‘Let me tell you the story of a young boy who grew up in this land. A boy who had his family cruelly taken from him. I want you to know what drives me, Tresten, and what gets me up every morning. It will help you understand me better so that you can trust me beyond any tinge of doubt. But admittedly, there’s a selfish motive behind this story because after hearing it, you will share my cause – to set past wrongs right.’
Tristan could hear the strain in Jabari’s voice. He knew that, like him, the big man never shared his difficulties with others and what he was about to do took a considerable amount of stoutheartedness. He waited patiently.
Chapter 22
Jabari made himself comfortable on the flat rock and told Tristan his story. ‘You already know that I was a slave – the lesions on my back tell that tale better than I can with words. Our village was on the northern end of a very long and powerful river that runs all the way to the ocean on the east coast of Africa. My father, a courageous Chewa warrior, was a feared but much-loved and well-respected headman by my people, held in high regard even by the king himself. I was only a young boy myself back then, the eldest of my two brothers and two sisters.
‘We had a good and peaceful existence, far away from the warring tribes to the east. Those coastal villagers were our people for we all originated from the same tribe that once existed near Maziwa Makuu – Great Lakes – hundreds of years ago, but their minds had been corrupted by the Arabian people from the north and other merchants, who had come from afar to trade their luxury goods. Greed changed our coastal neighbours, and they wanted more and more of the foreign man’s things. But we still traded with them, and my father insisted that every boy and girl in our village learn their Swahili language for that purpose, and apart from a few skirmishes, we left each other in peace.
‘When I was ten, most of my days were spent looking after my father’s cattle. Together with eight other boys, we herded all the cattle of my village, moving the animals from one grassland to another. I cared for each of my father’s animals as if they were my own and I made sure they got plenty of food and water so that they grew up fat and strong. I knew the marks and character of each of the cows and bulls. I would call them by name, and they would come to me.
‘We built enclosures from dead trees and surrounding bush, and stood guard at night, protecting our cattle from the hyenas and lions that roamed the area. I killed my first lion when I was thirteen years old. ‘Twas mauling the head of my best friend when I thrust my spear into its side, piercing its heart and lungs. When my father learned what had happened, he summoned me to the village where I handed him the pelt. Then he did something not common to our people. He changed my name. In front of the whole village, he said, “From this day forward, my son will be known as Jabari, the warrior, for only a true warrior can slay a lion with a spear. His name will be known by all the people who walk this land.” I still remember the pride in his voice and ‘twas with that same pride that I wore that lion’s teeth around my neck.
‘Every week, while I watched the cattle, my brothers and sisters would come to visit and bring me food and news from the village. We played games with sticks and rocks, or chased each other until the setting sun turned orange and they had to run home to avoid the dark and the hungry predators on the prowl. Sometimes I would stay out there for five weeks, sometimes six. Yes, life was good, and I was happy, Nyegere, until the day when everything changed.
‘In your time, ‘twas the year of 1661 and spring had just sprung. I was resting under an ebony tree when I felt their footsteps on the ground. ‘Twas rushed and heavy. They burst into our camp, screaming for help. My youngest brother had blood running from his head and collapsed as soon as he saw me. My other brother and my two sisters helped him up, but he died in front of our eyes moments later.
‘They told me that a neighbouring tribe from the coast had raided our village and had captured most of the men and women. They brought with them many white people – Portuguese men, as I learned later on. My father told my siblings to run away and come to me so that I could protect them. He and my mother stayed behind to fight with the others, but they were unprepared and were quickly overpowered, their spears no match for the other tribe’s guns. My two brothers watched from nearby scrubs as the attackers clubbed the old men and women to death, and bashed the babies’ heads against the trunk of the baobab tree in the centre of the village until its white bark was soaked red with their innocent blood. They were spotted by one of the attackers and ran away, but not before my youngest brother had received a glancing blow from a wooden club.
‘I told them all to leave the cattle, to hide in the thick bushes away from our camp and to cover their tracks, while two of my friends and I ran back to the village to see the bloodshed for ourselves. We avoided the normal path, so it took us half a day to get back.’ Tristan could see Jabari grimace as he relived the memory and struggled to summon the will to carry on, but he did.
‘’Twas exactly as they had told us. We could see the smoke rise from a distance, and as we got closer, the sweet smell of scorched wood and burning flesh started filling our noses. Among burnt-out huts, dead bodies of old people and fallen warriors were left in the warm sun and under the crimson-stained baobab tree lay a pile of small bloodied limbs. Vultures, ravens and flies had already settled in for a feast by the time that we arrived. We were too shocked to grieve or bury the dead, and we didn’t know what else to do, so we started tracking the captors. We had heard stories about slavers that capture people and take them away never to be seen again but never before had they ventured so far inland.
