Chapter 1 - Foolish Comments

 

I sat on the floor, and looked around me at the four bare stone walls, a concrete floor, and ceiling. I was chained to the wall I was sat against, with about two feet of movement in the chains holding me. It was a cell in a dungeon, and below ground, with very little light.

There were no windows to the cell, and it had an eerie feeling, I can't explain, as if it was below ground, cold, lifeless, and damp. Yet it didn't feel damp, if you know what I mean, it was more of an essence. I was depressed, and thought back to the events leading up to my incarceration.

It all began, I will say, a few nights ago, but I am not sure how long it was. I had gone to my local for a pint on a hot summer's day, and I was enjoying it with a couple of friends. One of whom had just had a minor bump in his car. As you might expect he was being advised by my other friend, all about compensation, whiplash injury, double vision from the bang on his head. I agree totally that an injured person should be compensated for their pain and suffering, but this compensation culture has got out of hand. It was now perfectly all right to claim for injuries they had not received. I spoke my mind, and left them, going to another bar, and now listening to a group of women, they were not arguing, but discussing forced labour.

In the group there were three black women, and three white women, the black women were saying how the British, had made their ancestors do forced labour, their great grandparents.

I am British, and had to agree to some degree with their comments, but there was more to this than they were saying. Blaming the British, for all their problems was to me, not correct, or fair. Plus my previous conversation, and the feelings that had invoked in me, made me speak out.

"Ladies, if I may please, enforced labour was not invented in the sixteen hundreds by the British, it had been in existence a lot, lot longer than that, the Egyptians, the Romans, the Spartans. They all had unwilling workers, long before blacks were the victims in the Americas. African tribes, fought with other tribes, and the losers were sold to traders. The Incas did the same. African tribes then sold their captives to the traders. I don't have the numbers, but probably, the majority of black captives were in fact sold, by blacks. Don't blame the middle man for the actions of other people. The main transporters of black captives in the seventeen and eighteenth century were the British, and Dutch, but the main source of these unfortunate people, was from Africa.

Over eighty percent of black labour went to Brazil and Jamaica, not the Southern states of America, yet it is the Southern states of America where the most noise, comes from.

For all I know, one or more of my ancestors was sent to the arena by the Romans, but I don't whine and moan about it. It was what happened during that period of time, and I accept it as a fact, neither right nor wrong because that was what happened in those days, not now, heaven forbid, but back then it was accepted, and perfectly normal.

Finally ladies, it is estimated that more people are being held in that position today, than ever in the past. There is, and I suppose always will be, people who make money from the suffering of others, and obviously people who live, as these people especially in the sex industry, it happens, and we must accept that it exists, and fight, against it.

What about the trade in prostitutes, women forced to have sex in brothels, captured, and turned into drug addicts, beaten for the profits of their captors. People trafficking is a detestable thing, but it happens, and if caught the perpetrators go to prison for a long time, as they should do.

You three ladies are lucky, in that you are, free women, and able to speak your mind, in days gone by you would have been flogged, for your comments, nice isn't it to be free, to speak your mind, and that you are too old to be of interest, to them," I said.

"I have letters, and pictures, of the inhumane treatment of my ancestors, as enforced workers in American plantations, don't lecture me about what happened. My grandfather told me all about it, before he died. What it was like, to be a child in such a situation. You have no idea of what went on, being brought up in a free world. How would you like to be told what to wear, when to get up, what to eat, and made to work for as long as your owner dictates? Fail and they beat you mercilessly. I have a complaint, and I intend to voice it. I should be compensated for what they did, to my ancestors," she demanded.

"Typical, money, all my problems will be eased if I get money. You my dear have not suffered, so why should you get compensation? It is in the past, forget it," I said now getting angry with her, "Enforced labour is a way of life, and there is nothing we can do about it, they get fed and clothed. They have no worries, as long as they do the work, so what is your problem, woman? You are not a victim; the ethics of a past time are not the ethics of today. They are hated, and criminals as they should be, I agree, but we cannot change the past, all we can do is disagree with their actions, and do whatever we can to stop it happening, now. You have a lot to be thankful for, but still want free money, and for what?" I asked her.

I was against these people, the people who traded, in lives, but she seemed to think that, two hundred years after the event she should be paid, what for, and by whom? She had not been one of these victims.

She was about my height when she stood up, her face set. I had hit a nerve, when I said that all she really wanted was money, not to free anyone now made to work for nothing, or to make a difference; her motivation was just her greed, for money.

"They worked without money, they did not get paid. Money they could have saved for my inheritance, or my parents, I am entitled, to that," she argued.

