Kings and Not Slaves - A story of hope
Authored by Ola Osibodu

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In this poignant and mythical historical novel, author Ola Osibodu sheds light on the atrocities of the transatlantic slave trade.

While much ink has been spilled about the consequences of slavery, most books published have been by Western authors. Not many have told the story of slavery from an African perspective. Here, Osibodu merges American history with African culture to create a dense, compelling tale of destiny, rebellion, and courage.

Set in the late 1700s, Kings and Not Slaves provides an Afrocentric perspective of the cruelties of plantation life. Osibodu’s hero is Prince Tsangu, African royalty, the heir presumptive to his father’s West African kingdom. But tribal conflict leads the prince to be captured by slavers and shipped to Suffolk, Virginia. Renamed King by his captors, Tsangu longs for home. Through his eyes, readers are given an intimate view of the horrors of slave life. Not only must King find a way to survive in unimaginable conditions, but he must also unravel the mystery of a curious prophecy that could spell out his doom.

Steeped in African mythology, Kings and Not Slaves is an essential new read for students of history, folklore, and human rights.

About the author:
Ola Osibodu began writing while studying business information technology at London Southbank University. He moved to Lagos, Nigeria, in 2011 to pursue a career in software technology.

In Lagos, Osibodu founded Parity Global Resources, a publishing company that provides a global platform to highlight African voices. He is also a life coach and enjoys helping others reach their goals. Kings and Not Slaves is his first novel.

