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Description
The strong black man winced as the leather whip struck his back, stinging the flesh into an irritated redness. The man’s wrists were bound together with a rope and tied to a sturdy wooden pole so that he wouldn’t move. Another time the whip struck his dark skin but the man didn’t cry out. It hurt but he wouldn’t give his torturer the satisfaction of a pain filled whelp. Instead the man stared at the brown soil beneath his feet, the soil that he worked with day in and day out. He was a slave on a plantation in Georgia.
“Why the hell ain’t you squeelin’ boy? What’s the matter with yeh?!” Yelled the ‘owner’ of the black man, tobacco juice splattering in different directions from his rotting mouth.
The black man didn’t answer. He had more pride than to answer him for he was superior to this slave owner. He had respect for only those that respected him back.
The slave owner spat on the ground, and it was immediately absorbed by the thirsty cracked ground. He nearly spat on the new leather shoes that were tied to his undeserving feet.
“ANSWER ME DAMN IT! What the hell does those slaves call you? Naboodoo?” His white, thin face was now red with passionate fury that was even deep in his beady black eyes.
The black man didn’t say a single word, which made his owner furious and he brought the whip down for the tenth time, cutting the skin deeply and making red blood spill out of the vein it cut open.
He cried out. He couldn’t keep it in him anymore. His shriek was so loud and shrill that it made the slaves in the field look up from the cotton they were picking and shake their heads in disgust. The black man’s wife was in tears and she shielded the view from their three year old daughter, Adanna, which means “father ‘s loving daughter”.
The slave owner threw his head back and laughed an ugly laugh that was almost more evil than Satan himself.
“I knows yeh’d yell like the hurtin’ dog yeh are! Nasty filth! Yew ain’t even disserving’ of shelter here! I mighs well sell yew on the market! That ain’t no bad thought either! Get some sleep slave!” The slave owner spat the tobacco out onto the ground and untied his slave. Bad choice.
The black man whirled around and grabbed the whip from the slave owner, broke it into quarters and threw it down on the ground. The slave owner looked almost stunned but then pulled out his own pistol. The slave paid no heed to it but punched him in his grotesque nose. It broke instantly under his strong knuckles, and blood streamed out of it like a volcano erupting. The slaves that were once in the field were now gathered around the duo as they fought furiously. Some urged the black man on and some discouraged him and shrieked every time he, himself caught a blow.
“N’Baandu! N’Baandu!” Part of the slaves chanted, supporting him in every way.
This didn’t help him one bit, the slave owner stretched to the ground to his pistol and lifted it then….BOOM! The bullet growled angrily out of the shiny barrel of the gun. It pierced N’Baandu’s shoulder and the force and surprise of the bullet made him drop to his knees with a stomach turning crack that signified his shoulder was broken. The slave owner pointed his gun at N’Baandu but it was knocked out of his hand by an elderly slave that went by the name of Yera.
“Leave be! Leave be, Chamblin!” The words were foreign to this aged and withered veteran of slavery. The rest of the slaves stared at him in disbelief. The old man paid no attention to them but with his quivering, wrinkled hand rested on the slave owner’s shoulder he continued to talk. “Fight no good. Fight kill people. Forgive and He forgive you.”
The slave owner struck the old man’s face with the back of his hand, knocking the unstable man to the ground, “Git off me yew git! I ain’t gonna have no rotten slave tellin’ me what tew dew and callin’ me by my name like I’m an old friend!” N’Baandu had a lot of respect for the old warrior.
N’Baandu screamed with rage and he was on his feet faster than Chamblin, the slave owner, could even turn around. N’Baandu knocked Chamblin to the ground, his fists flying furiously at every inch of his scum body. In the corner of his eye, N’Baandu could see his wife Yatima taking Adanna in her arms and running away from the gory sight. Nothing good was going to come out of this fight.
Finally Chamblin breathed his last musky breath and went limp in N’Baandu’s muscular hands. The slaves stared in horrification at the limp body of their former master. N’Baandu knew what would come next if Chamblin’s family found out that he had killed him. He rushed to his feet and helped his friend Yera to his feet.
“Yera, know what they dew if they find we slayed ‘em dontchew?”
