyes roam my body as a hunter would their prey. "You should have known not to piss me off by now". His hands are covered in blood, my blood. "You did it on purpose didn't you? You like being punished". I can not reply. I feel frozen. I am not certain I am even breathing. He moves towards me. I close my eyes. It will be over soon. I feel his hands grip my waist underneath my dress and he removes my underwear. I hear him loosen his belt. His hands find my waist again. He forces my legs open. I feel a staggering pain as he enters me. His hands grip my throat tightly. I open my eyes and stare into his. I can barely breathe. His breath still stinks of alcohol. "I knew you wanted it," he tells me."You like it don't ya, you little slut"? His words mean nothing anymore. The pain I felt slowly subsides to numbness. I feel completely numb. My sense of time and emotion fades. Nothing is left but numbness. It may be a minute, two or even twenty that he has been on top of me, I do not know.
He staggers off of me after he has finished. He looks at me. The pleasure in his eyes can only be found in the eyes of men who rape women like animals. Disgusting animals who serve only the purpose of satisfying their every need. The first time he raped me he told me how disgusting he finds me. How nigger girls like me are not human. We are disgusting animals. How we like to be fucked like disgusting animals.
He leaves. I am alone in the cabin. My hands and vagina bleed. The room spins. I feel as if my head is trying to fly away but is being pulled down. Every breath I draw sends pain through my body. I feel my eyelids close.

My sister was four years older than I. She was beautiful. In my memory, she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was kind to me. During a drought, she used to tell me that as long as she kept me safe I would be alright. When we made dinner together she used to sing songs. I never sang with her, I only ever enjoyed. Her voice was clear and steady. Her songs meaningful. My sister was as lovely as the Calla Lily after which she was named. After her death, my family was never the same. She died in May. That summer all my father's crops were ruined in a drought. In August, he sold me to the merchant.

I wake to the sound of Mary Ann's voice. I can not quite hear what she is saying. I realise that she is crying. I am not sure I am awake. Maybe I am dreaming. She tells me she is sorry. I know what happened once she said that she was sorry. I want to wake up. This dream is a nightmare. I try to scream, I need to wake up but I can make no sound. My throat. He grabbed my throat. I still hear Mary Ann's voice as I manage to open my eyes. She sits by my side, her face filled with tears. "I... I am sorry, so sorry," she says, her voice cracking. I try to reply but all that comes out is a cough. I am not sure what I would have said to her, even if I could have answered. "I did it for you, you know" She continues, her face swollen from crying. "You is too young to die". She pauses for a few moments before continuing, as if not knowing what to say next. When she speaks again her voice is almost inaudible. "I'm selfish. I lied. I did not do it only for you. You're my only friend and I thought I couldn't lose you. So I told Mr. Crowe. I love him, I trusted him not to have you punished like this but..." she stops speaking. I do not know why but her confession does not make me feel anything but pity. The sound of her cries fill the small, wooden room. Her cries fill my ears as I feel a sharp pain. My eyes catch only barely the sight of her knife in my chest before everything goes dark.