Blonde Roots Page 10

  A malicious tinge seeped into her voice when she added, “You will be punished.”

  She paused, tilted her chin upward, and stared past me, the spurned heroine in a tragedy. I saw that this girl had the power of life and death over me and in that moment she was deciding whether to use her authority to forgive me, her “betrayer,” or to exact revenge.

  Her verdict was quiet, resolute: “And sent to the brothel at the port.”

  Punishment meant the lash of the rawhide times one hundred, more?

  The brothel was the fate of young women at Roaring River Estate who “misbehaved.”

  A brothel meant the horrific diseases that I’d long heard precipitated an early death.

  Why was she doing this?

  Because she could.

  WE STOOD FACING each other.

  Mistress and slave.

  I did not lower my eyes as usual.

  The wet, spiky grass vibrated beneath my bare feet with the drumming of the falls.

  How dare she consign me to the worst kind of hell? For what?

  I rushed at her with the amassed rage of all those people whose bones lay at the bottom of the ocean; all those people torn from their families and sentenced to labor for life without payment; all those people suffering unbelievable horrors at the hands of their masters.

  My surprised, sluggish mistress, disabled by her neck rings and wrappa, tipped backward, slowly, into the river.

  Her mouth opened and closed, but if a sound came out, the rush of water drowned it.

  Her organza wrappa billowed and unraveled, revealing her naked flesh, and then trailed behind her, shimmying like the translucent membrane of a jellyfish.

  Swept forward by the tremendous current, her arms thrashing about, but she was as weightless as one of her Aphrikan Queens.

  Rain slammed down on her like spears flung from the heavens.

  She raised her arms, as if to attempt the butterfly stroke, but was flipped over instead so that facedown she was forced forward by the unstoppable power of millions of tons of water and—bulleted headfirst over the precipice—she plummeted down, down, down into the abyss.

  WHERE AM I?

  A terrible tragedy, they said. A feverish Little Miracle wandering the grounds alone when she should have stayed in bed...

  Her companion, a reminder of what the Ghikas had lost, was soon dispatched to work for the Katamba family in Londolo.

  AND THEN I WOKE UP to discover I was no longer freaking out in front of Ezinwene on the gangplank at the docks but was now lying down in darkness on a boat, and it was moving.

  That I had come to this, again.

  I LISTENED FOR SOUNDS—there were none.

  I looked around—at darkness.

  There was no light—I was sealed in.

  I checked my breathing—ragged, but there.

  I smelled wood polish, and my own foul breath.

  I needed to slake my thirst—swallowed saliva instead.

  The energy in the room was dead—I was alone.

  I wriggled my feet and wrists to see if I was chained—I wasn’t. (Thank God.)

  I rose and felt a blanket slip away from me.

  The floor beneath my bare feet was smooth, varnished.

  I held my hands out in front of me—walked slowly until a wall announced itself by coming up softly against them.

  I felt its paneled dimensions, made my way around, my hands reaching up, spreading out.

  A door presented itself when my forehead tapped against a frame.

  I searched for a handle—there was none.

  I felt a keyhole and peered into blackness.

  Using my shoulder as leverage I pushed my weight against the door in the vain hope I could budge it.

  Without sight my other senses became acute.

  I began to hear waves.

  I heard the roll of the ship.

  I heard my own stunted breath.

  I had walked full circle back to the blanket.

  It was made up of patches: wool, linen, cotton, muslin, brocade, velvet, hessian.

  I recalled that my people loved quilts.

  Our women sewed them back home, when their joints favored the sitting position and their spines curved and shrank.

  I buried my face in the blanket.

  The crisp night air must have dried it—for the wind had spun itself deep inside the fabric.

  When I heard footsteps, I froze.

  When they stopped outside the door, I wrapped the blanket around me.

  When the door opened, I sensed it was Bwana.

  He was standing there, hidden behind a flaming torch.

  I could hear his laborious panting in the dark, smell his cologne, sense his unbridled rage.

  He’d charge down from Mayfah in a carriage driven by flame-snorting dragons.

  I’d been spotted—of course I had.

  Bwana, Bwana, Bwana.

  How could I evict my master’s name from my mind when he had squatted in it for so long?

  Chief Kaga Konata Katamba I.

  Book Two

  THE FLAME

  REFLECTIONS, THOUGHTS, EXPERIENCES

  & SENTIMENTS

  Candid & Free

  on the

  TRUE NATURE OF THE SLAVE TRADE

  REMARKS ON THE CHARACTER & CUSTOMS

  OF THE EUROPANES & AN ACCOUNT

  (Modest & Truthful)

  OF MY PROGRESSION FROM INAUSPICIOUS

  ORIGINS TO THE HIGHEST ECHELONS

  OF CIVILIZED SOCIETY

  DEDICATED WITH THE GREATEST VENERATION TO

  The Sons of Virtue &

  The Rights of Mankind

  by

  Their Most Respectful & Humble Servant

  The Author

  Chief Kaga Konata katamba /

  “Pamphlet of the Year” SLAVERS’ WEEKLY

  Dear Reader,

  I am a reasonable man and a man with reasons:

  No. 1

  As one of my country’s Captains of Industry, it is my duty to maintain business standards because the “Great” in Great Ambossa &c was not put there by pussyfooting, pie-in-the-sky dreamers but through hardheaded, hardworking, self-made entrepreneurs such as myself.