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The next morning, William Aldershot said his day’s prayers and read Psalm ninety-one from his Authorized Version Bible. While he got dressed three knocks pounded against his cabin door where he spent the night.
‘Excuse me, sire. Dem’ men wait you on deck,’ Richardson spoke through.
‘Alright, have my word to them that I will be out in a jiffy.’
Aldershot got dressed in a linen osnaburg shirt ruffled at the neck and wrist, and tucked into black skin-tight breeches. His pair of knee length white stockings held with garters fitted into black shoes fastened by big square buckles. He donned a nevernois hat over his cascading blonde hair. Just before he stepped out a table mirror revealed the doubt in his oblong face and firm square jaw.
Above deck Aldershot climbed to the quarter deck to stand beside Richardson. He muttered, ‘For the last time, are you sure this place is a good idea? Or shall we go to Quidah or Badagry where we can speak to Caucasians like ourselves?’
‘No, sire. White agents place too much Guineas on dem’ niggers over there. Here we have intercourse with nigger agents direct, no middle men. Don’t take much. Reckon a few casks and some tobacco done the trick.’ Richardson winked.
Aldershot beamed at Richardson’s wits. ‘My faithful assistant. I thee form a fine correspondence.’ He turned to the crew assembled on the main deck and grinned. ‘I am sure today will be much peaceful after last night’s scrap, right boys?’
‘Yes, master Aldershot,’ they dragged a reply.
‘I now hand you over to Mr. Richardson for the day’s briefing.’
Richardson cleared his throat and bellowed, ‘Under command of captain Cole, a number of fifty men have come to this God forsaken place called Africa. As you know, good rewards await you boys if this voyage is prosperous. Just to remember you that why we here is to catch two hundred Negroes. In between that number we expect fifty and one hundred bondmen and the rest, wenches. Need I remember you that they animals, strong as mules, quick as gazelles. As part of thy devoirs, you shall do all that is in thy power to keep all of em’ slaves alive. You shall suppress any act of rebellion and dismiss all unholy whispers. A good whip should do but if push becomes shove, one shat in the leg, preferably a nigger left. The time we gat here is four weeks. Four weeks and we sail again.’ He squinted around and said, ‘Where in nigger hell is Johnson?’
‘Johnson coming, massa. Johnson rye’ here, massa. Johnson rye’ here.’ A huge black man made his way out of the clump of white men. He wore a Phrygian cap, an armless shirt that exposed his wavy arm muscles and a pair of frayed three-quarter trousers over his tattered shoes.
‘That’s a good nigger,’ Richardson commended. ‘Johnson here is one of dem’ niggers I gat for meself here some years ago. He now talks English but he still remembers his dirty tongue. Ain’t that right, Jonny boy?’
A slave smile showed on Johnson’s face. ‘Massa never wrong. Massa always right. Thank you, massa.’
Everyone chuckled.
‘Alas, they sell their kind for a living,’ Aldershot broke in. ‘Black men with black brains. Nevertheless Mr. Richardson sold Johnson to me and I am happy to say he has been a good boy over the years. He loves America so I have promised quid pro quo to manumit him after this voyage.’
Richardson sniggered and said loud enough to be heard by all, ‘Quite a huge reward for a nigger. I’d rather have him back if you have no need of him any longer.’
Aldershot found the statement spiteful and gave Richardson an abhorring glance. ‘Keep your tongue from speaking cant, Gabriel. I will welcome no such impertinence.’ He maintained calm.
Richardson cocked his head in a defiant manner and continued, ‘Now here is we plan. Johnson shall interpret we demands to any slave agent we cross.’ The overseer stared at the far coast. ‘Must say I’s a bit surprised we ain’t seen none of them yet. This coast seen much business last time I’s been here. Dutch company even pitched dem’s tents there with us. Anyway, the nigger shall speak to his people. Today, nine and twenty of us shall go with Johnson. A score shall remain behind to pitch we tent ashore and look after the ship with captain Cole. Understood?’
‘Yes, Mr. Richardson,’ the crew chorused.
‘You are dismissed.’
Betimes afternoon, thirty men trudged the footpath trailing the dense Mondah rainforest as Johnson led them in the trek to his native village, Elohosa. Croaking of birds and frogs cut across themselves in the most irksome pattern and the men waved away a host of butterflies that pollinated the undergrowth. Next they trod an area of marsh, dipping their boots in and out of mud. After walking for over almost an hour the tropical heat got everyone breaking sweat.
Aldershot panted, ‘We are yet to find any of your agents, Richardson. Thought you said they’d be here in the trees.’
‘We gon’ find them, sire,’ Richardson replied ahead, slashing his way through a tangle of mossy twigs. ‘We just gat to keeps advance in direction of the village. Take ‘bout fifteen furlang from coast.’
They got to a narrow stream sided with shrubs and waded its serpentine course, tall evergreen trees of about forty metres high casting a heavy shade on them. Richardson picked something from the stream and without turning his back said, ‘Sire, I’s wonder if you done notice gold all over this place. You might want to invest in gold collection on we next trip. Only matter of time before someone else seen this place, that for sure.’
Aldershot ignored him. Then at a fresh glance he saw the gold nuggets that lay beneath the stream. He picked one up. These, he earlier mistook for brown stones. I am walking on gold, his eyes sparkled.
At a three-path junction in the forest, they sighted two village girls walking up a pathway. The girls, wrapped with colored clothing, were having a chat and over their heads perched baskets heaped with oranges. The girls froze to the spot when they saw the clump of white men ahead of them. Richardson did not complete a word before they threw away their baskets and sprinted into the bush.
‘C’mon, let’s go after them,’ a man said.
‘No,’ Aldershot snapped, his patience wearing thin. ‘We did not come here for two.’
They emerged out of the bush that skirted the village. Aldershot was immediately taken aback by the ominous silence that gave the vast area of land the desolate mood of a churchyard. All he saw were mud huts with straw-roofs close to each other and interspersed with isolated trees. Roosters picked slow steps, pecking the red earth for food. A mother goat was sighted chewing cord along with its kids. ‘Where are the people?’ he asked.
Richardson hesitated before he responded. ‘I fancy they attend a village ceremony somewhere, sire.’ His voice faltered as if he were surprised as well.
Ceremony! Aldershot felt a shiver grip his spine. He remembered a report once published in the Virginia Gazette on how Africans ate themselves, and that they preferred to eat white people in ceremonial times.
‘Let’s go further so we finds them,’ said Richardson.
‘No way! If you think I am following you to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb, think again. You said we’d find the agents in the trees not at a damned ceremony.’
‘Yes. I apologize we ain’t finds them there, sire. You never know with dem’ niggers. Alright I shall have Johnson go look for them.’
‘You better do that now.’ Aldershot stood gnashing his teeth as Johnson jogged off. He considered what he would do should Johnson return without any agent and he wasn’t able to get slaves here. This whole adventure to find cheap slaves would be a shame on his intelligence and person. He should have trusted his instinct and gone to Badagry like everyone else, after all that was the biggest slave market in the west of Africa. Instead he had placed his faith in the judgment of an illiterate.
No sooner than Johnson left, an ambush of locals appeared in a vicious rush out of the surrounding bushes. Aldershot’s heart doubled in size and he staggered two steps back. These people, all men, wielded fatal weapons such as spears, jagged-edge machetes, spiky cudgel, flaming charms and mouth-dart tubes. These had to be the ceremonial locals, Aldershot assumed under a flush of panic.
They besieged the white men in a circle and chanted Bamtoo chefoto…bamtoo chefoto as they jabbed their weapons forward, meaning to kill.
Aldershot’s heart pumped cold blood through his arteries. His men reacted by drawing out their weapons – Brown Besses affixed with bayonets, flintlocks and blades. Aldershot too, grabbed the musket slung across his back and joined them in the aim. The gun flailed in his tensioned arms as they leaned back to back into each other. He wished he didn’t have to shoot because he didn’t know how to shoot. Death seemed very close and for a second an image of his family appeared in his mind. Perhaps he would never see them again. He wondered in stupefaction why their guns didn’t deter the locals. Don’t they have any clue of what it can do? The cold ran through every part of his body.
Out of nowhere Johnson ran into the moment, shouting in his local tongue, seemingly entreating for peace and brandishing his hands before the people.
Richardson snarled over the hubbub, ‘C’mon, Jonny boy, speak to em’ monkeys lest we speak to them with slugs.’
The rest of the men gritted their teeth, aimed their weapons sturdy and looked likely to pull triggers.
Still, the locals continued to close in with their spears, leaving the Americans almost entering themselves. These people kept bawling Bamtoo chefoto...bamtoo chefoto. The tension subdued when Johnson seemed to get their attention. They finally heard him and lowered their weapons to speak with him in their native dialect, more like interrogate him going by the way he replied the torrent of talks they unleashed upon him.
Aldershot heaved a sigh, bending in half and clasping his knees. The power of communication, he thought. He thanked God they brought Johnson along or else he would have been meat here in Africa. He watched on in mystery at how the natives welcomed Johnson back to his land. One at a time they dabbed their hands to Johnson’s cheeks as if giving him quick slaps. Africans! When the locals were done with Johnson, Aldershot called him and asked what he had told them that calmed their aggression.
Johnson had said the Americans were friends of the king and that the king would be displeased at anyone who hurts them.
‘The king!’ A new idea brightened Aldershot’s mind. He asked Johnson if they could see the king at the ceremony. Johnson said there was no ceremony. Aldershot revealed a little surprise. What does bamtoo chefoto mean? Aldershot asked, just for the fun of it. Johnson enlightened him that bamtoo means white man, and chefoto means go away.
I am bamtoo! Aldershot staggered. Not a bad name for a white man.

