Walking to our graves

This is the first chapter in a historical fiction I'm planning to write about the Slave Trade Triangle; I'm sorry if it's not very historically accurate, I'll smooth out the rough edges as I do more research.


I can't speak, I can't laugh, I can't smile.

Not that I would want to.

Tight metal binds my wrists and neck, my back is burning in the midday sun, and with every step I take I feel like I can take no more.

Yet I must go on.

My eyes dart around as I see the hundreds of men walking ahead of and behind me, thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same emotions... And then I see the traders, staring at us, watching us with whips in their hands; just waiting for one of us to make a mistake so they can lash us. We're all walking to our graves.

How I wish I was back home - how I wish I had done things differently. I could have. I should have. How long have we been walking for?

I look at the sky. The sun has moved across - it will only be a few hours until sundown, and although we have only been walking since morning, it feels like days have passed. How did we come to be here? I gaze at the bright blue sky above me in wonder, and I stumble over a small rock. I look around agitatedly, wondering if any of the traders saw me; luckily, their eyes were focused elsewhere. Then I felt the crack of a whip at my heels and jumped - a man was staring at me with piercing eyes. "Hurry up, negro, or you'll feel that on your back."

The End

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