Dear diary,

I am lucky- as lucky as I possibly could be in my situation, at least. I have been put together with a group of stronger, healthier-looking slaves, due to the muscles I have developed over the years, while making stone tools for my village, and am writing in you by candlelight, a luxury not many others have. And still, I can’t stop thinking that, back home, in Tulbagh, at least I had a proper bed, and mama made her homemade Fufu for dinner on Sundays. After Papa said the prayers, in his low, rumbling voice, we would sing traditional songs, and Papa would smile at me and my 5 siblings one by one telling us he loved us with his eyes, before starting to eat. Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. But, my life was so unimaginably easy back then, maybe it’s something I imagined, thinking the world had no flaws. Maybe, father wore a mask I was too busy to notice.

Papa, my beautiful papa, who arranged something, I can’t even believe he was capable of. I can still see mama’s crying face, hidden by father's strong back and face void of any emotion; and flinch at the image. I lay here, on the dry sand, with my neck tied by a thick, binding rope, and can’t stop my mind from running back to the past over and over again. Memories keep flashing through my mind. Apunda and I playing with a blown-up pig’s bladder in the garden, throwing it back and forth over and over again and laughing in the grass at the ugly faces we made. Abioye bringing me flowers he had picked on the side of the sandy road with a smile on his face so large, it revealed all the gaps he had between his teeth. 

But more than memories, dreadful thoughts haunt me in the dark, making me painfully aware of every rustling of leaves, every owls screech. My mind replays the moment I accepted my fate, like a movie I can’t pause. 

Returning from Ashanti’s cottage, wandering through the palm leaves, with a soft wind blowing through the leaves, I noticed that the whole family was collected- sitting in a circle, on mats, Apiyo and Abioye weeping and papa praying, his head bowed and shoulders clasped. Worried, I ran the last steps, clutching the long skirt of my kanga in my fist, to prevent myself from tripping over it with my tired, clumsy feet. As I stumbled into the middle of the circle and uttered my worries with a gasp, mother looked at me with sympathy etched into her wrinkled face, and I watched the tears spring to her eyes and start leaking down the side of her lean face. I had to resist getting on my knees, wiping her tears, and comforting her, somehow knowing that something was happening in which I was the main subject. 

“Mama, what’s going on? What happened? Did someone perish? Is it Father Williams, the sickly priest? Papa, please tell me! Let me help you through your grief. I will try, I really will, I promise. I am a big, strong girl now.” I promise, knowing that death wasn’t the cause for the disruption, but selfishly almost hoping it was. Drops of grief starting to well up in the corners of my eyes. I turned to Papa, who, after glancing at my tear-stained face, quickly lowered his head and dropped his shoulders in resignation. Still staring at his lap, his fingers playing with the sole of his sandals, which had started to peel off at the tips of his feet, cleared his throat and, in a surprisingly loud and clear voice, announced: “I know that Ifeoma. You have grown into a beautiful young woman. And I know too, that you would support us, no matter what trouble we were facing. I did something horrible, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But, know, no matter what, that I did it for your brothers and sisters, for the whole village. Because I know that you know that I didn’t have a choice. You see, our people are losing battles against neighboring tribes, and supplies are running out. Families are struggling to feed their young, and a harsh winter is up ahead. In return for your services in The America’s, Europeans awarded us with pots and pans for mama’s cooking and cloth for your sibling’s clothes. They will support us for the next year, at least. I’m so so sorry, Ifeoma. I’ve done a terrible deed. Oh, dear God, please forgive me.” When father finished, a great sob escaped me, and I covered my face with shaking hands. What was before me? Would I ever see them again? Choking on my sobs, I could hold the heartbreak no longer and fell to the floor in a disheveled heap, as my grief poured out in a flood of uncontrollable tears. No one stirred, as if, without my awareness, they’d already said goodbye. 

I miss my family, papa included, every minute of every hour, no matter the horror they put me through, but instead of the anger and the grief that should be pulsing through my body with every beat of my wounded heart, I feel nothing. Nothing but an unbearably strong feeling of pure grief and hopelessness.