Continued from Part 1…

After many days of travel by foot, we arrived. Where exactly, I did not know.

Without a word, the man led me into a large, dilapidated structure. Stepping inside, a horrible stench filled my nostrils. The hall was full of children, just like me. Children between the ages of 6 and 18 huddled together eating a grayish paste. They were gaunt and looked malnourished.

An imposing figure stomped into the hall; all chattering stopped. The children cowered as he approached. “Hurry up, you maggots! I’m not running a charity,” he said. Then he stormed out.

A tiny girl stepped forward, grinning at me. She looked about six years old. “That’s Marcel, the slave master. I’m Chiku, welcome to the cocoa farm.” I smiled back.

After a brief, unsatisfactory meal, I was led to a toolhouse. A pile of sharp machetes laid on the ground. I gasped. This was proving to be a dangerous place. Carefully, Chiku lifted two from the top of the pile. “What are you doing?” I demanded, “Those are dangerous. We shouldn’t touch them.” She laughed bitterly. “Better get used to it. You’re going to want to be acquainted with these.” She handed me a machete. It was long and sharp, with a threatening blade.

Chiku grasped her machete and joined the other children. They trekked deep into the woods. “Where are we going?” I asked Chiku. “To the cocoa plants,” she briefly replied.

We arrived at a clearing in the fields, where cocoa plants surrounded the area. Chiku said, “Watch me.” She lifted her long knife and tiptoed to reach a cocoa pod. Hacking with vigor, despite her tiny frame, she efficiently severed the thick husk from the tree with a few blows. Sweat poured down her face. Twice, the blade slipped and almost sliced into her skin. What kind of work was this? Why were children doing dangerous manual labor? I spotted an adult. I went up to him and boldly stated, “I don’t want to work…” The man struck me in the face before I could finish my sentence. “Who do you think you are, you dirty little scum? You don’t want to work? Do you think you have a choice?” He raised his voice and grabbed a leather whip from his belt. I cowered. The whip clapped against my back, stinging unbearably. I cried out in pain. The man kicked me to the ground and mercilessly whipped me, tearing flesh off my back and scarring me for life.

When he finally stopped due to exhaustion, my tattered shirt was unrecognizable, drenched in thick blood from the lacerations. I clenched my palms and bit my lips from the pain. I was eight years old. From that moment, I understood I was a slave.

 

To be continued…

-Mackenzie

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