My father had been missing for more than seven days. That was one hundred and sixty-eight hours that I had been without a father. That was ten-thousand and eighty minutes that I had cared for my young siblings alone. My name is Ishmamel Beah. I was born a slave and I will die a slave. I came to this realization, when I was exactly seven years old. Now, ten years later, I have finally given up on the hope of something different. My young siblings would never taste freedom either but they had not yet learned the bitter taste of captivity. They were still young.
I was crouching on a riverbank at dusk. The pale glow of the moonlight was rapidly replacing the fading sun. I had to find something. I couldn’t tell if I was looking for my father or not. Things hadn’t exactly been worse since his disappearance. The children surely missed him but the sadness of missing someone is not as bad as…I shuddered and cut off the train of thought. I recalled the conversation I had with ‘Massa’ as father had called him, shortly after my father’s disappearance.
“Son, I’ve told you once and I’ve told you a million times. I don’t know where he is.”
It was always he. Never ‘your father’ or ‘Mr. Beah’. Always ‘he’. I used to live in the ignorance of thinking the Massa actually knew our names. I chuckled darkly at the thought. The ‘Massa’ had probably sold my father without even bothering to tell his children.
“Your mama can take care of you children,” the Massa used to say.
“But I ain’t got no mama,” I would reply in my broken English.
My mother had died years ago, before I had tasted the reality of captivity. With her, died my hope. She had always spoken of Africa, my home. Where animals ran without cages and lions prowled the darkest of nights. Sometimes, I swore I could taste the maize she spoke of. I felt more at home in her stories than I ever did in the homes of my owners.
I slowly began to return home, not finding what I had been searching for, still confused about what I had even thought I would find. I was just in time. The candles were beginning to go out. I was so proud of my little sister, putting the babies to bed. My sister was almost fifteen now and she had done so much for everyone in this family. The two babies were eight and ten and they had barely known their mother. I tried not to think about it too much. It was difficult for me to imagine.
“Tell us a story!” the youngest screamed when I entered the room.
I put a finger to my lips, “Shhh, quite there now.”
However, I complied and told them of Africa, of the dry sand and scorching heat. I told them of the elephants and strange birds, when I was at loss of English words with which to describe them, I jumped up and down, imitating how I imagined them.
“Why can’t we go to Africa?” Mariatu, the ten-year-old, asked quietly.
“It’s far away my child,” I explained, leaving out the part that we were trapped here.
“We could walk!” interjected Jane, the youngest. I detested the name that our owners had given her, many slaves had been given ‘sophisticated’ names, my friend also having that priviledge. But one day, she would taste freedom.
“I don’t know,” I added doubtfully, “You’ve got tiny legs. Let them grow a bit and then we’ll walk there!”
She giggled and they settled into bed. I sighed at their happiness, it was amazing. It was hard to believe that I used to be that ignorant. One day, they too would find out that we were oceans away from Africa, many, many miles away in a place named Rome.
–
I woke up the next morning, my best friend was shaking me. He was eighteen and was almost crushing me with his weight.
“Ishamel! Ishamel!” he was worried.
“What is it?” I looked around frantically. The children had gone down to the pond so I was alone, “Did I miss work? Is Massa calling me? I thought it was-”
“Don’t worry my friend, that’s not it!” he was troubled, “I found your papa…”
“Yes, yes?” I asked hopefully.
“I’m sorry, you ain’t gonna like it.”
My face fell, “Is-is he dead?”
“No, no,” my friend said quickly, “Not yet at least.”
“Where is he? Why did he not come himself?” I didn’t understand what was going on.
“Ishamel, you see, your papa is gonna fight the gladiators this evening.”
The gladiators. A death sentence. Everyone knew that. The annual fights in honor of some king was this week. How could I have forgotten? I felt the tears threatening to come but just then Mariatu and Jane entered. I coughed to disguise the inner turmoil I felt.
“Hello Ishamel!” they danced around me, their hair slightly damp, both carrying and armful of wet clothing to be dried.
“Hello, Alex and I are gonna go see something real quick. You stay here and tell your sis not to worry ‘bout us too much.”
They nodded and I left, dragging Alex behind me. Well I guess he let me drag him because there was no way I would have been able to drag him out. Together, we ran down the dusty streets and pushed by sellers who were trying to sell us things. I had no money, even if I did, I wouldn’t spend it on their goods. I heard a roar of shouts from the colosseum. Something big was happening. My guess was the lions, they were always the opening act. I let Alex lead me down a narrow stairwell until we were underneath the stage, where everyone waited for the fight.
“Ishamel!” I heard my name shouted. I ran towards the sound, faster and faster until I thought I could run no further. Then I saw him. My father in a cell, his hand outstretched through the bars. He was thin and dying. I should have thought to bring something to eat.
“I’m sorry papa, I should have brought something for you to eat! I-”
“My son, you must dry your tears now. It won’t matter that I haven’t eaten if I don’t survive the next hour,” my father rubbed the tears off my face but they were instantly replaced, “Do not cry for me, cry for yourself because you no longer believe in freedom. Take care of your siblings, teach them to never ever stop believing.”
“No papa, I’m not leaving you!” I argued back.
“I love you,” my father said.
“No! NO! I need you! You can’t leave us!” I begged.
“You’re so grown up-”
“NO!” I shook my head, the tears coming faster, “You can win, you can survive!”
It was my father’s turn to be bitter, “Me? Against an armoured gladiator? With my bare hands?”
“Take this,” I pressed the handle of my small knife into his hand.
“No,” he calmly refused it but I would not take it back. A light came from the back of the cell. It was time for the fight, or rather the killing of an innocent man. For the enjoyment of others. A father, with four children and no mother. An innocent man. My father turned from me, a sad smile on his lips and he walked into the arena. Through the bars I watched. Though Alex tried to pull me away, I was riveted. Maybe my father would survive, he now had an advantage and the element of surprise. I shook my head as I thought of my blade against the sword and shield of a gladiator.
The match began and my father ran. He ran from his death. The gladiator chased him but was slow in his heavy armour. The tears came again as my father was cornered. In his last few moments, he gave the crowd exactly what they had wanted. A show. To think that my father’s sacrifice brought joy to others ripped my heart in two. I’d seen some tough things in my life but this… this was not what humans were meant to do to eachother. The gladiator’s blade came down and my father fell. His dark skin contrasting with the dust on the ground mingling with his blood. Then something caught my eye on the floor of my father’s cell. It was my knife. My father had dropped the knife on his way into the arena.
There it lay, abandoned. Ironic really, the way that knife represented my family now. What was I supposed to do? My father’s broken body lay in the corner of the arena, cast off to one side. The people’s screams and shouts of excitement were deafening. I hated them. Every single one of them. I swore to myself that never again, would I let this violence touch my family. My siblings would never know of this horror. My father had joined my mother in Africa and that is all they would ever know. One day we would join them as well and taste the sweet freedom I had only dreamed of. The anger burned within me though, and as much as I tried to smother it, I knew that one day I would avenge my father’s death.