Slave Diary - The British Empire

 

Diary entry 1

Dear Diary,

I am very pleased to say that I can write! I can write in English, and I am very proud. No one in my village knows this yet, not even my mother, or my little sister who I adore! No, it’s just me, and I am writing on a very tattered book that I found in my mothers box. My mother has a box of possessions, and I have always enjoyed going through these things, this book, a carving my father gave her, a piece of string, a leaf skeleton and a small cutting of sheep’s wool. When I ask her about these things, she just tells me they are important to her, and I don’t push it any further. But she does tell me that when I have grown and have a husband, she will share all kinds of stories about her precious belongings. I do want to find out! But anyway, I asked her if I can sketch in here, as I am a very good drawer. She said I could, but I am secretly writing, not drawing!

I should tell you who I am and where I am. My name is Hasanti, and I have an older brother, a younger sister and a mother.

I am in my favorite place in the world! Well, I haven’t traveled outside my village much, unless it’s to the market. But it’s in my village, near the river, the river Niger my mother tells me. I have climbed my tree, and am sitting in my little seat, a collection of weaving branches and limbs. We live in a country called Mali, in a town called Timbuktu, in a village near the market.

 Our village specializes in fishing, and right now I can see the teenage boys learning how to fish, they look very funny, throwing spears into the water and hoping that by chance it will spear a fish. My father taught me when I was very young, he is dead now, he was caught in a stampede of elephants while he was out hunting. He died when I was only 7 years old. Normally, if the man folk die in our village, we have to become slaves or maids and work for the chiefs family, but I have my older brother, and he is old enough, 18 now, to go and hunt and be our support. MY best friend is Jana, I have known her since my father died. Her brother and her father were also killed in the stampede. I am with her when she is not working, and I slip her food  when I can. She is not treated badly, and is more like a part of the family, but she is the one who does all the work, and is given less food.

Anyway, although considered a man’s job, when I wasn’t helping my mother with the cooking and cleaning, I was learning how to fish for fun. I love it, the sheer power and strength of the fish as it glides and slides through the water, the adrenaline when you throw your spear and it slices though the fishes body. It is my sport.

My tree is near the forbidden forest. A place where no-one is aloud to go, it is said that once you go in there, you never return. Bad spirits live there, and it is where the boars are fiercer, the insects are bigger, the plants are pricklier. That is what everyone tells me, Jana thinks it is an old wives tale, but I believe otherwise. No one has gone there, not since I was born, and I am 15 now.

In my simple village life I am happy, everything runs like clockwork here, we have time off at allotted times, everyone works equally, everyone is friendly, everyone accepts that we could have more food, and could have better lives, but we don’t have a hard time. And if it were my choice, I would stay like this forever and ever.  The only thing you do not do is go into the forbidden forest. EVER. Not even your son wanders in there, not even if a goat or your prized cow wanders in there, not even if your desperate to find out what really happens in there, you do not cross the curtain of ivy that hangs down beneath the trees.

Diary entry 2

Oh Diary,

Things have drastically changed! I am now sitting in a giant room, a room that could probably fill 20 of our little huts in the village. There must be thousands of us! Squeezed and tight packed, chains, chains around our necks, our feet, our hands, it’s like we’re animals! It has been a few days since I last wrote in this diary, and what a lot I have got to tell! But I must be quick, the bad man will come soon, then he will take another one of us.

About 2 hours after I finished my last entry, I was boiling the rice for that days dinner, when I saw my darling little sister, Matuko, who is only 5 years old. I greeted her because I hadn’t seen her all day, and she smiled her toothless, beautiful smile. While I was cooking over the fire, she talked to me, about what she did that day. She had made a necklace out of straw and a feather she found, she handed it to me and smiled.

I thanked and hugged her, she is so sweet, making me things, and loving me, I am so thankful for that.

She wondered off and I was left to cook the fish.

A few minutes later I heard my mother scream “Makuto! Makuto! No! Come back!”

I ran to where I heard the shout, and my little, darling, sweet sister was opening the curtain of ivy that separated the good. From the bad. The Forbidden Forest.

A wave of fear washed over me, and I screamed at her to come back to us. It was like she didn’t hear, like she was in a trance. I sobbed as I watched her body disappear into the greenery.

