by Damien Dsoul
“Didn’t you hear me say wake up?”
The older one spoke to her rudely. She grabbed her arm and pulled her with force down from the bed. Catherine fell on her side, too weak to get up and fight back. She cried out when the younger woman grabbed a fistful of her hair. She tried to fight back but it was no use. The woman pushed her towards the direction of the bathroom.
“Go in there and clean up! Time is wasting on you.”
Catherine did as ordered. Her mind speculated on what was going to happen today as she let the water run down her body. She was still scrubbing her body when one of the women tapped on the door yelling her to hurry up. Catherine had an idea. She finished her bath and turned off the shower, picked up the soap and wrapped it tight around her towel when done wiping herself like a stone in a slingshot and held it to her side as she approached the door. She open the door and saw the younger black woman standing there glaring at her. Her counterpart stood beside the bed holding something in her hand.
“Finally,” the younger woman snapped. “What took you so long - ”
Catherine yelled out at the same time swung the towel with the soap in it at her. The younger woman caught her action a bit late. The soap hit her arm and she almost hit to the ground. Catherine had time to hit her once properly. The other woman was racing towards her as she raised the towel to take another swing at her but was too late as the other woman gripped her arm hard and swung it to the side. She threw a slap at Catherine which stung her face and made her slip. The towel fell from her hand. The woman slapped her again and Catherine fell on her back. The younger woman got up and wanted to rush at Catherine but her colleague held her back, shook her head.
“Mistress Tiffany won’t stand for it,” she said to her.
The younger woman’s face was still raging but stepped back reluctantly. The older woman pulled Catherine up from the fool and pushed her towards the bed.
“Get dressed, slave!” she pointed at the piece of cloth that she’d been holding earlier that now lay on the floor.
Catherine picked up the cloth. It came off her hand as two pieces: one was a like a tank-top cut out that stopped at her mid-rib when she wore it and the other was a like a pair of bikini shorts, both made from native clothing. She was uncomfortable wearing them; she felt exposed under the women’s eyes.
“Time to go,” the younger woman said, pushing her towards the door.
Catherine stepped out of the room. The women pointed the direction to move, back the same way she had come up. She walked past the other doors, wondering if her parents or any of the others were inside. Down the stairs they went and the younger woman led the way through a side corridor, down a dark stairwell and into another narrow corridor. Speculation of where they were going or whatever was about to come to her ran through her mind.
They took a left turn and approached a wooden door of which two armed militants did stood beside it. The men ran their eyes over Catherine as the black women unlocked the door and pushed her inside.
It was a big room with a high curved ceiling. There were a lot of people inside, most of them hovering about, chattering in clusters, sipping wine from long glasses or smoking cigarettes: men in suits, some in plain clothes, others in distinctive native attire. There were some women amongst them, they wore expensive clothing and jewellery. Some sat down on thick sofas talking and laughing. Armed militant men stood a various corners with their weapons in their arms looking the least trouble. A lot of them lowered their voices and appraised Catherine as she stepped further into the room with the two black women prodding her along. A soldier took her arm and led her past the crowd through a hallway which led to the front of the room on a platform. She smiled as she saw her parents along with the other couples along with her friends. They were all standing there looking sad, uncomfortable and miserable. They too were dressed in the same outfit as she, although for the men they had no shirts, just a pair of shorts that looked more like briefs. The soldier let go of Catherine and she ran into her parents’ arms, crying immediately as they wrapped their arms around her.
“Mom ... Dad, I missed you both - ”
Her Mom cried along with her, kissed her cheek. “Oh darling, so good to see you’re alright - ”
“Thank God you’re safe, Cath,” said her father.
Catherine was unaware of the young black woman who’d come to join them. The woman knelt closer to her and attaching something to her foot. When Catherine looked down she saw that the woman had clamped the end of a shackle around her ankle, the chain of which was connected to a bolt hooked to a wall behind them. She tried pulling her foot but not an inch gave way. She looked at her parents’ feet and those of the others and saw that they too were chained to their place. Two militant men came up on the platform carry more shackles. They chained the shackles on their wrists. The newlywed husband James tried to grumble, but one of the men rammed the butt of his rifle against his mid-section. James crumbled to the ground, groaning. They pulled him to his feet and clamped the shackles on his wrists before moving on to the next. Elaine and Kriss wouldn’t stop crying, pleading for their lives. One of the black women came and smacked the back of their heads and warned them to shut up or else. Their brother Stephen did put up a struggle, but just like James, he too was silenced and humbled. Catherine’s hands fell towards her thighs as she felt the weight of the shackles; she couldn’t stop sniffling as she watched her parents suffer the same crude treatment. One of the women came and pushed her backward, aligning them together so they were standing beside each other’s shoulder. To Catherine’s left was her Mom, to her right was the newlywed wife, Shania. The women stood to the left while the men to the right.
