READ EPISODE ONE HERE==> http://www.readerslodge.com/2013/10/cry-for-freedom-episode-one.html#more

Back in Britain, 1710… in the time when men sold their brothers, sisters and neighbours in exchange for commodities, settlement of debt, used for manual labour, thought they were animals and treated like one; “involuntary servitude,” –most likely the right word for it,
slavery. Cruelty and hatred prevailed in the hearts of many like a plague of locust feasting on a field of grains and freedom alienated from the depth of their minds. People kidnapped from the comfort of their homes, in their once peaceful life, are taken into captivity in slave-ships, branded and packaged as sardines. Slave-ships were enormous cargo ships converted for the purpose of transporting slaves in hundreds or more. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” –all hope and dreams were lost, skills and families. It was better to die than to hit the markets for slave auction. It was like going to hell, journey to a land of no return.


A profitable business it was for the nobles, slave-trading, most common business between the 17th and 18th century. Landed gentries with their wild ambition to expand their labour force for cultivation of their plantation were never left out of this picture. Negroes were regarded as a necessity to their growing farm and their daily life.

Slave auctioning decided the fate of Negroes to their final destination. They hit the market for bidding and auctioning, where they were placed on the block depending on their physical appearance, capability and strength. Those with weak structure and children were offered as bonus to well bargained or paid purchases. The Negroes were examined with as little consideration as if they were brutes; the buyers pulling their mouths open to see their teeth, pinching their limbs to find how muscular they were, walking them up and down to detect any signs of lameness, making them stoop and bend in different ways that they might be certain there was no concealed rupture or wound.

There in the middle of the market where slaves were bought and sold, St. Augustine’s market, rounded-up among the other Negroes laid a black African lad of 19 years. The dark, well-structured, and muscled boy looked striking on the outer shell. Unexpectedly, he felt his heart begin to pound. Muttering, as he frets profusely and the world around him began to spin. North to South, East to West, it was as if the four cardinal points met at his head. He collapsed to the earth vibrating as though he was having a seizure, drool flinging in all directions out of his mouth. His eyes deemed and he kept calm for few seconds.

Eyes wide opened, he looked up, seeing the weird faces around him, fear gripped him. Whirling in fright, he tossed the chains on his wrists to and fro. Adrenaline shot through him as he dug himself into the crowd of Negroes,
“W-where am I-I?” He exclaimed,
“Has he gone mad?” Murmured the crowd in chains,
“Are you alright?” Said a voice from the crowd as he was still trying to identify who altered the speech.

“Have you gone mad?” Bellowed a white-man in a distance.
He saw a large gray eyes narrowing speculatively upon him,
“W-who are you and where am I?” he asked,
“You are in paradise, slowpoke.”
“You are no good to me dead, put yourself together you Negro!” The white-man Snarled.

The sound flowed through him like wild fire, he rapped himself in his chains. He compressed his lips together to weather the white-man’s icily spoken words. He was unsure of what has happened, he was unsure of what was happening and he was unsure of what was to come. The only thing he could do was to timid himself like a little child.

Jingled, the auctioneer’s bell “Gather round people, new merchandise for sell,” The white-man called, assembling passersby and some old folks as speculators. Their appearance portrayed they were nobles. Trying with their earnest attention, they followed the rapid voice of the auctioneer. He beckoned on a nearby spectator, “good-day my goodly sir, are you interested in buying a merchandise?”

“Am not interested in whatever you’re selling, they look scrawny… they won’t last a day or two” -answered the man. The auctioneer paused, looked back, staring at his merchandise, and placed the unfortunate 19 year old buried in his chains on the block.
“This lad will make a fine servant, my liege,”
“I will hand him over to you for $750.” He offered,
“I will pay half the price if you are willing to trade.” The man bided.

The auctioneer thought about the boy’s bizarre act from earlier and decided he was better to be sold at any price than to die on him. He handed him over to the man. Knowing that he has been sold at a price as a slave, the boy advanced, with his hands crossed on his bosom, made a quick short curtsy, and stood mute, looking appealingly in the benevolent man’s face.

“I’m Sir George, what’s your name?” The man asked, holding the boy’s face up.
Wincing internally, “Am –am James Muyiwa.”


To be continued…