No. What? What was I doing!? Just staying put while my sister would suffer a long a painful death, no! A surge of bravery slammed into me, and I ran to the opening, pushed the Ivy and looked for my sister. I couldn’t see her anywhere! But the forest didn’t look menacing, it was just like the usual one that the men went hunting in. But that didn’t matter, Matuko was my target. I shouted her name, but heard nothing in response. I turned a corner. A white man was holding Makuto by the ear and screaming at her. I stopped, terrified.

He looked up, I can still hear the words in my brain, it’s going to be cemented in my imagination for life now.

“Get here. Now.”

I was shocked still, planted to the ground. I said,

“Can you let my sister go please kind sir? I will come to you if she goes back to my village, she is no use to you. She can barely speak any English.”

“HOW DARE YOU DEFY ME!” he screamed, but pushed Makuto down, she scrambled towards me and held on to my leg. I told her to go back to the village, that I’d be there soon.

There were tears in my eyes as I said goodbye, I knew what these men would do to me. They would kill me, or enslave me to do something that would be worse that dying. I hugged her, a warm, short hug.

The man came over to me and took my by the wrist, squeezing my wrist so tight I thought it would break.

“You’re coming with me,” he snarled.

Over the next day or so we travelled, sometimes picking up other tribal people like me. On a boat, we travelled on river to the place where I am in now, a shack. That terrible journey took months. I don’t know where we are. Or why we are here. We were blind folded when we got here, so we couldn’t see anything. I still had my diary, which is a mystery, because you would’ve thought they checked over us and stripped us of our belongings. But they didn’t. Which makes it even more scary.

And now I am here. Writing. Fear is constant. I’ll never get used to the feeling when he comes. The bad man. Grabs one of the women in here, takes him away while she stuggles. I saw another woman get whipped. She said no. No. That’s all she said. The bad man got out a whip from his belt and struck her 10 times. Her screams echoed and bounced off the walls. Fear shook me. I hadn’t eaten since the breakfast of the day I got captured. I pushed down the urge to throw up. Wait, there are footsteps. He is coming!

Diary Entry 3

Dear Diary,

Why has this fate been put upon me? Why has this evil come to earth? I didn’t do anything wrong, anything bad, did I? Never took any extra food, never slacked off my work. So why am I being treated this way?

The women were separated from the men, pushed and shoved onto a huge ship. There were about 7 of us girls, scared and frightened. The men had taken our clothes of, and were replaced by rags that could only go round our waists. We were bare, and the men were free to look and laugh and scorn. We were shoved below deck.

 Thousands of men lay in wooden compartments, chains wrapped around feet, necks, hands. Thankfully my chain was only round my feet and neck, so although I fell over lots of times, it wasn’t as bad as the men down here. The smell hit me. A stench of vomit and seawater and fish and sweat filled my nostrils, I gagged and threw up my last meal of gloop. The man herding us whipped me. And a pain coarsed through my body, I screamed, I couldn’t help it. It was full of anger and hurt and sadness and pain. I hated these white people. Why were they doing this to us? What had we DONE? I couldn’t believe what was happening, why were these men down here? What did the white people WANT from us? We walked past the stalls, walking on slush and a stinking liquid. We were past all the stalls now, and were pushed into a room at the back.

Two women were already there, necks chained to the walls, hands and feet anchored to the floor.

We were shoved down, and the man tied us up as well. There was a door, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t here the screams and moans and groans of the men next to us. The wood was coarse and rubbed against my back; my bones were sticking out everywhere.

And the hunger. My stomach was a cavern of emptiness. I was so hungry it was just a constant pain.

I heard the door unlock. A white man came. Looked at us almost pityingly, and unchained one of the girls that had been herded onto the ship with me. Her name was Maya. The man took her through the stalls and up the stairs to the top of the deck. I made a silent prayer that whatever happened to her, she would be all right.

She came back, shivering, crying, and sobbing, racking sobs. We all rushed and asked her why she was crying. She wouldn’t answer. But the girls who were here when we came, told us the whole story. My heart was in my mouth. We all were sobbing as we comforted her, and thinking about what could happen to us. We felt sick. I actually threw up.

Dear Diary,

The next day was horrible. Amongst the screaming of the men inside, there were clunks and shuffles and bangs and rattles. We think the men were being taken outside. Oh the joy of being outside! In the fresh open air! I couldn’t wait even if it were those awful men who were with us! We waited and waited, but no one came. No one. I slept. And had a dream. A dream of nothingness. A dream of everything. Black, a big, black hole. Sucking me in to the depths of hell.

