History of a small slave buried alive, or filial love
(Swema’s narrative of enslavement in east Africa).
 
Translated and Paraphrased from the original (French) by Pier M. Larson.

 
The History of Madeleine [Swema’s Christian name] retold by herself to the little girls of the Catholic mission of Zanzibar.
I was born in the land of Uamiao of which I know neither the greatness, nor the power, nor even the tribe, because I was still quite young when I left it.  All that I know is that my country is located between that of the Allamnyndi and that of the Uaniassa.
To the east of Allamnyndi live the Uaguindo who are neighbors of the people living on the banks of the Indian Ocean, subjects of the Sultan of Zanzibar.  The Uaniassa extend all the way up to the great lakes, which limit their country toward the setting of the sun.  To the south we have the Makua and to the North, the Uelwanda.
My natal country is of great beauty.  On one side you see some streams of clear water, which flow through wide plains covered with agreeable verdure, and enormous rocks that seem to lose their summits in the clouds.  These rocks are refuges for our villages during times of war.  On the other side you see great forests full of game and ferocious animals.
It is in these places that lions and tigers move about at night, and in which roam the herds of elephants whose teeth make us wealthy.  It is in these same forests that our cemeteries are placed and for which the most isolated places are chosen.
This is how burials are conducted among my people.  The body is placed in a small hut constructed of live green branches.  Next to the body (if it is that of a man), are placed spears, arrows, bows and a shield.  If, on the other hand, it is the body of a woman, we place pots, upava (large spoons made from the coconut tree), and all types of small household objects.  The relatives of the deceased set a large plate of mtama flour (a small grain of the country) for making porridge at the feet of the body.
The next morning they go to visit the mortuary hut.  If the mtama flour disappears during the night, they conclude that the death was natural, and they then invite all the neighbors to eat a great feast.
If, on the other hand, the flour remains untouched, the death is attributed to witchcraft.  In this case the family arms itself to seek out and punish the guilty.
If the deceased belongs to a powerful family, war breaks out across the country. Entire villages often disappear as a result of this cruel and deplorable superstition.  That, my friends, is where my natal country--which unfortunately does not yet know the good of God--is.  But that is not all, as you will soon see.
It is in our forests that the Zimé lives.
The Zimé is a vicious being that eats the world, and that sends cruel diseases to afflict people who pass too close to its house without offering it a present.  It is said that this Zimé loves music.
When a person that it attacks has the courage to sing or to beat a drum, it begins to dance.  Its head, its arms, and its legs separate apart, its eyes come out of his head, and each part of its body dances separately.
In the first light of the morning all the members of its body join back together and disappear.
As for our villages, the houses are not as close together as they are here [Zanzibar].  Each hut is separated from that of its neighbors by a large field, part of which is cultivated and part of which is reserved for pasturing livestock.
This way of employing the land is widely observed because it guarantees harvests against destruction caused by monkeys, birds or other animals, and the livestock against the voracious teeth of wild beasts.  This practice also has another advantage: in time of war enemies cannot surprise everyone at the same time, nor burn all the huts.
The fields of my country are of a remarkable fertility.  Green beans, lentils, mtama, miarelli, squash, cucumbers, potatoes, manioc, bredes, corn and ignames are planted twice a year.
Bananas grow there like trees of the forest.
In humid places rice is planted, but not for consumption within the country; people do not like it.  They exchange rice with the passing Arab caravans for glass beads, cottons, and salt.  My father was very courageous and had a reputation as the best hunter of the country.  Our hut was provisioned with meat throughout the entire year.  Because he sometimes killed elephants, my mother and my older sisters were covered with glass beads, and even in the house they wore clothing from over the seas.  I too was also covered with glass beads, but that was my only clothing.  As you see, my good friends, in my childhood I only knew pleasures.  How I love to think of those days of happiness when I did not yet know the miseries of life that awaited me.
In the morning my father, accompanied by his friends, departed the house for the hunt.  My mother and my sisters went to cultivate the land while I guarded the sheep in the vicinity of the house.
I was usually in the company of some small girls of my own age.  We would sing together like the good God’s birds.  Time passed very quickly for us, and we welcomed the evenings with happiness for they brought my father back home.