  No. 2

  The right to property is the right of mankind, whether it be land, oxen, house, ship, articles, child, wife or slave. When that right is violated man’s liberty is attacked.

  No. 3

  It is therefore in defense of my rights that I had to undertake the arduous recapture of the wretched slave girl Omorenomwara. Do I not have more important tasks to undertake than wasting valuable time in pursuit of a runaway?

  No. 4

  How many slaves have been accorded the rank of personal secretary to Grand Masters such as myself? How many slaves are required to undertake simple office tasks such as writing letters with an ostrich-feather quill dipped in Indian Ocean squid ink on specially imported Egyptian parchment? Oh, what bachbreaking work indeed! How many slaves are thus privileged and what is a man to do when that privilege is abused?

  No. 5

  When is a beating more than just a punishment? When it is a lesson in self-improvement, inasmuch as it will greatly benefit the recipient if he has the ability to learn from his mistakes. It is true that there are limits to the brain capacity of the Caucasoi, but it has been proven that some kind of moral foundation can be learned. When that fails, the switch and the rawhide serve useful functions. As do the thumbscrew and the rack.

  No. 6

  A good businessman never allows those in his service to run roughshod over him. He is the boss, he must be obeyed. It is a delicate balance. One is firm but one is kind. One gives an inch but one guards the mile. One is respected but one is never, ever a friend.

  No. 7

  To those of you who say, “Poor Omorenomwara, let her go!” I say read on.

  To those of you who say the Trade is cruel, I say read on.

  To those of you who say the Trade is just and necess
ary, I say read on.

  To those who are betwixt and between, I say read on.

  HUMBLE ORIGINS—PERSONAL TRAGEDY

  Dear Reader,

  It woe betides me to be the bearer of bad news, but for those ridiculous personages who pontificate with arm-waving dramatics from the Soap Box of Self-Righteousness that the Trade is cruel and inhumane, who bemoan the sufferings of these wretched creatures as if we and they are one and the same, be warned that your fallacious assertions are a complete waste of time because the groundswell of public opinion is against you, and will ever remain so.

  Other personages, however, deliver Somber Pronouncements gained through the Wisdom of Experience, much Serious Contemplation, Erudite Debate, as well as Rigorous Scholarly Research and the Analysis of Vital Statistics, all of which thereto leads them to discover certain Objective Truths.

  Henceforth it is my duty and pleasure to acquaint the Reader with the latter.

  To COMMENCE, for those new readers who are unfamiliar with my path toward Property, Prosperity and Enlightenment, let me retrace my footsteps back through the savannas of time, the meandering rivers of memory, the overcast forests of the past, to the blue skies of my youth.

  My people, the Katamba Clan, were hunter-gatherers who for generations had roamed the southern reaches of GA.

  How humble! I hear you gasp. Yes, indeed, the honor of Chiefdom, Dear Reader, was conferred upon me by the House of Masters for Long and Outstanding Services to Industry. Let it be understood that, quite unlike others who reap rewards without earning them, I was not born to inherit the Golden Stool of the Kingdom, but the gold bars in my vaults were stockpiled through decades of self-sacrifice and an upwardly mobile mind.

  AND SO IT WAS that during my early youth I was spurred on by the dreams of the achievements of manhood that possess all young boys eager to make their mark upon the world.

  As the eldest son, I should have been my father’s favorite, but it was not to be. I was neither strong nor fast enough to please he who was the bravest and strongest of all hunters.

  It was Kwesan, my younger brother, upon whom he bestowed his favor.

  On that fateful day long ago, my father sent Kwesan and me to catch prey over the land our clan had recently chosen as hunting ground. It was our first time hunting without adults, and after hot and tiresome pursuance of a young impala, my brother, who always boasted that he was far stronger and swifter than I, suddenly took off ahead and disappeared from sight in woodland just as the mantle of darkness began to fall.

  I called after him to wait for his older brother, as I panted behind him like a three-legged cheetah.

  His laughter echoed back light and happy and tinkling from beneath the trees.

  I ran to catch up with him but lost my way in the scrub and spent hours trying to find my way home.

  When I finally did so, the impala was being roasted around a campfire and a glowing, victorious Kwesan sat in pride of place next to my father, who was lavishing him with praises.

  I was at a loss to account as to why I had failed at the task, whereupon my father stood up and delivered the pronouncement that I was the greatest disappointment to him; indeed, he asked aloud, “Is my son Kaga more woman than man?”

  This produced much mirth amongst my gathered clan.

  FOLLOWING THE MOST WRETCHED, sleepless night, early the next morning I decided I had had enough and left. I took to wandering, until I found myself at the coast and was immediately in thrall to it.

  What would it be like, I wondered, to feel those frothing undulations carry me to the far-flung corners of our planet?

  I decided to find out and soon after gained employment aboard a schooner, the Adana, which was moored some distance along the coast.

