At the Virginia plantation, we grew mainly tobacco for our master. This tobacco was later exported to French men. We worked and toiled from morning till night, and the only payment we received was two miserable square meals a day, and if you were unlucky, you’d get five whip lashes on your bare back.
I can vividly recall one evening when we were working that I was so dehydrated I couldn’t work anymore. One white man walked up to me and said, “You fucking asshole! C’mon, get up and work!!”
I only moaned and looked at him for help, but what I received was a whip, and that’s when I started screaming in agony. Just then, Agufia appeared from nowhere and pushed the white man down.
“How dare you whip him like that? Is he your cow?”
By now, everybody was staring at the slave who was challenging a white man. Even the family of Mr Clifford were all watching. Mr Clifford shouted, but it was inaudible. The white man jumped up and struck Agufia twice, and a serious fight ensued between the two of them. Although the white man was older than Agufia, Agufia gave him the beating of his life. Mr Clifford started clapping and went down to where the fight took place. On reaching them, he gave the white man a thunderous slap for having a slave beat him.
Then he turned to Agufia, “Young man, what’s your name?”
Shakenly, he said, “Agufia, sir.”
“I think Boris will be suitable for you. From today onwards, your name shall be Boris,” Mr Clifford declared and walked off.
I was in amazement as to how a slave master could change the name of his slaves at will.
During the very first week of our arrival on the Master’s plantation, all the slaves were given new names. I was renamed Morris due to my neutrality. I never supported any unjust and unfair act. I was nicknamed Saint Morris. Maduka was renamed Black Duke because of his dark skin. He was darker in complexion than the rest of the blacks there, some people thought that he was born on a black river, hence the name. Eslem was renamed Doris.
It was only Agufia who wasn’t given any name till then, but the name Boris? What on earth did it mean? This was a puzzle that kept me wondering for a very long time.
“Now, all of you, back to work!” was the next order we got, and with haste we resumed work.
That day, we were lucky to be relieved early, as if we had won our freedom. But most older slaves among us kept on murmuring curses on their betrayers. I just sat down and flashed back on how I got here.
Just then, I was brought back to reality by a female voice. I turned around to look and a girl younger than me by two years, was already seated beside me and was beaming with a smile. I twisted my face, to show my disgust.
“Hey, how are you doing?” she managed to ask me.
“I’m doing OK, but not like my usual self,” I replied.
“I know,” she replied then continued, “I’ve been here for ten years now. I was brought here at the age of eight, sold by my elder sister. I was born and raised in a royal family, where life wasn’t so hard, but due to jealousy, my elder sister sold me.”
I gave her a pitiful look. Then, I started wondering how I would have felt if I were in her shoes. If Agufia was the one who had sold me into slavery, how would I have felt about him? There’s a great impact of feeling when you are betrayed by your own blood relative. I was lucky that I had a nice older brother, but Uncle Madueke! How I wish I would have known.
I turned and saw that she didn’t feel the same way that I felt. It made me relax a little. Then I proceeded to ask her why she was so calm, and her response sent cold shivers down my spine.
“Are you telling me that this is our home?” I managed to ask her amid doubt.
“You bet,” she replied sharply and added, “there is no way you’ll ever get away from here, except if you are ready to commit suicide, because ocean water surrounds this continent. To cross, you’d need a ship.”
“How do you know that?” I asked her naively.
“See here,” She brought out a neatly folded paper.
“Mama Africa, look at us,” she pointed with her beautiful fingers on different sections of the map.
“Morris, you see when you go upwards, you go to Canada, then downwards to Mexico, and if you continue, you go to South America. I bet your journey will end there. Here is Virginia, this is where we are now.”
I was perplexed at her skill of map reading and confused at the same time, so I asked her to clarify for me.
“Why is it not possible to run from America to Africa?”
“You silly boy, do you want to become Jesus Christ the second?”
I was heating up gradually because she was abusing me with style, but on seeing my mood, she went to explain things better.
“Look,” she pointed out on the African section of the map, “let’s assume you are coming from Europe to Africa on land. You’ll pass through here, then into Syria, then Lebanon, Israel down to Egypt by crossing this desert-like area called Sinai, then you pass into Libya and start descending down the continent. You pass through the Sahara desert, then you are going home!” she finally exclaimed.
“Wow, that was fantastic!!” I exclaimed happily.
“But you will also encounter some little bodies of water you know, take a look around, it’s surrounded by big, big, big oceans. The place where the ocean seems to narrow is at the polar region. You would die there and if you should follow here through Alaska you're going to the USSR.”
“Why?”
“Ice cold.”
“Ouch!” I said.
“So you see?”
“Yeah, so what’s your name?” I asked her.
“Eno-bong, Eno for short. Master’s name is Catherine,” she replied by giving me that I-love-you look.