Mosulu had been a slave
For twenty six years
And one day.
The day
He ran away.
He left before dawn
Took the river track
He never turned around
He never looked back.
He slept under trees
And the cold
Gnawed his bones
As did the hunger.
He stole food
From a farm
But was caught,
Arms tied.
He was returned to his Baas
To await
His fate.
When the day came
Stripped naked
In shame
He was tied to a bench
The stench
Signified
His fear.
Neighbours came
From far and near
With their slaves
To witness justice.
They brought picnics
And wine
The weather was fine
For this spectacle.
Mosulu
Was beaten
With coarse leather thongs
While wine fuelled
Farmers
Sang wine fuelled songs.
It took a week
For Mosulu to die
A lesson to others
That they shouldn't try.
Marta lay in the dark
And she stroked
Her red stone
She felt very afraid
And very alone.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
