Continued from Part 2…

August 25, 1957

The French had been slowly gaining power since the 1800s, colonizing parts of the Ivory Coast and declaring themselves protectorate. I don’t understand politics, but Chiku told me that France made treaties with the African tribal leaders, telling them they would protect the tribes from hostile groups. The tribes agreed. Unfortunately, France would not keep its promises.

Every day, we would wield large machetes, sawing at thick cocoa bean pods. The older children helped harvest the tall pods, whereas the younger ones gathered up the fallen pods and put them in large sacks. It was a life of pain and misery. The slave masters could whip you on a whim and you never knew when it might be coming. They patrolled the farms like hawks waiting for their next meal. If one was caught even stretching, they got the beating of a lifetime.

By now, I was used to beatings. I was numb to it. I had deep scars down my back and arms where leather whips ripped raw flesh and blood out of me. Everyday, those scars would re-open with fresh beatings.

The slave masters gorged on fancy meals of chicken, pork and fish with grains and tubers. While the children worked in starvation, the slave masters snacked all day. They lounged in the shade, drinking sweet juice, playing cards and exchanging banter. Meanwhile, we toiled, sweating like pigs in the hot sun and struggling to penetrate through the thick husks of the bean pods with our machetes. All the while our stomachs grumbled in hunger.

After a long day, Chiku and I rushed towards the dining hall. Stepping into our place in line, a sour smell wafted through the air. What little food they fed us was always rancid or burnt. They gave us the inedible bits from their meals, dumping their food scraps and leftovers into a large pot and boiling it together. When I reached the front of the line, the cook scooped a small ladle of gruel into my bowl. When I was younger, I had once asked for seconds. I was immediately caned on the spot. I never asked again.

All 47 children were crammed into a stuffy, smelly barn with farm animals. A large padlock kept us from escaping. Only thin straw mats separated us from the hard ground. I tossed and turned, my back sore from the stiff floor, and I gasped for fresh air. I longed to see the stars but there were no windows. There was no access to a bathroom except for a single disgusting bucket in the corner for emergencies. The heat of our warm bodies, wedged next to each other, was unbearable and the smell pungent.
I wondered if I would ever get to leave this place.

 

To be continued…

-Mackenzie

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