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For a few weeks, the imminent birthday celebration of lord William Aldershot became the craze in town. Its news spread far-flung Virginia like raging fire in a wilderness. The day finally came. From the drone downstairs Aldershot knew his guests had begun to arrive. Alone in his bedroom, he sank into a rocking chair, thanking God for a landmark of fifty years. These days Aldershot looked paunchy and kept a horseshoe moustache. The man admired his good fortunes. With over two hundred slaves on his plantation, the Gazette ranked him one of the ten most envied men in Virginia. From his plantation he exported tons of tobacco to London and prospered beyond dreams of avarice. That’s not to say he hadn’t had his down moments. Like when he lost his first child to small pox five years ago, Aldershot had been greatly destabilized for a good while. Another of such momentous times, as Aldershot could remember, was that voyage returning from Africa eleven years ago. He could now smile over that one. Thank God I belong.
Reversing time eleven years, not up to two months after that voyage, Cole’s boy, Alistair Clarke, had squealed to the Royal Navy. It seemed Clarke never let go of his grudge with Cole. Everyone that survived that gory feud with the officers got summoned to the court of vice-admiralty in New-York. They were charged with the murder of Rear Admiral O’Sullivan and his comrades. The story had stirred an enormous interest with papers in America and England at the time. Lord William Aldershot did this…Lord William Aldershot did that. Hearing after hearing, yet some ghosts continued to assure Aldershot that he shared a different fate from the rest. His acquaintances, lords of Grand Lodges in America and England, would ensure he remained untouchable by the law. Be your brother’s keeper - the code of Free Masons had to be honored. How the court declared Aldershot innocent in that case remained dodgy and the papers could only rave about it.
Captain Cole and his men though had a different story. They had been preparing to make their next voyage to Africa when the Royal Navy raided The New-York Harbor Company for their arrest. They strongly denied all charges. However the king’s Privy Council in England wanted to get to the bottom of the matter and this prompted lords of admiralty in the British parliament to drag the cause for almost a year; their own, missing like needles in a haystack, somebody needed to be a scapegoat. They sent their people over from London. The Margaret Scott turned out to be the only lead their investigators had. They examined parts of the deck and the masts where the vessel was riddled with bullets. It was kind of obvious who did it. In August 1781, the Judge had no choice but to reach a verdict. He pronounced the accused not guilty on grounds of “no substantial evidence”. The gavel slammed against the sound block, everyone gained freedom again. They embraced and shared laughs in a Manhattan courtroom.
But it did not end there. Months later the papers reported how on Christmas Eve, the Royal Navy had marched through a drifting snow that whitened streets of Jamaica, Queens to arrest Cole again. This time they had all evidence needed to send him to the gallows. The all-black schooner had been found berthed at a boat workshop in Philadelphia. According to workshop records, the ship had been there for more than a year, and registered to one Henry Cole of Queens, New-York. It was said that Cole couldn’t turn away his miserable stare from his twin girls on that cold night. His neighbors gathered outside to watch him taken away in manacles. Some days later Henry Cole and his men were found guilty of the murder of Rear Admiral O’Sullivan and his crew, and for the theft of His Majesty’s property. The public saw their hanging in January 1782.
Alistair Clarke though, had been held in witness protective custody throughout the trial. The Navy agreed to relocate him to London immediately after Cole’s trial so that he could begin life anew. However, up until May 1782 Clarke slept on the chilling floors of a Navy gaol, like a prisoner. He begged the officers day and night through the cell gate to honor their side of the pact but they ignored him. An anonymous man, as the papers had termed it, slit Clarke’s throat wide-open in the barracks. An art work of his corpse in a pool of blood made headlines in New-York and London in June 1782. The Navy was accused of complicity.
As for Aldershot, he had scrapped all intentions of returning to Africa after the trial, focusing on his tobacco trafficking business and feeding the Country’s infant Government with a fat share of his profit. This relentless generosity earned him a gifted seat in the Virginia General Assembly in 1784. Much of his success over the last eleven years had been down to one man and he admitted it - The man who tipped-off the Navy, the anonymous man who slew Clarke, that overseer who knew how to keep Aldershot’s slaves working from daybreak to moonrise. Gabriel Richardson, the man had been a blessing to Aldershot. He snapped out of his trance. Time to attend to the guests.