To pass the time I sketched. Sketched everything. The coloured birds into the hunting forest, the silver fishes in the glistening water, the dappled trees on the dusty ground, my mother cooking, my dear, dear sister smiling. A big, toothless grin. I passed my book to the other girls, and they tried to draw, I taught them how to write the alphabet. They seemed pleased that they had something to pass the time. I first taught them the big letters and the small letters, like A (pronounced ay) and a (pronounced ah). I was in the middle of teaching a girl, Kipusa, when we heard footsteps. I quickly hid the book behind my back, the hard cover digging into my lower spine. The man opened the door and gave us one bowl of slime. Grey gloop. We were forced to eat. It tasted like vomit, what I imagine vomit to taste like, thick and putrid.

Kipusa leaned forward and vomited up the disgusting gloop we were given. It stank and she was crying saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” we all comforted her and tried to scoop up the vomit with the plate they gave us.

Dear Diary,

The girl who got taken away the first night died. She was sleeping, and moaning, when she suddenly stopped, her eyes glazing over, she turned stiff and went still and silent. We all knew she was gone, gone to the heavens.  

They dragged her and threw her over board, her back scraping along the splintered wood. I cried out and turned away, not wanting to see such hurt.

I fumed. WHY HAD THIS HAPPENED? TO US? WHY DO THEY HAVE DIFFERENT COLOURED SKIN? WHERE WERE WE GOING? WHAT WERE WE DOING?

I thrashed around and screamed like crazy, letting out all my frustration and pain. Kipusa slapped a hand round my mouth and we all went silent. Then I knew. I knew that any sound, any disturbance would mean the worst. I would get dragged away, and thrown into a small cell. Oh no, that could never happen, it couldn’t! I stayed silent for the rest of the day.

Dear Diary,

Weeks and weeks have passed.  I have not been well. Vomiting every day. I was brought to the man. The captain. He did terrible, terrible things to me. Awful things.  Oh no, I just threw up again. I cannot write about it. 
They take us up on deck sometimes. But that is not fun. They throw boiling water on us, burns and scrapes cover my back. There is no skin there. I have been good, I have obeyed. And that is ok. Beacause before Kipusa died, she was whipped, her thumbs were broken and she got lead poured on her head. 

2 more girls have died, including Kipusa. I am getting so weak I am forgetting, forgetting my family. My home. All I remember of my sister is that look on her face when she got caught. The painful,  scared look that haunts my sleep. I cannot write any longer. I can’t lift a pencil.

You can hear screams. Shouts. Little children. Like my sister... my sister... my sister.


Diary Entry 4
Dear Diary,

A lot has changed. I've learnt to obey. That is all. I am smart. I know what happens to you if you don't do what your told. Now I only do the task at hand. I don't think about anything, I just do it. Do what I am told to do. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere different. But it wasn't like this before. Before I was scared.

After the horrific journey, which took months and months, we were herded like cattle. Chained, we were shoved into a big wooden structure on wheels with an open roof. One man rebelled. He screamed and pushed one of the captains. The white man pulled out a gun and shot him in the head. Just like that. Gone. Dead. Forever.

Horses pulled the huge thing on wheels. It was bumpy, and all of us were made to sit on each other for space. By this time about 100 of us had died on the way. From torture, disease, or simple shock.

We again, were herded into a small cage in a barn. Gender seperated, I'll never forget the pure confusion that entered my mind at that point. I didn't understand. People were shouting, and we were kept like animals. I couldn't understand.

The men were being pulled out one by one, standing on the podium. Some white people came up and looked at them. Looking in their hair, pulling back their lips, examining their backs and arms. Like when the head cheif of my old village to go and buy cattle and pigs. It was exactly like that.

Eventually I was brought up on the stage. My heart was beating, thumping against my chest. Willing to burst and collapse. I scanned the crowd. There were beautiful clothes, bright and soft, sweeping across the ground. Oh how I wish I owned just the plainest of those gowns. I couldn't understand what the man was saying, only numbers, getting higher and higher. A pair of big, blue eyes met mine. A girl, a small girl, holding her mothers hand. She was sucking her thumb, she closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her rosy cheeks. She was beautiful, and suddenly I wanted to hug her, tell her everything was okay, to take care of her, be her guardian. She reminded me of my sister.