There was a thick curtain in front of them like something opening to a stage. At the other side of the curtain facing the men and women who were there, a chubby-looking black man in a waistcoat, stripped pants and black shoes, wearing a fez hat appeared before them like a magician about to perform a live trick, holding a walking stick to his hand. The man’s name was Ali, a sinister financier and profiteer who put his money on anything that involved blood, oil and firearm sales. One thing he thoroughly enjoyed was the sale of ‘white skin trafficking’, or in better terms, kidnapping and selling of whites to African wealthy. His business was well cloaked and because of his exorbitant alliance and protection from various African governments was able to stay underneath the radar of his nefarious activity and come and go as he so pleased. He had a steady association with the militants’ plight: he provided them with firearms at a reduced rate while they worked at turning a blind eye to his kidnapping of foreigners of which he bequeathed them with a sizable portion of what he earned from his sales. Ali had a list of clientele across the sub-continent who desired ownership of white people. Sometimes he raised the stakes and even when he did, he knew his market and his buyers and knew neither would ever go against his bidding price Their pockets were stupendous with money and whether in cash or illicit gemstones they looked forward to being called upon whenever he had a sale going.
He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed his face with just as he got the crowd’s attention, waiting for him to get things started. He waved his hand and like magic the curtain separating Catherine and the others went up to reveal them to the rich black patrons there. Ali waved the rich people to inch closer to the platform.
“Welcome all of you to another sale. I hope none of you left your wallets at home?” This drew a round of laughter. “Once again I welcome all of you whom are rich, happy and well-to-do. Please step closer, come one and all and feast your eyes on the waiting sale for today.” He pirouetted amongst Catherine and everybody else on the platform while keeping on with his sales pitch. “You all know what you’re here for, and you know I’m one never to give you a sour bargain. Here we have ten persons on the selling block. Three mature-looking men and a young lad, and six bitches whom are guaranteed to perfor
m whatever service required. With no further ado, let’s start the bidding: one million for the men, one and a half for the women. DO I HEAR ANY TAKERS?” he yelled this last line to the crowd.
The bidding frenzy started right away: every person in the room came alive and was surging forward and yelling at the top of their voice. The room had turned into a bedlam of hyper-activity, and Ali was enjoying every moment of it. Sometimes he got hard just listening to the way they hiked up the bidding prices for any of the slaves. He watched as some of them raised their baton up indicating whatever bidding price they desired; to him it was like milking a cow.
Ali waited till the bidding had gotten to an optimum point before starting individually. He started with the white men. He pushed Catherine’s Dad, Tim, forward. Catherine and her Mom called out his name, but armed men came and held them in their place. Ali stood beside Tim who stood there looking dejected and long-faced. Ali poked his body with his walking stick, speaking to the crowd of rich people there and enunciating on his features and future skills as a hard worker.
“He will do all what a white boi servant is meant to do in your household: clean the toilets, mop the floors, tend to the gardens, and anything else I can think of that I know most of you can. Optimum bid for the men servants right now stand at a million and nine hundred. So, DO I HEAR A HIGHER BID?”
The frenzy started once again.
A black man wearing a Kaftan robe with sunglasses shielding his eyes stepped forward, watching. He waited until the bidding had gone the highest when he then raised his hand.
“Three million!” he announced.
Heads turned towards him, a slight hush came upon the room. Ali turned towards the man and grinned widely and then surveyed the crowd in the room, speaking at the near top of his voice as any auctioneer would.
“Do I hear any further bid, ladies and gentlemen? Any further bid at all?” he waited some seconds, then stumped the platform with the end of his walking stick. “SOLD!”
A round of handclapping and cheering went round in the room. After it had dissipated somewhat, they continued with the bidding.
The man who had bided for Tim Morgan fell silent and sort of withdrew from the crowd as the others rushed forward and went about casting their bids for the newlywed hubby, James Legonias. His wife cried and fought with one of the armed men who held her back from disrupting the event. After him came William Merrick and then his son, Stephen, who was bought by a wealthy black woman. The men’s chains were disconnected and they were then escorted out of the room. Catherine, her Mom and the other women made an attempt at reaching for their Dads as they were being led out of the room but it was no use. They were living in a nightmare right now; Catherine felt her eyes go red with tears, futile at her inability to do anything as she watched her Dad and the other men being led out of the room, out of their sight.
The crowd took a break when that part was over and returned ten minutes later to continue with the women.
Ali resumed his sales with the older women starting with Amber Merrick.
The women’s optimum price was three two and a quarter million; the frenzy resumed as the price went up. She was bought by a bearded black man who wore a black robe and had a protruding tummy. After Amber came Catherine’s Mom, Pamela. She was bought at the same price as Amber by the same mysterious man wearing the pair of shades. Things got interesting after Amber was led away. Ali knew well enough that the prices for the young white women would rise even higher, which was why he always saved them for last. Elaine and her sister Kriss bought were fetched for five million each. Finally there was only Catherine left.