Yera nodded understandingly, “I stay here with others. You take family and go,” he said in his native language. Yera was an elder of the tribe N’Baandu and his wife belonged to five years ago. His best interest was to guide others toward freedom and there were five slaves that got away from Chamblin with the help of Yera’s knowledge of direction and track disguise. “I take you and family to Moses.” Moses was the nickname of a strong-willed woman that went by the name Harriet Tubman. She had escaped from a plantation in 1849 but kept coming back, destined to free slaves from all over.
Their trek through the wilderness seemed to take forever as they moved slowly through the mucky swamps of Georgia…taking only that path to throw off any hounds that might be searching for them.
It was hard for Yatima and Adanna to keep up with the two men but they tried their best and were actually doing great until Adanna pssed out from heat exhaustion. They couldn’t stop for her, though, so N’Baandu picked his delicate little daughter up and slung her cautiously over his broad shoulder. It took all Yatima’s strength not to cry over her exhausted baby. She shouldn’t have to go through such misery.
“N’Baandu, there is land ahead. We will rest for a little bit. We try and make Adanna wake up then.” Yera was most definitely tired. His old eyes seem to droop down his wrinkled cheeks as he looked onward to the spot of land, it would be a long time before they would even reach it for it was barely even visible. Maybe it was just the fog that was enveloping the land, but the sky was lightening up so it would soon be day again and they would be able to see a lot better.
N’Baandu felt Adanna slipping from his shoulder and moved her back over, onto his shoulder. The swamp water was getting thicker and murkier the farther they went, while mosquitoes ate at them and made their journey even more miserable than it already was. Anyone that was used to an easy life would have already broken down by now. The slaves were lucky to still be alive and they were determined to be free. Free from the stinging leather whip that they had grown so accustomed to; free from working like dogs and being treated worse than the owner’s blue tick hound; but even more important, free from the white folks that made their lives a living hell.
Yatima stumbled over an underwater root and hurtled face forward into the mysterious waters that they had been traveling in for a half a day and one night. Yera helped Yatima back to her tired feet, she was coughing up black water as he steadied her on her feet. N’Baandu was on the edge of tears. His heart was breaking just to see his family so unhappy and tired. He was a strong man and he held in his feelings like a real warrior. He was going to make it. They were going to make it.

Description
The strong black man winced as the leather whip struck his back, stinging the flesh into an irritated redness. The man’s wrists were bound together with a rope and tied to a sturdy wooden pole so that he wouldn’t move. Another time the whip struck his dark skin but the man didn’t cry out. It hurt but he wouldn’t give his torturer the satisfaction of a pain filled whelp. Instead the man stared at the brown soil beneath his feet, the soil that he worked with day in and day out. He was a slave on a plantation in Georgia.
“Why the hell ain’t you squeelin’ boy? What’s the matter with yeh?!” Yelled the ‘owner’ of the black man, tobacco juice splattering in different directions from his rotting mouth.
The black man didn’t answer. He had more pride than to answer him for he was superior to this slave owner. He had respect for only those that respected him back.
The slave owner spat on the ground, and it was immediately absorbed by the thirsty cracked ground. He nearly spat on the new leather shoes that were tied to his undeserving feet.
“ANSWER ME DAMN IT! What the hell does those slaves call you? Naboodoo?” His white, thin face was now red with passionate fury that was even deep in his beady black eyes.
The black man didn’t say a single word, which made his owner furious and he brought the whip down for the tenth time, cutting the skin deeply and making red blood spill out of the vein it cut open.
He cried out. He couldn’t keep it in him anymore. His shriek was so loud and shrill that it made the slaves in the field look up from the cotton they were picking and shake their heads in disgust. The black man’s wife was in tears and she shielded the view from their three year old daughter, Adanna, which means “father ‘s loving daughter”.
The slave owner threw his head back and laughed an ugly laugh that was almost more evil than Satan himself.
“I knows yeh’d yell like the hurtin’ dog yeh are! Nasty filth! Yew ain’t even disserving’ of shelter here! I mighs well sell yew on the market! That ain’t no bad thought either! Get some sleep slave!” The slave owner spat the tobacco out onto the ground and untied his slave. Bad choice.
The black man whirled around and grabbed the whip from the slave owner, broke it into quarters and threw it down on the ground. The slave owner looked almost stunned but then pulled out his own pistol. The slave paid no heed to it but punched him in his grotesque nose. It broke instantly under his strong knuckles, and blood streamed out of it like a volcano erupting. The slaves that were once in the field were now gathered around the duo as they fought furiously. Some urged the black man on and some discouraged him and shrieked every time he, himself caught a blow.
