The Slave's Tale: Across the Atlantic, 1793

Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale -Across the Atlantic, 1793- We cry out cursing to our very gods Whilst mokala and plotters lead us in lots. And slaves we have become, slaves we are groomed And setting in the milken sky, is the moon. This is the hell that befalls one’s prism If he doesn’t open himself to pragmatism. The ways of mokala are not our ways And their days are never like our days. Hope you fall in line with my tune’s knell As it would guide souls to wisely dwell: Now permit me continue with my sad tale Before we are rapidly placed on sale. For here I stand under an alien sun Faraway from my own sweet land’s rung Battered, chained to the queue’s label As humans are placed on the auction table. Here I proceed with my tale feeding you With my pain, pains of brothers on cue As they are sold off like fresh tobacco Whips meeting flesh if anyone plays the hero. *** Rocks! ebesse rocking, shaking like old The chains cutting into arms, legs to mold Croaks and groans climaxing to a sadistic rhythm Beating us to yield forth into realism. Light strained in through rat nibbled openings Else we would have left the hold like blind goblins Vicious to the point of abandonment Scuffling for blood, mokala’s disbursement. Aided by the scurrying light, my head worked East, west, south and north, on shoulders, rocked- Acquainting itself with the crampy hold Taking in every detail for any bolt. In long prodigious rows we humans lay Meditating, some wide-eyed not to say Tear tracks dry on their black paling cheeks. They now submissive despite the reeks. A cough here, a huff there. A groan here A croak there. A curse far afield, a stifle near. A prayer whimpered here, a shiver rippling There. A horrid sight it was, a grappling. That pungent stench, from decaying beings: Men awake whilst parts decayed in rings. I was nauseated, my eyes reeling, pained My stomach flaring to throw up content. And there they ran, hiking on heaving bodies Playing hide-and seek- on chained enemies. Tossing about, screeching on their suppers- Causing a kick here, shrieks there, left-overs. And my groans joined the choir, a dirge Loud to fissure walls, and seditious to merge Vocal forces to kill, kill! Kill! No shy- And we’d die sober, die! Die! Die!