We lived near the River Senegal on the Grain Coast. And if the leopard hadn’t come, I would still be living there.
But he came, to steal the antelope my father had killed for us, and that hung outside our house.
My father was known as a great hunter. We never lacked for food. Mostly he was known for hunting the black-legged mongoose. These creatures plagued us. They seemed tame and children would try to catch them. But they would bite, and many times the bitten child would die.
Other people in my village depended on my father to catch these creatures. Also he hunted the African wild dog. And the bat-eared fox.
My father’s brother, Dahobar, was jealous because of the name my father had gained as a hunter. And because both brothers were rival chiefs. Dahobar had slaves. Not only that, he sold his own people to the traders for the white man’s presents.
From the River Senegal to the River Congo, the slave traders’ great ships came with brightly colored cloth, beads, rum, and most of all, cowrie shells.
A man’s standing as a chief depended upon how many cowrie shells he had.
My father had no slaves. We were farmers. He and all the people in our tribe raised rice and maize and cattle. But we had muskets, even like the Wheatleys have here in Boston. Muskets and gunpowder we had, brass pans and kettles, red cloth, scissors, needles, colored thread. My father bartered for these things at market in exchange for what he raised.
Well, what happened is that the leopard that took our antelope had to be shot. So my father, the great hunter, went out to shoot it one day, took aim, missed, and shot a man instead.
My father had never missed his mark. Nobody knows what happened. To make matters worse, the man he shot was from Dahobar’s tribe.
My father was brought up before one of Dahobar’s tribunals and sentenced to be sold into slavery.
A ship with great masts lay riding at anchor in the River Senegal. White slavers had rowed ashore to visit Dahobar.
My father was taken away from the tribunal to be sold, but he escaped and came back to our village. His warriors were placed on guard. The ship left the River Senegal without him.
We children were not allowed to venture from our home for fear the slavers or, worse yet, Dahobar would seize us.
My friend Obour lived not far away, near the rice fields. To be together, for sport and to earn a few cowries ourselves, we sometimes worked at scaring the birds away from the grain.
But now I was not allowed to leave my home to meet Obour anymore. Kidnappers hid in the thickets along the creeks and they kidnapped children as well.
Obour worked hard chasing away birds to help her family. And I knew she would be in the rice fields early of a morning. So one morning I sneaked out before the sun was up and made my way along the familiar paths and roads just to see Obour.
I would be back before the sun favored us. Before my mother poured the water out of the stone jar to honor the sun.
There Obour was in the rice fields, busy chasing birds, laughing and enjoying herself as she always did. When I splashed through the creek, she saw me coming and raised her arms.
It was still not light, but I could see her clearly. And she could see me.
Then, as I ran to her, another figure leaped out and grabbed her.
Before I got to her, she was struggling in the grip of the strong arms of a large dark man, a kidnapper. Likely one of Dahobar’s men.
I fought him for Obour. And for myself. I scratched and bit, hit him with sticks. All I knew was that he was hurting my friend.
Soon, without my understanding it, another person was fighting him. My mother. She had seen me leave the house and had followed me.
The man pushed me and Obour aside. He hit my mother in the head with a big stick. Then, even while we clung to his legs and still attacked him, he tied my mother with grass rope, and then he tied us.
Some other children who had just come into the fields to work saw what was happening and ran for help. But it was too late.
By the time help came the three of us were gone. The man who captured us took us a distance, to meet with evil companions.
One was my father’s brother, Dahobar. He grinned when he saw us. “The great hunter,” he scoffed. “He may have run from me, but now I have hunted what is his. And he will never see you again.”
We were taken on a long walk with Dahobar and his men, through the green forests to the ocean, where a great ship waited in the distance with its sails furled.
And the man I was to come to know as Captain Quinn.