“N’Baandu! N’Baandu!” Part of the slaves chanted, supporting him in every way.
This didn’t help him one bit, the slave owner stretched to the ground to his pistol and lifted it then….BOOM! The bullet growled angrily out of the shiny barrel of the gun. It pierced N’Baandu’s shoulder and the force and surprise of the bullet made him drop to his knees with a stomach turning crack that signified his shoulder was broken. The slave owner pointed his gun at N’Baandu but it was knocked out of his hand by an elderly slave that went by the name of Yera.
“Leave be! Leave be, Chamblin!” The words were foreign to this aged and withered veteran of slavery. The rest of the slaves stared at him in disbelief. The old man paid no attention to them but with his quivering, wrinkled hand rested on the slave owner’s shoulder he continued to talk. “Fight no good. Fight kill people. Forgive and He forgive you.”
The slave owner struck the old man’s face with the back of his hand, knocking the unstable man to the ground, “Git off me yew git! I ain’t gonna have no rotten slave tellin’ me what tew dew and callin’ me by my name like I’m an old friend!” N’Baandu had a lot of respect for the old warrior.
N’Baandu screamed with rage and he was on his feet faster than Chamblin, the slave owner, could even turn around. N’Baandu knocked Chamblin to the ground, his fists flying furiously at every inch of his scum body. In the corner of his eye, N’Baandu could see his wife Yatima taking Adanna in her arms and running away from the gory sight. Nothing good was going to come out of this fight.
Finally Chamblin breathed his last musky breath and went limp in N’Baandu’s muscular hands. The slaves stared in horrification at the limp body of their former master. N’Baandu knew what would come next if Chamblin’s family found out that he had killed him. He rushed to his feet and helped his friend Yera to his feet.
“Yera, know what they dew if they find we slayed ‘em dontchew?”
Yera nodded understandingly, “I stay here with others. You take family and go,” he said in his native language. Yera was an elder of the tribe N’Baandu and his wife belonged to five years ago. His best interest was to guide others toward freedom and there were five slaves that got away from Chamblin with the help of Yera’s knowledge of direction and track disguise. “I take you and family to Moses.” Moses was the nickname of a strong-willed woman that went by the name Harriet Tubman. She had escaped from a plantation in 1849 but kept coming back, destined to free slaves from all over.
Their trek through the wilderness seemed to take forever as they moved slowly through the mucky swamps of Georgia…taking only that path to throw off any hounds that might be searching for them.
It was hard for Yatima and Adanna to keep up with the two men but they tried their best and were actually doing great until Adanna pssed out from heat exhaustion. They couldn’t stop for her, though, so N’Baandu picked his delicate little daughter up and slung her cautiously over his broad shoulder. It took all Yatima’s strength not to cry over her exhausted baby. She shouldn’t have to go through such misery.
“N’Baandu, there is land ahead. We will rest for a little bit. We try and make Adanna wake up then.” Yera was most definitely tired. His old eyes seem to droop down his wrinkled cheeks as he looked onward to the spot of land, it would be a long time before they would even reach it for it was barely even visible. Maybe it was just the fog that was enveloping the land, but the sky was lightening up so it would soon be day again and they would be able to see a lot better.
N’Baandu felt Adanna slipping from his shoulder and moved her back over, onto his shoulder. The swamp water was getting thicker and murkier the farther they went, while mosquitoes ate at them and made their journey even more miserable than it already was. Anyone that was used to an easy life would have already broken down by now. The slaves were lucky to still be alive and they were determined to be free. Free from the stinging leather whip that they had grown so accustomed to; free from working like dogs and being treated worse than the owner’s blue tick hound; but even more important, free from the white folks that made their lives a living hell.
Yatima stumbled over an underwater root and hurtled face forward into the mysterious waters that they had been traveling in for a half a day and one night. Yera helped Yatima back to her tired feet, she was coughing up black water as he steadied her on her feet. N’Baandu was on the edge of tears. His heart was breaking just to see his family so unhappy and tired. He was a strong man and he held in his feelings like a real warrior. He was going to make it. They were going to make it.