What a joy for me when I saw my good father, graced by his prey, bending under the weight of his catch!  My sisters soon lit the fire in the middle of the hut.  In an instant the fire roared and entire quarters of antelope were roasted over the coals.  We prepared a large pan of ugali (a type of stiff porridge made from mtama flour).  Large jars of pombe (homemade beer made from fermented mtama) that was prepared the day before, were emptied bit by bit.  We nearly always had salt with which to season our food.  When the passing caravans did not bring any, my father knew how to make it.  Because he knew the forests of the entire area, he also knew where to find the tall plants whose ashes are used, in our country, to make salt.
My father often brought large sacks of ashes to the house, and everyone set to work.  One sought out wood, another water, another washed the ashes, another passed the resulting fluid through a hose and into a pot, another boiled this water all day long—and in the evening we had a small amount of salt.  But among us not everyone who wanted salt could eat it.
I was so happy in my childhood that, frequently, when I went to the river to draw water, I heard our neighbors tell their children: “There is the happy Swema, who eats meat and salt every day.”  I was proud to hear these words spoken because they were in praise of my father.  It was also sometimes said: “There is Swema, the clean one with well braided hair.” I was also very pleased with these words, which were to the praise of my mother.  Ah! dear friends, why did those days of happiness come to such an abrupt end?  Until now I have only revealed the beautiful side of my life; in a moment you will learn by what terrible event the history of my pain began.
My father had arranged with some of our neighbors to go hunting for small game.  For this purpose we prepared deep pits covered over with branches and grass along the paths and in various parts of the forest.  This work finished, all the families of the hunters gathered together to scare the animals.  This was the first time that I was permitted to participate in this type of communal hunt.
When we left, I was happy and pleased, not thinking the least about any possible danger.  Once we arrived in the forest we formed a line such that each person was distant from the other by about the length of several arrows, and in walking we all sought to join together into a large circle.  We cried out with all our strength to scare the game.
Some of the hunters armed with bows and arrows walked before the line of people, the others dispersed about the forest behind the traps seeking to pursue the animals, which by their stealth would have missed the secret pits.
After a while we approached the place appointed to be the principle center of the hunt.  A very thick patch of trees separated us from the line of traps.  The group of hunters pressed closer and closer together and our cries became louder and louder.  I was walking by the side of my mother and my sisters.  Ahead of us, not very far, walked my father, holding his arrow all ready on the cord of his bow.  The group encircling the animals was already on the edge of the clump of trees that I mentioned earlier.
All of a sudden, a terrible roar came from the patch of trees surrounding us.  Everyone was petrified, and the cries of the participants were immediately replaced by the most penetrating silence.
The echo of the forest repeated the lion’s roar.  With its eyes inflamed and its mane raised, it kicked the ground with its powerful rear legs, appearing on the edge of the forest.  It approached the hunters, who stood immobilized with terror.  It walked obliquely toward us.  It passed by my father’s side and stopped, ready to jump on my sisters and me.
At the same moment another terrible cry broke the echo in the forest.  My poor father rushed at the ferocious animal.  His arrow and his spears, once so sure, missed their target; with a knife in his hand my father jumped at the lion and with his tightened arms, he seized the ferocious animal's mane.
The cries, the roars, and the fear so froze the blood in my veins that I could no longer see what was happening.  At length I perceived a pool of blood, a red mass running on the ground and disappearing into the forest.
And after that!  After that, oh my!  We poor orphans, we sat on the ground reddened with the blood of our father, of our protector, of our source of nourishment.
The hunt ended then; the forest became dark and quiet, and only our sobs broke the sad silence.
Night found us in the same place.  The howling of the hyenas sounded, to my mother’s thinking, like my little brother who we had left at the house.
My poor distraught mother got up and constructed a small hut of tree branches in the place reddened by my father’s blood.  There she placed his spear, his sheath, and his arrows.  Then we put all our food provisions on a banana leaf at the entrance to the mortuary hut and left the place without looking back, as if we were coming from a burial.
My sufferings date from this fatal day.
It was the first night that our poor house was without fire and light, sad and silent.
Nevertheless, the next day everyone set out on their normal labors, but no more songs, no more happiness.
Oh! how sad I was!
I did not yet know the sacred truths that I have acquired here [at the Catholic mission in Zanzibar].