"You my dear have no fucking idea what you are talking about, most of the people were not free, and that is wrong, but Egyptian enforced labourers were well looked after. They worked hard, but they also got rest periods, even the Negro workers in America were not treated that badly, on the whole. As long as they did as told, putting our values on their lives is wrong, what would they have been doing? Rummaging around in the jungle hunting for food, they were fed, making animal skins into clothing, they were clothed, fearful of being eaten by a lion or some other animal, in fear of being taken prisoner and made to work in the jungle, and without or a minimal amount of food and clothing. They were a lot better off, in America, you should be paying the families of the plantation owners for looking after, your ancestors," I said stupidly, and angrily.

I looked at her, she was in her late forties to early fifties, and had a good figure; she had the classical features of an African, and looked not to be short of money, from her clothes. A trim waist, and strong arms, but not bulging with muscles, as I said she was an attractive woman of that age, and ethnicity. Not my type, but still well worth a second look.

"That is it with you, isn't it? I bet you under pay your staff, if you employ any, which is a modern day type of enforced labour. Sweat shops, are little more than an enforced labour force. Do you own one?" I asked, now getting at her personally, perhaps that was my mistake.

"I do own a factory, but I pay the legal wage required," she said bluntly, but with an edge.

"The legal wage where, not a living wage, just the legal wage, in an impoverished country, to make extra profits for your designer dresses. You are little more than a trader, yourself, bitch," I said.

I turned away, finished my drink and walked out. I shouldn't have interfered, the white women at the table were holding their own, but for some reason she got under my skin, and I butted in, foolishly.

It was the next night, as I walked home from the pub, this time a little worse for wear having had several pints. As usual I turned down a side street, taking the back way to my house, in the dark of the backs, an alley way, unlit, behind the rows of terraced houses, and I didn't see them. A hand went over my mouth, and I was on the floor pushed down, I tried to struggle, but there seemed to be hands everywhere, and they soon had my hands behind my back, and in handcuffs. Then the hand moved and some cloth was stuffed in my mouth as I opened it to call for help, then tape was put over my mouth, and I was hauled to my feet. A van reversed up and pulled up in front of us, and I was bungled into the back, and then they drove off. As we drove along they put a blindfold on me, and then tied my ankles together, and someone put a foot on my back.

"Shall we see how you like being made to work?" a female voice said, I recognised it, as belonging to the woman.

We drove for some time before we stopped, and I was unloaded, the rope around my ankles was relaxed so that I could walk, and they pushed and shoved me, forward. We were on a beach from the feel of the ground under my feet. Then in a small boat which rocked, as it made its way to wherever we were going. I had been made to lie down again in the bottom of the boat, and my ankles were fastened up again.

The journey by boat wasn't that long, before it was being lifted out of the water with us still inside, and swung over the side of a larger boat, where they got out, and spoke to the Captain, I suppose. Then I was lifted out, the ropes on my ankles were loosened again so that I could walk, and again I was pushed and shoved to where ever they wanted me, and locked in; after they had tightened the ropes around my ankles, and put a heavy metal band around my throat, and I heard a chain rattle.

I just lay on the floor, desperate to know what was going on. They entered and removed the gag, which I was glad of; it had a nasty, acrid taste to it. I was sat up, and then they fed me, the gag was replaced. I refused to open my mouth so the person, female from the smell of her scent, pressed hard on my balls until I did as told, and she gagged me again, and again I had that nasty, acrid taste in my mouth for a long, long time, until they fed me again.

The food was odd; it had little taste, and felt like porridge, nourishing, but boring, and virtually tasteless. The gag was replaced with another gag that had the same acrid taste, and I was left again for a long, long time, until they fed me again, and watered me.

So it must have been over a day now since I was taken, and they were considerate in that they pulled my pants down, and allowed me to empty my bladder in a corner, and then they pulled my pants up again, and lay me back on the floor, and left me, even when I needed to empty my bowel they did the same.

I lost track of time, say two meals a day, so it must have been four or five days I spent in that room on the boat, before I was once again taken to a different location, as before they relaxed the ankle bindings, and pushed and shoved me along. What I do remember was that it was hot, very hot. I was told that I was going down a ramp, and then pushed into the back of a van, the ankle bindings were tightened again, and we drove off for again quite some time, a few hours before we stopped, and the bindings were relaxed, and I was pushed and shoved along, into a building, along corridors I presumed, and down stairs, lower and lower. Along a corridor I presumed, because we walked for several steps in a straight line, before being turned, and iron shackles were put around my wrists, fixing me to this small area of the room, or cell.