What looked to be her father walked onto the podium. He looked at me, and turned me around. He looked at my hair and checked my skin. That is all. He went back down to his family. He put his hand up a couple of times. That was when the man shouting all the numbers said something scary, He said.. "SOLD!". The girl smiled and wiped her tears. I realized that this was the family who I would be staying with for the rest of my life. I felt relief, but I was still immensely still confused and scared.

We traveled back to their home. Through fields and fields, I saw people like me working in the fields. I saw them getting whipped by cruel masters. I couldn't look. When we got to their home, it was dark. I was given a dress and an apron by another black lady. She looked at me and smiled, like she recognized the position I was in. She washed me, and told me that everything was okay, that the master was stern, but the girls were lovely, that I would be punished for disobeying, but if I kept my head down, it would be alright. I kept my rag dress on to sleep in. We were hurried into a hut, where there was straw and hard pillows. Like my village in Africa. Africa. That seemed so far away. I cried myself to sleep. And luckily, I did sleep. 

Diary Entry 5
Dear Diary,
I didn't work well in the fields. It took me a week to realize that. I couldn't work, I was too distracted by the 8 year old boy, Josiah, working along beside me. He told me that he was already a slave when he was born. He worked in a place called Maryland, and the only thing he could remember of that place was his father. His ear had been severed, and he had suffered 100 lashes to his back. Because he beat a white man. I was fascinated by this story, sickened, disgusted. His father was sold, and his son with him. So that's why he and his father is here. I see his father working in the next field. A hole in his left head. I threw up. And that is when the master whipped me. Not the head of the whole farm, no. But the slave master of plantations. He wasn't nice. He was like the bad man on the ship. 

We had to take off white fluffy stuff from thorny stems, and put them in the bale. We were forced to do 5 plants s minute. That was hard. But Josiah was doing ten, he had obviously been at this for a long time. The sun was beating down on our backs, and the heat overwhelmed me, the lashes made it worse. I was lashed 5 times during the first 2 days. I got slowly better at it, but you could see I was getting weaker. We had food, but that was only at 4 o'clock in the morning. Pork. We were forced to eat pork. That was the only thing available. I couldn't. The first day I refused, and was slapped round the head. I have a bruise. I ate it, while crying, and I begged Allah to forgive my sins. I was a bad, bad Muslim. And I should be punished for that dreadful sin. 

One night, when it was dark, and I was restlessly lying on my dirty, straw bed (it was hardly mine, 5 other people were sharing it too) when the lady who washed me came over to me and told me I would be working differently the next morning. I would be a house maid. Apparently, a maid had been sold due to lack of respect, and I was seen trying to tidy up the disgusting muddy hut we were forced to live in. I was told to start immediately. I was shown how to do everything by that lady. She told me I was a quick learner. I had to gather the washing, and hang it out to dry, I was told to wash the kitchen, make food, clean the bathrooms, dust, beat carpets, the lot! I was exhausted after the first day. But I was to do it all over again the next day. 

I was repeatedly whipped by the black lady, her name was Victoria. I didn't understand why she had such a white name. Why would they take away their name? Why would they take away the only thing that was a connection to home?
I was whipped because I wouldn't do things fast enough, I would be slow. But I tried. I did try. 
Then, when I didn't dust underneath the sofa, I got the worst punishment ever. My name got changed. Hasanti was no more, Becky is now me. I can't stand it. Why? I know I am Hasanti, and always will be. But inside I am scared. Scared of what these people can do, what they can change.

Dear Diary,
It has been a month now, I have 30 lashes, my name is Becky, and I have made friends. My living quarters are nicer than the barn. I am in a basement. With a clean straw bed of my own. No-one knows, and I know what will happen if I am caught, but I sneak things off to the barn, food, extra straw, anything to make it more comfortable. Yes, at the beginning I said I am smart and do what I am told. But this experience has taught me that, everything can be just a little bit better. Like the dusting under the sofa, or the cleaning the dirt behind the cooking pans. Everything can be made better, if you are willing to take a chance. And although, now I do my work rhythmically, and without thinking about what I am doing, I try and help the field workers. Water and medicine for their harsh lashes, everything. I was taught to deal with things, how to accept. I don't have it as hard as other slaves, and we are treated like we aren't human. But it's not about what other people know. It's what YOU know. And I know that I have a loving, caring family and a beautiful, small, hard working village back in Africa. It will always be there, and although I am far away, I am with them in my heart.