I did not know that we are on the earth to love God, to pray, to suffer, and to gain Heaven.  Not knowing how to pray, my love for my father and the pain of having lost him pushed me to hate things.
I cursed the light of the sun, the song of the birds.  I cursed my existence and the joyful voices of our neighbors that irritated me rather than cheered me.  They seemed to insult my suffering.
Oh! how one suffers not knowing God and not understanding how to pray!
Soon a horrible calamity came to obliterate not only my family, but the whole country.  Our harvests were ravaged by clouds of locusts.
In three days everything disappeared; grain plants were eaten to the stalk.  The entire country was soon nothing more than a desert, naked and dry.
This plague caused a cruel and atrocious famine.  Those who had salt, prepared some provisions of salted locusts.
Alas! after the death of our poor father we were completely out of this useful condiment.
For a time we lived by eating the goats and the chickens that remained; but our livestock could no longer find sufficient food.  Death set in among them.  But this plague was followed by an even more cruel one.
The air, corrupted by thousands of insects and dead animal carcasses that remained unburied, produced a great epidemic among the people.  Once so happy and populated, our country from day to day became more empty and silent.  At home we cried so much that streams of tears filled our living space.  Our sadness was so great that we could no longer mourn those among us who died.  And so, without even crying, we carried my two older sisters, both of whom died, into the forest.
My mother said in a quiet voice: “They must be happy now that their pain is finished.”
When my little brother died soon thereafter my mother did not cry either; and instead of carrying him into the forest, she laid him in the house and took me by the hand.  We left that place, following the river, without even looking back.
The change of place produced a happy transformation in my mother.  She regained courage and after three days of walking from our village we built a hut and began to clear some land.  A neighbor was good enough to lend us two sacks of mtama; one to plant, the other to eat until we could harvest the first.  I cannot say that happiness now entered our house; nevertheless, my mother was calmer, and I was happy to no longer watch her cry.  But our tranquility did not last long.
The year was bad and the harvest failed completely.  Our creditor, pressed himself by need, came to reclaim the two sacks of mtama that he had had the kindness to lend us.  Highly embarrassed by this request, my mother threw herself at his feet and begged him to give us a little time to repay the loan.  But the reprieve she received was insignificant.
Without losing courage in her condition, however, my poor mother resorted to her resourcefulness and her skill in making clay pottery.  She worked day and night at this industry and I helped as well as I could.  But as you know, my good friends, work of this kind returns very little in some countries.  And so, despite our best efforts, we were unable to repay even a quarter of our debt at the end of the time fixed by our creditor.
Our creditor found our poverty more than annoying, and he threatened us with the most fatiguing threats.
To increase the misfortune, an Arab caravan was passing at that time in the vicinity.
Oh how dangerous the passage of a caravan always is for the feeble.  Bad folks are in the habit of stealing children and poor folks to sell them to the Arabs for some salt, for cotton, and for glass beads.
Creditors take advantage of the situation by demanding repayment of debts.  When debtors cannot pay them, creditors seize their slaves or their own children, and it even happens that they are reduced to slavery themselves.  There is, moreover, nothing surprising in this strange conduct for cupidity has neither check nor limit in those souls that are strangers to Christian charity.
One day we learned that the caravan had stopped just next to our house.  A mortal worry came upon us.  That night, the sobs of my mother woke me several times.  I no longer dared to ask her the reason for her tears for fear I would increase her burden.  After all, we were so accustomed to crying together!
But in the morning it did not take me long to realize that my mother had spent the night under the pressure of extreme pain.
How surprised I was when I saw that her hair had become as white as milk!
Poor mother!  She predicted in her motherly worry the blow that was going to hit us.
In the morning our creditor came to our house with two elders of the tribe and an Arab.  Without asking permission, he entered into our hut and said strongly to my mother.
“Mother of Swema, you have nothing with which to repay my two sacks of mtama; therefore, I am seizing your child.  Your are my witnesses,” he said to the elders.”  And turning to the Arab, he said, “So! mister, it is decided, six measures of American cloth for this little girl.”  The Arab took me by the hand, stood me up, made me walk, examined my arms and my legs, opened my mouth, examined my teeth and after some moments of reflection responded, “It’s good, come take the six measures of cloth.”
