Mind Of A Slave

Auction

I.

IT'S DARK WHEN the old man finally halts the horses and lets Mama and I out onto the street. A few lustrous stars pierce through the cloudy sky, like eyes, looking down on us, pitying us. I imagine my Papa gazing up at this moment, imagine that we are linked through the stars and the darkness. He told Mama that if she looked up into the darkness every night, they would be together, if only for a few moments. He said if ever our family was separated, we should look at the moon each night at dusk and that way we would be connected. Together. I linger, my eyes open wide, and I see Papa's face behind the stars, almost.


Mr. Walter ties Donkey and Allan to the fence surrounding a park and waits impatiently for me to mutter a tearful "goodbye" to the horses. I stroke Donkey's nose. It is soft.

Then Mama takes my hand and we follow our master down the street and into a large shop with a sign above the door which reads:

'BANKS ACRADE: Slave Trading'

The room is replete with people of all colours, swarming through the crowd, mumbling, pushing and conversing with others. The buzz of excitement seeps its way into my brain, overwhelming me in a tidal wave of noise and monstrous sounds. For a second, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, wishing fervently that I could condense it all into a bearable din in the background.

A raised platform has been constructed in the centre of the room and around it, a ring of white people are being restrained by lengthy ropes and grumpy policmen.

An ample-bellied, bow-legged man waddles over to meet us.
 "A bit skinny, aren't they?" is the first thing he says, peering down on me in obvious contempt. Walter shruggs.

"You don't get many any fatter, sir, and they're strong despite their look, I can assure you." He retorts.

"I doubt as she'll be able to lift a basket, let alone carry a dozen eggs!" The bow-legged man chuckles, "She's as thin as a twig, looks like she'll snap every time the wind blows". I'm appalled at such impertinence. I grit my teeth and brace myself for the next shrewd remark. He shifts his attention to Mama, but Walter speaks before he has the chance to open his mouth.

"Sandra's good with her hands, and she's a fine cook too."

The fat man grunts. I know Walter is upset. To him we are like horses. He has taken time and effort to raise us well. He's tried everything to make me look stronger and he wants money. Money, money, money. I think if I was able to access his vision, I would see a tunnel with painted walls on which the moments of his life feature, but at the end I would see glinting gold coins, taking away my attention from everything else. And no matter how hard I focus, it is the only thing I would see clearly.

"I suppose she'll fetch a good price then, won't she? How much are you hoping for? Eight hundred? Nine?"

Walter's grey eyebrows furrow in thought.

"Well, I do say, she's a good, obedient slave, not nearly as boisterous as a few of the past ones I've kept... I might even go as far as a thousand"-he pauses-"But I'll be here in the morning of course, to set the starting price."

"Well, you'd better come along then, and report to Mr. Willoughby." The rude man barks at us. "Hurry, girl".

He keeps an iron grip on my arm as he leads Mama and I to a desk in a corner of the room. A tall gentleman who looks as if he has been sitting there all day, due to the dark creases under his droopy eyes and the way in which, I notice, he is continuously massaging his scalp with his huge hands, looks up at us.

"Name", he says in a tired, cracking voice. He glances expectantly at Mama.

"Lavinia". She has to shout to be heard over the deafening noise.