‘The sun was glowing red in the west when we found them. They were busy setting up camp for the night on a clearing not far from the same river that flowed past our village. I couldn’t believe it, Nyegere. From a small hilltop to the north, we counted nearly three hundred captives, all with their hands tied. Some of the men had strange, forked wooden sticks tied around their necks, while the women and children had ropes around their necks which were tied to these sticks or the hands of another captive. Even I could see how difficult it would be for one person to escape and it looked like most had resigned to their fate for they were huddled in groups as they tried to comfort each other. But these were not only people from our village. They must’ve raised every single village close to ours. When I finally saw my father, I nearly yelled out to him. He was bloodied and walked with a slight limp. We waited and waited. The slavers ate and drank before some of them led around ten of the young female captives away from the group. The girls who were not already gagged had pieces of cloth shoved into their mouths. Out of sight from the camp and not far from where we were hiding, they proceeded to defile these young women. First ‘twas the white men’s turn, and they were followed by black men…our own blood, Tresten. They lined up one by one and repeatedly raped these girls. When they were done, one of the girls lay motionless and was disposed of by a wooden club to the head. The ones standing could barely walk and had rivulets of blood and sperm streaming down their thighs.
‘There was nothing we could do. We didn’t have a plan, and we were only children who knew how to herd cattle and defend themselves against wild animals. But I knew I had to do something! So that night, while my friends kept watch, I snuck into their camp and killed one of the native guards with my spear. I had marked the spot where I had last seen my father but got confused in the dark and startled a sleeping man who cried out, probably in fear of another beating. I started running back the way I came but was quickly surrounded by the captors, and their masters soon joined the circle. I struck out and speared one of the black traitors in his stomach, and as I pulled out my spear, something hit me in the back of the head. I can’t remember anything else, apart from my legs giving way. Everything around me had turned as black as the night.
‘The next morning, I woke up with my hands tied and a rope around my neck which was tied to a man from a neighbouring village. They fetched me early. One of the white men, a dark-skinned m
an with a patch over his left eye and devilish look on his face asked some questions in a language foreign to my ears. The interpreter translated and asked me who I was, where I was from, and how many people were with me. I spat in his face and told him that his ancestors would’ve done the same if they were there right then. The mean-looking man drew his sword and held the blade against my throat while he screamed in his language. I stared him right in the eyes, awaited my fate and asked the spirits to guide me in the afterlife.
‘Then I heard my father cry out. “Spare him!” he yelled, as he jumped to his feet, but those tied to him dragged him back down. The slavers were quick to unshackle him and brought him to the white man who had a vicious grin on his face, as did the interpreter next to me. I screamed at the men, telling them to leave my father alone, but they didn’t listen. I pleaded with the man next to me, but he struck me with the back of his hand across my face. Then I heard my father say my name and I saw his face. He had the strangest, most peaceful, reassuring look on his face, which immediately calmed me down. It made me believe that everything would be alright, no matter what happened.
‘They tied him to a tree, and upon instructions from the white man with the eyepatch, another one of the white devils stepped forwards with a whip, which had many thongs with steel barbs on the end. They called it a chicote, and over the coming weeks, many of our people came to know it well. The man started to whip my father in front of the whole crowd, each blow harder than the one before, yet my father didn’t utter one cry. Not even a whimper. The man whipped him until there was no skin left on his back, and those around me could no longer bear to look. The white man with the patch then yelled something which the interpreter translated. He told us, and everyone hiding in the surrounding bushes, that if anyone attempted a rescue if anyone tried to escape or lagged behind, that there would be dire consequences. Then he said, “We have a young boy now. We no longer need the limping old man.” He walked up to my father and from behind, not even giving him the respect of looking him in the eyes, pulled out his knife and slit his throat. I’m not sure if my father was still conscious or felt any pain, but I screamed, yet no words came out, and I cried, yet there were no tears. Hate boiled up inside of me and robbed me of any other emotion.’ Jabari took a deep breath to compose himself.
Tristan realised that it was not easy for the African to talk about this. ‘Nasikitika.’
He managed to get a smile out of the big man, who in turn faced him and said, ‘Your Swahili is getting better, Nyegere, but don’t be sorry. You weren’t there. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘You don’t have to tell me the rest.’
‘Let me finish,’ insisted Jabari, like there was no choice.
‘Next, they dragged me to the same tree and tied me up. I looked down at the lifeless body next to me, then at my feet, under which I felt the warmth of my father’s blood. My father still had the same peaceful expression. I kept looking at him. When the first blow landed, it felt like a hundred wasp stings all at once, but I grit my teeth and didn’t utter a word, just like my father had done. I didn’t give them the slightest bit of satisfaction by cowering or pleading, nor did I give up my friends or my family. After seven blows, they took me down, rubbed a foul-smelling ointment into my back and dragged me back to where the rest of the captives were seated.
‘One of the elders from my tribe whispered to me, “Be proud, Jabari, your father was a strong and wise man. He died so that you can live”.’ Jabari repeated the words, ‘He died so that I could live.’ Jabari took a sip of water and looked up at the sky. ‘I kuona wewe baba!
‘I couldn’t sleep. My anger and the throbbing pain of my back kept me awake for most of the night until finally I remembered the calmness on my father’s face and realised that he had known his fate all along and that he was at peace with it. I prayed to our ancestors to keep watch over him. Tiredness overcame me, and I finally fell asleep.