“And now, the last item on sale,” Ali beamed at the anxious crowd. He dapped his sweaty face with a handkerchief before resuming his line of speech. “Look at her, ladies and gentlemen. Feast your eyes on this young and nubile white slut. I know she will make for an impressive slave, as well a good bedroom toy for the wife and husband should they decide to include a third partner,” he winked at the crowd. This elicited some laughter from them. “The optimum price for this slave starts at two million. Do I hear a higher bid?”
Catherine cringed and further lowered her head down her shoulders as she stood feeling hopeless in chains standing in the centre of the platform while screaming voices were hurled towards her as people threw prices towards wanting to own her. She couldn’t stop crying; the tears poured freely out of her eyes. She looked up and her eyes met that of the man in the pair of shades staring at her. His lips were straight and he was quiet while all around him people jostled forward throwing figures at Ali who took note with dexterous swiftness. The voices began to wan down as the figure climbed past five million and inched towards six. Ali as usual knew how well to push his crowd.
“That’s six million, ladies and gents ... I hear a six million, but do I hear another? Do I hear something? something closer to six and a half million? Work with me, people ... do I hear a six and a half?”
A hand went up - Ali caught the gesture and pointed in the man’s direction. His features alive with excitement.
“Yes sir, that’s a six and a half there. Is there anyone else? Is there anyone amongst you willing to go higher? Come on now people, this here is a fine specimen of a white bitch. It would be wrong to let her down like this. Do I hear a higher figure, I ask the question again?” his eyes scanned the faces in of the crowd. “Very well then, ladies and gents, we’re about rounding up towards the end of this spectacle. That’s six and a half million going once ... six and a half million going twice ...”
“Eight million!”
A hush fell into the room instantly. Ali couldn’t help but mutter a gasp at what he’d just heard. All eyes turned to the direction of the quiet man in the Kaftan outfit with the pair of shades shielding his eyes. The man made his announcement once again as if to assure everybody that it was actually him who had made the statement.
Ali seized on the moment. The highest before now he had sold a single slave was seven million and that had been a bidding warfare he hopped never to relieve again.
“ladies and gentlemen, we have a new number. Eight million, SOLD!”
He stumped his stick on the platform. The room broke into wild cheers. Some congratulated the man who’d called in the amount but he ignored their cheers and turned around and left the room. Someone came and unlocked the chains to Catherine’s foot and then she was led out of the room.
OWNED
Slavery. It’s such a vile and despicable word to mention. To even think of it is to make you seem ... almost inhuman. Yes, I took history classes back in college. I know something about what white people did to Black-Americans: transporting them like cattle in the crypt of ships and bringing them to come suffer in this country of ours, making them work under the sun night and day, lashing their backs and separating the men from their children ... it’s abhorring to think that whites like myself, generations before me, ever did such things to other people.
Imagine how I felt when it got done to me.
***
Catherine’s eyes blinked awake momentarily. She was lying on her side with her head resting under her palms, her legs curled upward; everything around her was dark and shaking. She was confused at first but as the sleep cleared from her eyes, thoughts of what had happened to her after the auction had taken place came back to her in bits.
An armed militant had led her back to her room and locked the door once she’d been inside. There she had remained like the previous night. She had been fed sumptuously, not knowing the fate of her parents or of the others. The following morning, being today, they had come for her and led her through a side door out to the back of the compound. They had chained her ankles and wrists then pushed her to climb into the back of a lorry with a tarpaulin cover to shield her from the sun; an armed man had climbed onboard to watch over her as the vehicle started its engine and soon was on the move. The
road was hard and plenty of time she had complained and grumbled to no one in particular from the bumps she got as the vehicle jostled and drove over the rugged terrain. The armed bandit in the vehicle with her laid his rifle over his thighs. He looked at her occasionally but she couldn’t detect any hint of light in his eyes. The combined weight of the ankle chains and the ones on her wrists were overbearing; she couldn’t dare bring herself to jump from the vehicle even if she tried. Nothing else to do she lay on her side on the open section of the lorry and tried to catch some sleep. She had taken a shower before they came for her in her room but now she perceived some foul smell coming from her body as if she’d never showered at all. Wherever she was being led to, she knew it would be nothing compared to where she had just left.
How long was she asleep, she couldn’t tell. The last time she looked at her watch or anything that told her the time was like a century ago, back when she’d been comfortable with herself at the resort’s camp while listening to the sound of her parents fucking in their assigned tent room. She sat halfway up opened her mouth and yawned. She rubbed her finger at her eyes, saw her armed occupant push aside the tarpaulin clothing to gaze outside. The lorry drew to a slow stop. The armed militant indicated at her to remain where she was as he then pushed the tarpaulin wrap halfway aside and jumped out the back of the lorry. There was exchange of words, all in the same native language they’d spoken to each other with back when they’d kidnapped her. Catherine could hear what sounded like other vehicles and lots of people either milling about of going about their own way. she struggled to sit up with her back against the lorry’s bucket seat, if only she could just spy outside to know where she was.