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Outside in the open a while later, two parallel lines of slaves stretched out in front of massa Audachot’s cedar-wood mansion. The men stood on one side, facing them were the women. They revealed brown teeth, jesting across at each other. King had on a white cotton shirt tucked into black pantaloons. He had calculatedly taken his position right opposite Elisabet. He gazed at her, and through her right under the brim of his straw hat. Always her charming best, Elisabet. His heart fluttered. God took His time when He made Elisabet, and like a potter who molded curves on his claypot to detail Elisabet was round like a bottle. Her stays with back lacing made one ogle at her slim waist, underwhich she wore a shift and woolen petticoat. A perfection of nature’s art, her skin resembled clean bronze. She fluttered those curly lashes that bordered her thin devilish eyes. Sinking into her cheeks were permanent dimples that had King lost in reverie every night before he drifted into sleep. She packed her brown curly hair under a tied cap. This seventeen year old mulatto undoubtedly qualified as the finest thing, living or non-living, on massa Audachot’s plantation. It filled him with repugnance though that Elisabet turned her face everywhere except towards him. He felt like empty space.
‘Look, there’s come one of massa friend,’ Elisabet jollied and pointed to a horse-drawn carriage wheeling in from afar.
‘Massa Oakley from Charles,’ a ripple of gossip swept down both lines of slaves.
That boy they called foolish George stood three men to King’s left. He cut in, ‘Nah! Massa Oakley ain’t never gon’ rye’ in carriage like that.’
Elisabet’s eyes were drawn to the stooping and spindly figure. ‘How’s you know, foolish George? Alls your life you ain’t never been outside massa lan’. Only time you’s get a chance sif’ massa sell you.’
‘I’s know,’ foolish George retorted with some arrogance in his voice, as if he enjoyed Elisabet lashing out at him. ‘Massa Oakley richer than all the massa in Vengenya. That man chip lot a’ baccy’ fom’ Nu-Oilins to Inglund. I’s eared he gat three hun’ed niggers on him baccy’ field in Charles.’ George leered at her.
Everyone hummed in jest of George’s looks. They knew he enjoyed playing with girls. But the look on George’s face meant something else to King. King could see a spasm of sexual desire in George’s smoldering face. It was obvious foolish George wanted to add Elisabet to his laurels. King couldn’t help a jealous discomfort unsettle his calm. The truth could not be obliterated; foolish George had it easy with girls. Rumors of his sexual adventures roved everywhere on the plantation like a hurricane. People called him foolish George because he knew so much for a slave and flaunted his knowledge at every given opportunity. Yet, they depended on the boney twenty-one year old for vital knowledge and tidbits. Foolish George would chat about Amer’ca like he had traveled the entire country, naming places that made people imagine. He told of historic moments like he saw them when they occurred. He spun yarns about what exactly led to the war between Amer’ca and Inglund. Which slave damsel wouldn’t be wooed by such rare charm even though he was not fascinating physically? He kept a big and rough Afro over a slim symmetrical visage sides and pointed jaw that made his face resemble an equilateral triangle turned upside down. He wore his usual dark brown fearnought waistcoat over an osnaburg shirt tucked into black breeches patched in several places with white cloth.
King was determined to get to Elisabet’s heart before foolish George did so he blabbed out loud, ‘Ain’t nobody own me.’
People cast their eyes all over King. They whispered down the lines before going into a mocking mute, covering their mouths to stifle an outburst. Only the grizzling from threadbare oldies could be heard as if they were tired of life.
King reconsidered what he had just said and swallowed some saliva. His words didn’t sound right.
Foolish George stretched out of the line and cannoned a scorn King’s way, ‘Boy, jes’ becos’ you’s king back in Afrika don’t make you no king here in Amer’ca.’ He was loud. ‘Look round, you’s a slave like all of us, boy. Always tolking about him king. A nigger on white folks plantation that what you is. You’s hear me, nigger.’
A vortex of laughter hurricaned across both lines of slaves. To crown it all Elisabet joined in the jeers. King fumed inside with red-hot rage.

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Except from Kings and not Slaves; A novel by Ola Osibodu. Download from www.olaosibodu.com

Leering at Elizabeth’s curvaceous posture Aldershot knew for certain that he had half a chance to get a man child out of this adultery. He had calculated this act promptly. It would be easy for Mary to find out if his infidelity involved a white woman since white side-actions these days wanted parity with legal wives. However if it involved a slave, Aldershot knew he could conceal her until she delivered his child. And if she equaled his wish and brought forth a son he could free her secretly and establish her elsewhere to look after the child. He had observed all his female slaves before making his choice; a white man’s union with a mulatto wench would produce a three-quarter white baby. Such babe could even pass for full white. Besides, this wench called Elizabeth could make a man fling his honor out of a window. Aldershot had lust for many days, gawking from his bedroom window at Elizabet as she walked to and fro, like a rooster that had eyes on a corncob waiting for its moment to beak. He loved how she looked like a perfect eight. He loved the almost mechanical movement of her hips whenever she walked. He became roused with that intrinsic anxiety that took hold of a man just before the deed. ‘Come closer, Betty. I am not going to hurt you,’ cooed Aldershot.
Elizabeth leaned her back against the doors, trembling. Her hands clasped each other as she looked around the room. Aldershot realized she looked at the neatly laid wide bed often. She also looked at an artwork of Mary framed high against the wall. He could tell what went through her mind. To be honest Mary looked solemn in that painting and could scare even herself. He guessed Elizabeth’s foreboding might be Mary bumping into the room right now. He said, ‘Don’t worry, she isn’t going to be back until the morrow. Now come closer.’
‘No,’ Elizabeth resented, shrugging her shoulder.
‘No what?’ Aldershot growled. It was farfetched that he would be refused by his property. She should be glad instead.
‘Massa please, I’s never do this befo’.’
Aldershot rose from the chair. He was almost twice her height on foot. ‘Come here now, you wench,’ he rasped.
Tears fell out of Elizabeth’s eyes. ‘Massa please. I’s beg you in the name of Jesus.’
Aldershot’s boiling libido dropped flat for seconds. He paused for a reflection. The name of Jesus brought honor to God in the United Methodist Faith where Aldershot had been awarded the exalted title of Honorary Member. But lately there had been segregation in the Church, another voice reminded him. For months a recently formed group of jobless scapegraces who called themselves The Virginia Quakers had protested to the Methodist Church of Virginia to strip Aldershot of his title and denounce his membership due to his involvement with slavery. They had claimed that he, Aldershot, contradicted in the highest order the freedom that God gave to all mankind, and that which the Country promulgated in its Declaration of Independence. They reminded members of clergy that slavery was one of such hypocritical mores that tainted the Anglicans and cradled the Wesleyan Revival. The Church bowed to pressure and did their wishes. The Quakers can go to Hades, Aldershot jumped out of his thought and fired himself towards Elizabeth. He swung her over the bed and climbed over her. Elizabeth howled, fighting his cast-iron urge as he laid spread-eagled over her. He proved too strong for her but she continued to grapple with him, bending her hips from side to side. ‘I will free you if you give me a son,’ Aldershot kept saying. He ripped her clothes apart. His eyes twinkled seeing her firm breasts. He wanted to suck them. Elizabeth pleaded as loud as she could while he pulled her arms apart. The double doors behind squeaked open and Aldershot leaped from the act. A scary image silhouetted against the candle light. No… it can’t be.