‘Early the next morning, before sunrise, I was woken by a low murmuring and saw our captors kneel on small carpets facing north while they were uttering prayers, calling on someone named Allah for a safe journey. The white men stood idle and watched the spectacle with us, and I wondered who this Allah was and if he had sent these people to capture us. There wasn’t much time to think as we were soon on our feet, and with empty bellies and parched throats, we started walking, heading southeast following the river. We received our first water around midday and our first meal that night. I then knew they were only going to give us little food and drink to weaken us but to keep us alive. Luckily, our native captors stopped three times a day to pray to their Allah, which allowed us to rest, but this was much to the dismay of the white men and arguments broke out on more than one occasion.
‘For one week, we walked, and the further we got, the more agitated the white men became with the slow progress. Many of our people died along the way, including my mother. I think seeing my father die had made her give up all hope. There was no more grief left in me and time passed like a dream. I can’t remember much except putting one foot in front of the other. Some captives tried to escape, others were just too slow and were executed on the spot, but there were still a good two hundred and fifty of us left when we turned away from the river, heading directly east to where the sun reared its head each morning, its bright light bringing the only sense of normality.
‘’Twas then that they started giving us three meals a day. Our spirits quickly lifted, and we started to make better ground. We didn’t grasp what was lying ahead for us. Up until then, we didn’t have much choice, except live or die. Little did we know that they were fattening us up like you do with a calf before ‘tis slaughtered. Our bellies were full, and we even started singing. We thought our plight was finally over, but we didn’t know that all they’d given us was false hope.
‘The white men seemed pleased with the faster pace, and they even shot some nyati, which they roasted for us. The man with the eyepatch, Captain Diogo or Jicho Moja – One Eye, as our captors called him – sent runners ahead with word that we were coming. Another week passed, and on the second to last day, when we crossed a gentle slope between two large hills, the coast came into view, the first time many of us had ever seen the ocean. Below us lay the coastal village, which the elders called Quelimane.
‘The next day we walked past the outskirts of the town in single file, as we had done for all of the two weeks’ journey, and onto the beach, our bodies shining as brightly as the sun did on the water. They had given us bowls with fat the night before which we had to rub onto our skins. Those who had refused were quickly encouraged to do so with short whips that didn’t break the skin. I felt good. My wounds had healed well, and the extra food had made me feel strong again.
‘Just offshore three large ships lay at anchor, each one larger than a hundred dugouts and we stood in wonderment. Smaller boats called dhows were sailing to and from the town, mostly manned by tan-skinned men who wore long white dresses and white cloth around their heads. Further down the beach was another group of captives, also in shackles, and we were told to join them. These people were in a bad way and told us that they had been waiting there for more than a week for the ship and more slaves to arrive. That was the first time I had distinctly heard the term slave. They told us that the large ships were going to take us to a foreign country where we would work for masters and that some of us would be bought by the men in the white dresses to go north in the smaller boats.
‘’Twas then that I got terrified. I’d never had a master before. I didn’t want to leave my country. ‘Twas like the white devils had known that unrest was travelling through the group because they used long ropes to tie our feet together, making it even more difficult to escape. Late in the afternoon, they had split us into two groups. I was in the smaller group with most of the other younger men and boys.
‘There was a storm that night, and we sat in the rain, which quickly doused the warm meal we had had. We huddled together, using our bodies to keep
warm. The next morning, I woke up early, cold and shivering, and watched as dhows with more tan-skinned men in dresses arrived. These had big beards, long colourful tunics and cloth that looked like a rainbow wrapped around their heads. They were seated under the palm trees, and the white men who had captured us met with them.
‘One by one we were led onto a wooden stage and the tan-skinned men yelled numbers until Jicho Moja hit a wooden board with a small block of ivory. The interpreters told us to keep quiet and look straight ahead. When my turn came, I got onto the stage and looked the tan-skinned men straight in the eyes. I spoke in Swahili, their language. I told them how evil those white men were. I told them how they had killed my father, mother and brother, and I turned around and showed them the lesions on my back. My words had no effect on the tan-skinned men. They did not care for my misfortune. I could see the white man with the chicote coming for me, so I yelled louder because I wanted him to kill me. I told them about my village and the red trunk of the baobab tree. He got ready to strike me, but then I heard someone yell, “Kuacha!” The flogger stopped to look, as did I, trying to see who this person was who had told him to stop.
‘From behind the audience of tan-skinned men emerged a smartly dressed, white man who was followed by six sailors, all armed with swords and pistols. He walked up to Jicho Moja and whispered something to him. I have never seen a white man so pale, for Jicho Moja was like the kinyonga – chameleon – who had just walked on the whitest of sand. The well-dressed man walked over to me and cut off my ropes. Then he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me along to the small boat which lay waiting.
‘I struggled and protested. I told him I wanted to stay in my country. He replied in perfect Swahili, “Young man, you do not want to go with the Arabs or on that Portuguese ship. You may not understand what I’m telling you, but you will lose all rights to that little black body of yours, something you will never regain, not even as an old man with a grey beard. Come with me, and I promise you that you will lead a free life. Do you understand?
The Fire Within Page 37