"Safe and sound, I am much better at transporting people that your ancestors were. Yes my dear friend, you are now about to find out what it is like, being made to work. We will feed you and clothe you as you said, by the way. I got one hundred percent of my cargo to their destination, alive and well, what was the loss rate, on your ships?" she asked me.

"Ten to twenty percent, so I believe. What the fuck is going on?" I asked.

"You were very insulting to me the other night, so I decided to teach you a lesson. I am the person who captured you, the trader who may sell you, the transporter, and initially the user, where you are concerned. How does it feel to belong to someone, like a utensil, a piece of furniture, even?

The first job is to make you understand that you do now belong, to me. I own you, you are my property, and to do with, as I please, just as they treated my grandparents. Yes, I can have you flogged, beaten, chained up, killed even. Because I own you, I can throw a chair on the fire, I own it, it is my property, just as you are, now," she told me.

"Fuck off bitch, what you have done is illegal, it has been abolished. What you have done, is kidnap me, and for that you will go to prison for fifteen years. How would you like to be stuck in a cell like this, for fifteen years, bitch?" I asked.

"No, you do not seem to understand. I own this estate in Africa. I employ over fifty people to work it, and they get paid the going rate, not much I agree, but they do, get paid.

You were caught, by my traders, shall we say, and transported to my country, where you will be, my slave. After a period of time, yet to be determined, I will release you, a much wiser and better man, for it. You will understand what it is like to be an enforced worker, you will have been one. You can go to the authorities. But they will laugh at you, because you are going to sign a waiver, asking me to kidnap you. So I will not be breaking the law," she said, standing in front of me, her hands on her hips, her legs slightly apart for balance, and in a power stance.

"Bitch, you stand no chance, I will fight you all the way," I said smugly.

"I had hoped you would do, you see, my ancestors also fought against being victims, or being forced to work, and I intend to do to you, be it on a minor scale, but what happened to them. I will not chop half a foot off, or flog you till you are almost dead, but I will hurt you, and it will be of a similar nature. For now I will have you moved to a different cell. One more minor detail, they could not speak English, being African, now the tables are turned, aren't they? How much African do you speak, yet you will do the work, the bull whip is a good teacher," she told me, she went to the door, and called for the guards.

These two women I did not fancy, they were as wide as tall, and it looked to be all muscle. They entered my cell, and grabbed hold of me. They removed the rope bindings, and pushed my arm up my back, and put an arm around my neck, I tried to fight them, but the one that had hold of me was just too strong for me, and held onto me. The other walked beside us as an escort, just in case, but she didn't need help, she had me.

Now I could see where they were taking me, and as I suspected it was down a corridor with stone walls, and floor like a medieval castle in England.

They took me down to the end of the corridor and then down another flight of stairs into a lower section, down a corridor to a cell at the far end, and inside it. They took a wrist and shackled it, then shackled the other one to the chains and walked out, as she entered.

"Now then that is much better, isn't it? To give you the idea of what my ancestors suffered, I have moved you to this cell. In here you will begin to appreciate the anguish of my ancestors. From now on, you will only hear our language. And have to obey the instructions, just as they did, or you will be hit. Remember the victims were not British, and didn't speak English; they had to learn it, or be beaten.

They didn't have the luxury of a toilet, which as you may have noticed, you don't, for the next week, the approximate time it took to cross the Atlantic, you will eat, and sleep in here as they did on the boat and like animals, which they were considered to be. They used to floor as a toilet, and we will not sluice it down, just to give you some idea of the conditions, and depravation, they travelled in. For you, shackled as you are to the wall, it will not be very nice, they had fifty or so other people, in the holds, you are lucky there will just be you, in here, apart from the odd guard caught short," she told me, smiling at me.

"Hey, bitch, on board ship they were sluiced down, so why not in here that is not what it was like, if that is what you are trying to recreate?" I asked her.

"I am recreating the exact situation my ancestors found themselves in. Some ships sluiced the cargo holds down, but with fifty or more people crammed in, it was a five minute respite, before someone needed to go again. Enjoy your five minutes," she said, and walked out.

That was five minutes ago, and I still hadn't wet on the floor apart from the fact that I didn't have much room to go; it would be within a foot of where I was sitting. I thought back, trying to visualize the conditions in these ships, and I had to admit she was not that far off, with little or no sitting room in the holds, I was better off; I did have room, to sit.

They were just a live cargo, like sheep or cattle to the Captain of the ship, he wanted to get his cargo to port alive, but accepted that losses were inevitable, just like any, live cargo.

That brings my story up to date, as I sat there wondering about my future, and what it would be like in a couple of days, as my waste lay within a foot of where I sat. The stench of the holds was unbearable, and she was doing her utmost, to recreate that situation, for me.