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Aldershot snapped out of a nightmare inside his cabin. His body, distempered with a slight calenture and nightgown soaked with sweat. Nevertheless he was glad it was only a dream after seeing himself bolt down a shoreline away from many angered African children that held sticks and wanted to assail him to death. He lit a lanthorn to illuminate his dark cabin, fell to his knees and said prayers of forgiveness to God. In between his prayers Mr. Richardson knocked on his door. Aldershot had told Richardson the night before to see him in the morning so they could finalize plans on how they would sell their acquired property. ‘You may come in,’ he granted.
‘Sorry if I’s disturb your prayers, lord Aldershot,’ said Richardson. He brought with him a bottle of Gin.
Aldershot sat on his spring bed and said, ‘Not too early for a booze?’
A smug smile on his face, Richardson pulled a chair from the table. He doffed his round-crown hat and said, ‘Heard you asking for me Lord’s mercy. You really think God cares ‘bout these bondmen?’
Aldershot fanned himself and answered, ‘I don’t know what to believe anymore. Just yesterday I felt no guilt at all, this morning I feel strange. I’m not sure if it’s right to force our perceived good on other human beings?’
Richardson scoffed. ‘Ain’t gon’ be compared to dem’ animals, sire. Lang syne when we was growing up in Baptist, dem’ priests make us believe in something they call Individual Soul Liberty.’
Richardson’s words felt like doses of relief medicine for Aldershot’s weary frame. ‘What signify that?’ He wanted to hear more.
Richardson put the bottle to his lips and tippled. ‘It signify every man or woman gat liberty to choose what him or she conscience see right, and him or she ain’t responsible to no one but him Author for whatever they done.’ Richardson continued with fervor, ‘Sire, God make dem’ niggers to serve we whites. Tis’ God who done these thing, you ain’t need to worry ‘bout that.’
‘But Gabriel, if scriptures say, “He hath made from one blood all nations of men”, does this not mean our perception about different races is a social construct? Let’s not blaspheme against the good Lord.’
‘Yes, you’s right on that, but after Ham gone sleep’d with him father wife, God command that dem’ niggers slave for the others.’
‘And you can demonstrate the blacks come from Ham?’
‘Ain’t that obvious, sire. We white is Japheth. Dem’ Arab, Indiun and Chinese peoples in the East is Shem. Be advised, Isaiah say’d we go forth and inherit wealth of dem’ gentiles. Leviticus say’d we gat right to buy and sell dem’ niggers. Deuteronomy say’d we sleep with dem’ women if we like. If we ain’t act fast, somebody else gon’ do these things, maybe them from East. That the truth, sire.’
‘So you don’t think Africans should have the liberty of ruling themselves?’
Richardson guffawed. ‘Africa just a big piece of juicy steak, sire; we gat the fork and knife. Look it this way. They gat gold, right? We takes it, turn the damned thing into jewelry and trade it back to dem’ chiefs. Dem’ chiefs in barter give us they peoples as slaves. Tis’ dem’ slaves that build we Country back home. Good profit, ain’t it? Why stop we now? The old adage always stand, boss, “like a mule keep the nigger fit but dumb”.’
Aldershot shook his head in defiance. Richardson’s views now felt like a legion of demons swimming without restraint inside him. He said to his assistant, ‘I think you are leaving the subject of faith and getting somewhat philosophical here. Your words are specious but I struggle to advocate, as you continue to misconstrue scriptures having no letters in subjects in which you speak. Although I do tend to agree with your ideology in a manner of speaking, Richardson, that we must seize the advantage while we can. Now let’s discuss business.’

