AHN – Chapter 5 Africans Cross the Sea (Part 1)

The sky was covered with swirling black clouds as far as the eye could see, and the wind roared.

The sky and sea were raging furiously.

With a loud crash, a huge wave slammed into the ship’s side, covering the deck with water taller than a man.

“Whoa!”

A man with a cloth wrapped around his head was thrown by the crashing wave and rolled across the deck. The ship leaned heavily to one side.

The man who was flung to the opposite side collided with the railing, flipped over it, and disappeared into the raging waves below.

“Grab onto something! Tie a rope around your waist or You’ll be swept away!”

A bearded man with long chestnut hair yelled, pulling on a rope.

“It’s no use, boatswain! We don’t have enough hands to secure the rigging!”

A young man climbing the mast shouted back at the bearded man, his face contorted against the pounding rain.

“Get the slaves out here to help!”

The bearded man shouted back.

The slave ship “Marie Christiani” was in the midst of the storm.

When the lookout spotted the black clouds on the horizon, they didn’t think the weather would change so quickly.

Under normal circumstances, there would have been enough time to furl the sails and prepare, but the sea gods were fickle.

The black clouds grew rapidly, covering the sky, and soon torrential rain, strong winds, and rough seas were upon them.

The dark hold where the slaves were kept became a scene of hellish chaos.

The black people, crammed in like cargo on the wooden shelves stacked two high, rolled in unison as the ship tilted.

“Aghhh!”

“Ugh, oh god!”

Some were crushed and vomited blood, others fell from the shelves and cracked their skulls. Agonized screams and cries of pain filled the dark hold.

Some, likely driven mad by the constant suffering, laughed maniacally, their laughter out of place in the chaos.

Demba clung to the edge of the shelf, desperately trying not to fall.

From a gap in the ceiling, seawater poured down incessantly like rain.

Each time the ship rocked, splinters from the rough floorboards dug into his exposed black skin.

It hurt. It hurt unbearably, but that pain kept Demba barely sane.

The smell of salt, body odor, filth, and excrement filled the air, and the nausea from the stench made him dizzy, but he gritted his teeth.

—I won’t die.

—I am still alive.

That thought alone drove Demba.

From the day they were captured, they were forced to walk for days under the scorching sun from the village to the port.

With their hands and feet chained, they marched under the merciless sun.

A group of people gathered from who knows where, merging into a massive black stream of slaves, marched endlessly across the plains.

One by one, people fell from the heat and thirst.

Those who fell were left where they lay.

As the group moved on, vultures circling above descended on the fallen, tearing into their flesh, quickly reducing them to ragged corpses.

—I am still alive.

It was the same wherever he was.

Demba thought. Then and now.

Living on the land of Africa, his feelings never changed.

Today, he was alive. That was all.

There was no guarantee he would be alive tomorrow.

No, he would live. He would live tomorrow too.

—Yes, I am still alive.

“Get out, all of you!”

A shout brought him back to his senses.

Men had entered through the hole in the ceiling, pulling the chained slaves up to the deck.

“Hurry up!”

The man yelled at the sluggish slaves. Though they couldn’t understand his words, they understood his tone.

With a loud crash, the ship rocked violently.

Slaves screamed as they fell to one side.

Clinging to a pillar, the man cursed and pulled on one of the slave’s chains. The man’s arms lifted weakly. He showed no sign of standing up.

The man cursed, kicking the motionless slave. The slave’s head hit the floor next to Demba with a thud.

The lifeless eyes were half-open, a dry tongue peeking from the half-open mouth.

“Come on, you too!”

Demba’s chain was pulled. He was forced upright, moving his weakening legs to crawl towards the hole that was likely the exit.

Supporting his body on two black corpses, he pulled himself up.

He poked his head onto the deck.

A wave of spray hit his face.

A storm.

Desperately, he crawled out of the hole.

The wind and rain lashed sideways, soaking Demba to the bone.

For a moment, he felt a strange pleasure, as if the filth on his body was being washed away.

But his naked body quickly grew cold. He gritted his teeth again, enduring the biting cold.

“Don’t dawdle! Pull the rope! Damn it, don’t you understand, you black pigs! Like this!”

A young white man gestured with a rope.

Demba and two others grabbed the thick rope.

The rope, soaked with water, was incredibly heavy. They used all their strength to pull. Slowly, the heavy rope started to move.

The rain pelted their faces without pause. The chains on their hands felt many times heavier under the rain.

The wind pulled the rope. Demba and the others stumbled.

Just as he thought he might fall, a strong force pulled the rope from behind.

Demba turned around.

His eyes met the man holding the end of the rope. The man’s face was one of surprise.

—Kanga!

Kanga glanced at Demba and nodded silently.

Demba turned back and pulled the rope with all his might.

The heavy rope finally tightened. Kanga’s immense strength made it possible.

Out of the corner of his eye, Demba saw the white man swinging a stick like a log.

A slave, beaten on the back, climbed the net on the mast with his chains.

As he climbed halfway, a huge wave hit. The ship rocked. His scream was drowned out by the sound of the waves.

When Demba looked back after brushing the spray from his face, there was no one on the mast.

For a brief moment, Demba stared at the now-empty mast.