Excerpt from Kings and not Slaves by Ola Osibodu. Watch out for the Novel. Visit www.olaosibodu.com to download promo

Immediately they sighted land from the blue ocean after nine weeks at sea, the bo’s’n chimed the big bell and the seamen labored above deck to bring their ship to a standstill.
‘Thank Jesus, we finally got there,’ lord William Aldershot said, seeing the distant shore through a telescope. He clutched unto the wooden rail and mulled over what lay in wait for him in this savage place.
‘There it is, sire. Africa, home of all niggers,’ hollered Mr. Richardson, Aldershot’s slave overseer. The sea breeze made his voice faint behind. Richardson limped up to the ship’s rail beside Aldershot, a bottle of rum in his hand, a hearty smile ripping across his coarse face. He said with a heavy rustic accent, ‘Put your faith in me, sire, this place ain’t get touched. Still like virgin. Badagry and Quidah already been polluted by slavers.’
Aldershot sighed. He tried his hands at slave trade, and coming to this coast happened to be Richardson’s idea - a place he called Mondah Bay in the west of Africa. Richardson had discovered this place when he worked as an active seaman and he claimed to pick up a few slaves for himself here. So when he told Aldershot he knew of a place where they could get slaves for little or nothing, with immediate effect his specious words had poisoned Aldershot’s mind. As for navigation Richardson directed the ship’s Captain to sail south of the Guinea Gulf until they arrived here in sight of the next bay. ‘Need I say I defer to your expertise, Richardson,’ Aldershot said.
The man slugged a gulp and laughed. ‘Very well, sire. Me sentiments precisely. We get we niggers to auction, square up Cole and him boys and you, sire, shall become a more prosperous tradesman.’
Aldershot was somewhat baffled by Richardson’s confidence. Were the blacks in this part of Africa that willing to be captured? He had heard how some of them put up a fight before they got suppressed. Slave capturing wasn’t his strength so he couldn’t have known. On the other hand he doubted if his less enlightened assistant had heard of a new word called risk, which is intrinsic of any venture. Aldershot said nothing.
William Aldershot, a full-height and modest man, one who calculated his risks with diligence. Still in his early forties, he had scored remarkable success worthy of envy - a four thousand acre tract in Suffolk town, Nansemond, Virginia. From there, he exported hogsheads of prized tobacco to London on a regular basis. However he had not considered the risk in visiting an unknown territory until that afternoon. His head became inundated with stories he’d read in the Gazette of white merchants who visited unknown parts of Africa in search of slaves and got killed in conflict with the locals. He gave a swallow and his Adam’s apple jumped.
Richardson gulped again. ‘‘Tis good business we finds free niggers, trust me. Especially when you’s consider dem’ bastard redcoats that covenant freedom with runaways who join em’ in the war. Merchant all over South gat need for new niggers to work they fields. We make em’ pay us lotta Guineas for dem’ devils.’
Aldershot sought consolation in his overseer’s face and he found it. Richardson’s face was molded with pride under a cocked hat. The lanky mid-aged overseer set his gaze on the distant bay as though he couldn’t wait to get there. If hating blacks became a contest Richardson would emerge the victor. Often times Richardson argued vehemently in public places that blacks were descendants of Canaan – Noah’s grandson - and that the curse of God which fell like rain of fire upon them got their skin burned and gave them kinky hair. A country man who had a family somewhere he couldn’t accompt for, he had been shot rebelling against the British in the early days of the war and since walked with a limp. His wonky teeth, untidy thinning hair, narrow nose and bad squint were oddities that contributed to his racial and religious bigotry. Aldershot squared his shoulders. Slave raiding might not be that difficult after all. The odds are that Richardson could pull off this distinct idea of his.
Back home, slavers made an unprecedented fortune just by hoarding slaves during the war to spur the growth of black market. 1780, and Aldershot had felt it was his time to venture into slave trade business. January that year, he had rented the ship’s service from The New-York Harbor Company in Manhattan. It was a classic three-mast barque on her first trans-Atlantic voyage, starving for cargo to fill her cubic holds. Like spider webs, countless ropes stretched across each other to hold up its square rig sails against relentless Atlantic breeze. On the hull of the wooden vessel could be read in bold letters: MARGARET SCOTT. She flaunted an ancient of colonial Britain over her mainmast and got sailed to Africa by one captain Cole and his crew of jack-tars.
‘Drop anchor!’ a powerful blare from the bo’s’n interrupted their discussion.

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