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I
t was the day of the river goddess in the village of Yakunda. Moments before dawn a full moon glowed in the pitch darkness. With the calm around the palace one could almost think the village was ruled by discordant crickets chirping in the silence. Inside his thatched-roof court, King Yamuna sat on a stool and propped his chin on his hands. He gazed intently into the sky through the almost-perfect square opening carved into the clay walls. Where is the rain? Yamuna’s body twitched.
Tsangu was seated beside his father. When he noticed his father fidget often he offered, ‘Don’t worry, baba. The rain will come.’
Yamuna drew a loaded sigh through the pit of his paunch and flabby chest and exhaled noisily. He shifted his attention to the boy whose eyes sparkled in the night like those of an owl. His heir, only nine rains old, had begun showing a hungry interest in the affairs of the kingdom. Tsangu had stayed awake through the night to share his father’s burden while his mother and five elder sisters snored their night away in another hut. Stacks of pride heaped the king’s heart. His mind felt light and he could think clearly.
Fiddling with his goatee beard Yamuna visualized the event he knew would be happening in the forest skirting the village. Nnmanga and the other medicine men would complete the sacrifice soon. It should rain any time, he extended his patience.
‘Baba,’ Tsangu called, observing the moon that lingered in the sky.
‘Yes, my son.’
‘So we have entered a new year today?’
‘That’s right. The first full moon after our yam harvest festival marks the beginning of a new year.’
‘Why do we make sacrifices to Zakaya on the first day of the year?’
Good question, Yamuna thought. ‘We do this that the goddess might protect our land from evil in the year.’
Tsangu held a silence of curiosity before he carried on with his chatter. ‘A few days ago I heard some guards say that if Zakaya does not give rain on the day of the river goddess it means there will be trouble that year. Is this true, baba?’
The king fumed within him at the loosed tongued guards. On the other hand he thought these sorts of inquisitions were not wrong to come from a child next in line to the throne. Over the last twenty-six rains since he assumed the crown he prayed this wouldn’t happen during his reign as king. The question hit him with a fearsome foreboding that made him swallow hard. ‘Yes,’ he forced the answer out of the tremor that gagged his throat. ‘No rain means trouble ahead.’

Meanwhile, atop the highest cliff in the forest Nnmanga and six medicine men recited spiritual songs for a while before they could invoke the spirit of Zakaya out of the waters. These seven elders represented the village when it came to spiritual matters and they wore red robes affixed with charms. An enigmatic current began disturbing the river that coursed below the cliff; it flowed faster and made resounding roars. As the wind howled, echoes of troubled animals shrilled out of the green mangrove and a myriad of bush warbler birds squawked out of their nesting trees, flapping into a timid escape.
The eerie feeling that engulfed the atmosphere assured the wise one. ‘She is out here with us,’ Nnmanga said.
In response to these signs, the medicine men swirled their beads of charm in the air and recited incantations seeking Zakaya’s peace. For Zakaya’s fury knew no bound whenever the goddess roused out of the water; it is believed that She swallowed up anyone who called on Her without real purpose.
Nnmanga stepped forward to the edge of the cliff. He opened both his arms to the moon and declared: ‘Zakaya, the seven spirits of the seven waters embodied inside one goddess. You are everywhere and in all lands. Of all the great waters of the world You have chosen our river to dwell. You have left noble Kingdoms far away in envy as they journey here to appease You. What is Yakunda that we have found this much favor in your sight? Life is yet to be given to a man who can do without water. Merciful are You, river goddess, to them that honor You and cruel are You to them who despise You. Among all the gods You are supreme. On behalf of the king and the people of Yakunda, I present to you our sacrifice for the New Year. Let it please You to show mercy to your people again this day. May it please you to judge us fairly in the accusations that men or spirits bring before You. Though our land is small, teach our arms to fight when greater enemies rise to consume us. These are things You have required of us since the days of our fathers up until now.’ He lifted a brown calabash up to the heavens and said, ‘Behold, the sacred palm oil, peaceful in its nature and used to cure infirmities. Let Yakunda be cured of infirmity in this year.’ Nnmanga turned and pointed to the white lambs tethered nearby. ‘Here are your lambs. Twenty one of them. Accept their blood in place of ours. Now let the rain of mercy wash away all evil before your people.’ He turned over the calabash and poured the palm oil into the river.
His medicine men pulled razor-sharp knives out of their goatskin sheath.
Divine, exactly how the wise one felt after every sacrifice he had led and this one wasn’t different. He gripped his long staff as he watched the lambs’ throat slit on the edge of the cliff one at a time. The thick red blood that trickled out of their neck and dropped into the river was met with a smile of approval on the wise one’s furrowed face.

Back at the palace, the cock crows were over as dawn made way for a bright morning. King Yamuna glanced outside his court one last time. He didn’t see any rain, not even a drop. The sky was empty and clear. Yamuna began to reflect that his life-long fear had come to pass. With his hands clasped behind his back and his heart pounding under his chest, the bulky man walked from wall to wall inside his antique-rich court, ignoring the seated presence of his wife, six children and council of chiefs. Yamuna strayed into memory.
Growing up, he had heard folklore about the last time the river goddess didn’t give rain after the yearly sacrifice. It was in the days of Tekanka the king, his great-grandfather. Those were doomed times when Zakaya held the rain back in the sky for over three rainy seasons. The fields and the streams dried up. A severe famine starved man and animal to death. When the rains returned it came as a sweeping flood. Also, much to Yamuna’s disgust, he heard how the neighboring villagers in the east, from that enemy of old, Elohosa, had slept with their women before agreeing to give them food - a union that produced a number of bastards who were forced out of the village years later after normalcy returned. This couldn’t be happening again? Yamuna reeled under a wave of panic. Tekanka the king, who had been the reason behind his own misfortune, happened to be a drunkard in his time. It was said that he could drink in his sleep. Not until later did the Oracle reveal that Zakaya punished Tekanka the king for blaspheming against Her femininity after one of his long drinking session. But Yamuna did not drink that he would utter profane words against the goddess. He couldn’t think of a cause. While he deliberated with the council of chiefs, Bafango, his chief guard, marched into the court. ‘My lord, the seven elders have arrived outside the palace.’ The chunky guard paused before he added, ‘The villagers have started to gather as well.’ Disturbed, Yamuna looked to his chiefs. He never had qualms addressing his people’s concern, but the day of the river goddess was more than a concern. He could imagine the concerned flock gathered on the open ground outside the palace, waiting for his explanation. First Nnmanga must explain whatever went wrong with his sacrifice. He instructed Bafango to call the elders in at once.