  BUT I WAS NOT to know then, Dear Reader, what fate had in store for me, when Young Kaga, as I was then called, earned his sea legs aboard the Adana.

  It was my misfortune that my eager yet mawga young self became the natural target of my older cross-grained, foul-mouthed companions who considered me scant more than a punch bag on which to vent their spleen.

  Oftentimes when those scumbags had turned in and were sleeping off their rum, ribaldry and rage, I stood alone on the quarterdeck as the ship sallied forth, its sails flattened against the wind, skimming the sea like a seagull unburdened by the woes of the world.

  A fine eight-knot wind could clear my head and settle my inner turbulence. Hope swelled within my breast, and I resolved to climb the rope ladder of life until I got to the top. Then I would hoist each rung up behind me, burn it and have a three-day feast to celebrate my victory.

  As is the way with our perambulations, procrastinations and peregrinations on earth—Time Passed. Young Kaga became seasoned by life at sea and the Kaga you see before you today began to emerge, he who is described by others (I make no immodest claims myself) as: strong yet sensitive, powerful yet peaceful, a moneymaker for the benefit of the nation and an extoller of high morals for the spirit of the Empire of GA.

  Thus armed, I grasped the opportunity to realize my dreams when it presented itself.

  WE HAD JUST TOUCHED the wharf one damp morning in the heart of the rainy season, and were disembarking at Do Va from aboard a tea clipper that had sailed in from the South China Seas, a safe but long voyage during which, thankfully, the pernicious pirates of that region had kept their distance as our formidable vessel could outrun and outgun any of theirs. As my trembling sea legs adjusted to solid ground, I was approached from amid the hurly-burly of whores and porters and messengers and thieves on the docks by a brisk, monocled elderly gentleman who wore green silks with gold threads, which swished most ostentatiously about him, as did the attentive page boy at his side who cooled him with a fan of spoonbill feathers.

  Chief Ambikaka had heard of my reputation as an honest, reliable, respected First Mate, and he invited me to dine to discuss a matter of mutual interest.

  My eyes fastened on the humungous gold ram’s head hanging on a chain about his neck. It was obvious he was no mere mortal but a god in the pantheon of Big Business. That afternoon I was guest of honor at a lavish feast in the whitewashed courtyard, where purple and lilac bougainvillea dripped from every balcony.

  Chief Ambikaka set me down with high-ranking fellows such as himself, all of whom sat cross-legged on mats. Their naked torsos bore a sprinkling of gray hairs, and their stomachs spilled over skirts of freshly cut grass. Gold nuggets set into rings flashed in the sunlight. I suspected good tidings were in the offing.

  Alas, first I had to endure songs in my honor rendered by a decrepit kora-playing griot who sang but two notes and strummed but another two as he droned on, glorifying my heroic and mythic qualities. As the afternoon sun began to blend into evening’s fading light, I was most relieved when the noise finally ceased and the waiters spun into action—a fluster of flamboyant yellow turbans and kente lap cloths.

  We were served ducks spitting in their own juices on platters, yams roasted to a golden brown, fried spinach spiced with chilli pepper and garlic, and plantains roasted whole so that the yellow flesh oozed out of burst, blackened skins.

  As we consumed this mouth-watering feast, Chief Ambikaka turned to me, gold dust sparkling in his eyes. I was to be offered command of the latest addition to his fleet of merchant ships, a two-hundred-ton slaver called Hope & Glory, which was to sail to the Gray Continent twice yearly to increase his already considerable fortune through the almost limitless bounty available through the trade in slaves.

  I would make a trustworthy captain as my references, which he had already sought, were impeccable.

  The Hope & Glory would carry forty cases of muskets, thirty-two thousand gunflints, coral necklaces, Aphrikan prints, bead jewelry, quills, papyrus, household objects such as kettles, and musical instruments such as the talking drum, with which to barter for livestock. My host joked that the guns would encourage the Europanes to start more wars, which would result in more prisoners offered up as slaves.

&
nbsp; Once at our destination—the island of New Ambossa in West Japan—we would exchange the slaves for sugar, rum and tobacco.

  And once back in GA, these luxury goods would be sold for a small fortune.

  Furthermore, as a special incentive to remain loyal to my paymaster, I was to receive ten percent of the overall profit made for every slave shipment safely arrived in New Ambossa.

  It took me one second contemplating the invitation, and another before offering my assent.

  Captain Kaga Konata Katamba I.

  Such jubilation was bursting in my heart that I could not contain it.

  That evening I sank my knees and swirled my hips with Chief Ambikaka’ s sleekly oiled wenches who had bounteous breasts and bullet-catching buttocks—while the highlife music vibrated into the skies above the compound.

  You may imagine how I felt that night as I lay on a rug in a suite in the chief s compound, my appetite satiated by two appetizing whores who reclined under my arms, the drums and rum still pumping through my blood vessels, kept awake into the dawn hours by extravagant fantasies of the business I would soon start building.

  I praised the gods for my excellent good fortune as I nestled between squashed breasts and smooth arms and thighs that warmly imprisoned my own.

  Captain indeed!