after visiting the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC)
Off the coast of Cape Town, deep-sea divers discovered remnants of our bodies stuck to the roof of the mouth of the ocean, their gemstones—a treasure chest of bones choking on saltwater. Cadavers hidden under floorboards
of the sea. Parts of this pirate ship a floating testament to the iron chains, now a rusting relic. Wood warped and withered, carrying memories of men made to lie head to feet, rows of bodies
boarded up beneath the deck. Ask Olaudah Equiano and he will tell you of the bloodlines scattered. The Atlantic carrying the putrid waste, the bile and disease, the screams of women and children who were raped
purely to pass the time. Their cries muffled by crashing waves. Whips, boots, jaws and teeth settled beneath the hull; each limb proof that we were stolen cargo.
And some will still refute the evidence, claiming we were merely mermaids, just ghosts to sing about, a myth, and nothing more.