Outside in the growing mayhem, Nnmanga wished he could distance himself from the embarrassment. That morning marked his thirty-sixth annual offering to Zakaya and first time without a result. His ears picked up dissonant jabs of complaints hurled at his person: Why is he still our chief priest? The council of chiefs should have had him replaced long ago… People continued to groan. A few were polite to approach him and ask why it didn’t rain at dawn. ‘I don’t know,’ Nnmanga snapped every time. ‘I did all that is meant to be done.’ Grey-haired and crinkled as one could expect of a man seventy-nine rains old, Nnmanga took celestial pleasure in foretelling the words of the gods to the people of Yakunda. For years he’d boasted of how only death could prevent him from appeasing the gods. That noisy morning Nnmanga cringed as though his gods incongruously deserted him.
The noise subsided when Bafango marched out onto the palace front bay. ‘Wise one,’ the chief guard said, his voice strident. ‘My lord requires your presence in the palace at once.’
Vicious chants of boos reverberated, escorting Nnmanga and his medicine men as they plodded out of the troubled crowd. As Bafango ushered the seven elders through the open palace compound, the guards, maids and slaves hung outside their huts, staring at the medicine men with petrified faces. How could the wise one explain to each and every one that his duty as chief priest was to offer the sacrifice and not to bring down the rain? It was the king’s duty to address his people. Then the wise one got the feeling that the king as well waited to throw blames at him for the unrest upon the village. How could he become a questionable character so soon? While they walked he searched for a possible cause. His eyes glowed the moment an incident that happened many rains ago revisited his mind. He believed he could now make sense of it all. His esoteric knowledge of the world beyond made him conclude that the spirit of a certain man the king killed had returned to haunt the king as it said it would. Nnmanga was eager to remind king Yamuna of his past error when given the chance to speak. Surely Yamuna must agree with him.
Bafango led them inside the king’s court illuminated by diminutive lights flickering over tin saucers spread out across the floor. Frankincense smoke swirled out of clay pots positioned at the wall corners – a charm to appeal to the gods whenever the village witnessed any form of distress. In the room where king Yamuna was seated, his family and council of chiefs, just as glum, sat on benches around him. As expected, king Yamuna cast a glance of blame at Nnmanga upon sight. The wise one bowed his head to declare his respect for the throne while the younger seers prostrated themselves. ‘All hail king Yamuna, may you live long on the throne of your fathers,’ they intoned.
‘I wish to be left alone with the wise one.’ The king’s response pierced everyone with surprise. They filed out of the king’s court, except the king-to-be who had a right to hear of all matters concerning the village. From the arc-shaped entrance, the queen called to Tsangu to come along but he refused to heed and turned his back. Yamuna signaled his wife to leave Tsangu with him. The entire village knew Prince Tsangu to be the apple of his father’s eye, not to mention the striking resemblance between father and son – both plump and bald with three small marks incised into their foreheads. These marks signified a life of good fortune. About the same height as most children of nine rains, Tsangu had a typical Afrikan darkness and cultured in manners. However, a marked contrast existed between him and the other children of the village. Few times they gathered around him, it was like having a diamond among gravel stones.
‘Wise one, the throne greets you. Please have your seat.’
Nnmanga sank down onto the bench opposite the king and his son.
‘Wise one, you have been the chief priest of this village now for thirty-five rains and -.’
‘Thirty-six rains, my lord,’ Nnmanga cut in. ‘This morning makes it thirty-six rains.’
The king feigned a smile. He didn’t seem interested in details at that moment. ‘In those years,’ he continued, ‘You made sacrifices to the goddess and she replied with rain right away, even before the cock crows. Why is there no rain this year?’
Nnmanga’s ego was dragged on the ground and got bruised. He hummed girdly before deciding that an attack was the best form of defense. ‘I don’t know why Zakaya has refused to give rain. I am just hoping it’s not because of your past deed.’
‘My past deed! Just what exactly do you mean by my past deed?’ The king was a step away from going into flames.
Seeing the king’s reaction to his sarcasm Nnmanga was silent. Contempt to the king’s face was not acceptable. He reconsidered his tact.
‘It seems you have something on your mind. You might as well complete it, Nnmanga.’
‘My lord, I think the spirit of the slave you killed is now set to punish you.’
King Yamuna hardened his brows with surprise for seconds, totally lost. He rolled his huge eyeballs to a corner when he placed who Nnmanga referred to. ‘Is this a joke, Nnmanga? It has been well over twenty rains that that happened.’
‘Yes I know. Our people have a saying, “he who defecates doesn’t remember, but he who cleans it never forgets”. All that was required of you then was a simple sacrifice.’
The king clasped his hands together, his eyes fixed to the ground. ‘Are you now saying there would be calamity this year?’
‘However you look at it, for the village, yes, since it hasn’t rained. And for you, it could yet be worse. Who knows?’
‘Can we offer the sacrifice to the spirit now?’ King Yamuna looked at Tsangu beside him.
Nnmanga glanced at the king with disdainful eyes. Memories floated through the elder’s mind. It felt just like yesterday that Nnmanga’s soul had risen out of him in a trance and skittered to the land of the dead to appeal for mercy after Yamuna killed one of his slaves in his early days as king. And what is more, Nnmanga had returned back to life with a dreadful message which the king ignored when he had the chance to redeem himself. ‘Noth….’ Four hacking coughs interrupted the wise one’s failing cadence. ‘Nothing we do now will bring rain. We just have to wait and see what will befall us.’


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Excerpt from Kings and not Slaves by Ola Osibodu. Watch out for the Novel. Visit www.olaosibodu.com to download promo

Immediately they sighted land from the blue ocean after nine weeks at sea, the bo’s’n chimed the big bell and the seamen labored above deck to bring their ship to a standstill.
‘Thank Jesus, we finally got there,’ lord William Aldershot said, seeing the distant shore through a telescope. He clutched unto the wooden rail and mulled over what lay in wait for him in this savage place.
‘There it is, sire. Africa, home of all niggers,’ hollered Mr. Richardson, Aldershot’s slave overseer. The sea breeze made his voice faint behind. Richardson limped up to the ship’s rail beside Aldershot, a bottle of rum in his hand, a hearty smile ripping across his coarse face. He said with a heavy rustic accent, ‘Put your faith in me, sire, this place ain’t get touched. Still like virgin. Badagry and Quidah already been polluted by slavers.’
Aldershot sighed. He tried his hands at slave trade, and coming to this coast happened to be Richardson’s idea - a place he called Mondah Bay in the west of Africa. Richardson had discovered this place when he worked as an active seaman and he claimed to pick up a few slaves for himself here. So when he told Aldershot he knew of a place where they could get slaves for little or nothing, with immediate effect his specious words had poisoned Aldershot’s mind. As for navigation Richardson directed the ship’s Captain to sail south of the Guinea Gulf until they arrived here in sight of the next bay. ‘Need I say I defer to your expertise, Richardson,’ Aldershot said.
The man slugged a gulp and laughed. ‘Very well, sire. Me sentiments precisely. We get we niggers to auction, square up Cole and him boys and you, sire, shall become a more prosperous tradesman.’
Aldershot was somewhat baffled by Richardson’s confidence. Were the blacks in this part of Africa that willing to be captured? He had heard how some of them put up a fight before they got suppressed. Slave capturing wasn’t his strength so he couldn’t have known. On the other hand he doubted if his less enlightened assistant had heard of a new word called risk, which is intrinsic of any venture. Aldershot said nothing.
William Aldershot, a full-height and modest man, one who calculated his risks with diligence. Still in his early forties, he had scored remarkable success worthy of envy - a four thousand acre tract in Suffolk town, Nansemond, Virginia. From there, he exported hogsheads of prized tobacco to London on a regular basis. However he had not considered the risk in visiting an unknown territory until that afternoon. His head became inundated with stories he’d read in the Gazette of white merchants who visited unknown parts of Africa in search of slaves and got killed in conflict with the locals. He gave a swallow and his Adam’s apple jumped.
Richardson gulped again. ‘‘Tis good business we finds free niggers, trust me. Especially when you’s consider dem’ bastard redcoats that covenant freedom with runaways who join em’ in the war. Merchant all over South gat need for new niggers to work they fields. We make em’ pay us lotta Guineas for dem’ devils.’
Aldershot sought consolation in his overseer’s face and he found it. Richardson’s face was molded with pride under a cocked hat. The lanky mid-aged overseer set his gaze on the distant bay as though he couldn’t wait to get there. If hating blacks became a contest Richardson would emerge the victor. Often times Richardson argued vehemently in public places that blacks were descendants of Canaan – Noah’s grandson - and that the curse of God which fell like rain of fire upon them got their skin burned and gave them kinky hair. A country man who had a family somewhere he couldn’t accompt for, he had been shot rebelling against the British in the early days of the war and since walked with a limp. His wonky teeth, untidy thinning hair, narrow nose and bad squint were oddities that contributed to his racial and religious bigotry. Aldershot squared his shoulders. Slave raiding might not be that difficult after all. The odds are that Richardson could pull off this distinct idea of his.
Back home, slavers made an unprecedented fortune just by hoarding slaves during the war to spur the growth of black market. 1780, and Aldershot had felt it was his time to venture into slave trade business. January that year, he had rented the ship’s service from The New-York Harbor Company in Manhattan. It was a classic three-mast barque on her first trans-Atlantic voyage, starving for cargo to fill her cubic holds. Like spider webs, countless ropes stretched across each other to hold up its square rig sails against relentless Atlantic breeze. On the hull of the wooden vessel could be read in bold letters: MARGARET SCOTT. She flaunted an ancient of colonial Britain over her mainmast and got sailed to Africa by one captain Cole and his crew of jack-tars.
‘Drop anchor!’ a powerful blare from the bo’s’n interrupted their discussion.

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It is 1791 in Suffolk town, Virginia where King is a slave on the Aldershot tobacco plantation. To him, his deportation is an unfortunate coincidence. He needs to run away to take his rightful place in royalty. To his family, there is a far more tenacious reason why King must return home - a frightening aged prophecy is coming to past and he is the solution.

Although prying overseers watch every step, they don’t see the incendiaries coming. As a result, a state of emergency is declared across the state. Dragoons are called in to comb for sinners; they will stop at nothing till every one of those "bastards" share the same fate. All routes lead to death. An abomination is the last option and King goes the mile. Not long King finds out he has complicated his life and that of those who depend on him. The ultimate solution now lies in hell.

Kings and not Slaves by Ola Osibodu. Coming soon.

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