During this entire time my mother was devastated.  When our cruel creditor told her that he was going to seize me for her debt in the legal custom of the country, she clapped her hands together and covered her face.  Her pain, reserved until that time, burst out in wrenching sobs capable of shattering a heart of stone when the Arab said he wanted to take me with him.
She threw herself at his feet and in a voice that no language can express, begged him to take her along with me.  “I am not yet old,” she said, “despite the color of my hair whitened by worry.  I am still strong enough to carry an elephant tusk.  Ah! I beg you, do not separate me from my daughter who is my only consolation on this miserable earth on which I have had to suffer everything.  Don’t crush me, master, in my pain,” she added, “do not refuse me this favor.  I am sober and contented with little.  I know how to make clay pottery.  I will be useful to you as a slave.  I promise to always work hard.  Ah!  Have mercy and take me with you.  Have pity for a poor mother who does not want to be separated from her child.”
These words, torn from the tortured heart of a mother who did not want to be separated from her only daughter, touched the Arab.  I think, however, that this Arab who consented to take us both up into his caravan, paid greater attention to the possibility for future pottery making than to the tears of my mother.  Whatever his real motive, the decision brought calm to our tortured spirits.
The caravan set out on its route early the next morning.  My mother received an elephant tusk to carry and I carried a package of clothing.
Here is the way in which a caravan travels.
Just after midnight some servants of the master take the lead carrying machetes with them and ropes to construct the huts for the next evening.  Others go for water, carry pots to cook the food with, or bear a large drum which is beaten to reunite the caravan in the evening.
This advance party is also supplied with an antelope horn that serves as a charm against lions, and which is usually purchased from the most famous medicine man of the country.
At the dawn of day the signal for the main body of the caravan to depart is given.  A man walks at the head of the caravan and carries a small flag that is bewitched.  The flag is the distinctive sign of some powerful chief of the country, who covers the caravan with his protection as long as he is paid the customary gifts.
Next come the slaves who carry provisions for the road, the ivory, the gum copal [a natural resin derived from trees], and the personal effects of the master.  Accompanied by several faithful servants, the master takes up the rear.
At noon the Arab said his prayers.  During this time everyone rested two or three hours.  The caravan set out again on its route and walked until the coming of the night.
The caravan’s advance party is careful to mark its path by placing grass and branches at all the places that the principle paths cross.  Toward the evening they beat their drum to make sure all the members of the caravan know where they are.
Arriving at the intended place, these leaders have the advantage of finding huts already constructed.  They are usually constructed with tree branches and dry grass.  In the best of these huts, branches are employed to construct the master’s bed, on which a mattress of soft grass is prepared.  Mats and pillows are added.  Next the food, which has also been prepared in advance, is distributed.  The meal normally consists of a stiff porridge of mtama or bean flour.  Sometimes, too, the ration is composed of roasted bananas or sweet potatoes.
To prevent desertions and at the same time to attend to the strength of the porters of goods, the caravan conductors are carefulto feed the slaves under their care very well.
The first two or three days of our journey went all right.  This exercise increased my appetite, which was more easily satisfied than at home.  I really liked to walk, and luckily my luggage was not heavy.
But it was not the same for my poor mother.  During the first day she walked at the head of the column; the second, she was in the middle; and the third she had difficulty keeping up with the tail of the caravan.  She often put the tusk she was carrying down.  Her difficult breathing betrayed her fatigue, and each step demonstrated the superhuman effort she was making to continue on with her journey.   All these sufferings of my poor mother, that I could not lessen, were like blows that pierced my heart.
The following days the caravan made the mistake of not following the streams that we had followed until that time, and a burning thirst became a cruel torment for everyone.
My mother, her energy drained by her burden, fell several times.  Seeing her unable to continue carrying the tusk any longer, the caravan master commanded a slave to carry it in her place.
For a moment I was consoled, even surprised, by these feelings of humanity in an Arab.  But oh cruel deception!
Imagine my consternation when that evening I heard the barbaric order given to the slave in charge of the distribution of food reverberate in my ears:  “The mother of Swema is worthless, she will not have a ration.”  What news for a daughter who loves so tenderly the mother who gave her birth!
By stealth, I was able to share my food with my poor mother.  Unfortunately the ferocious Arab perceived my little ruse and had me beaten until my blood flowed.  The order was given to serve my ration only in front of the master, and to watch me as carefully as possible.  The next day my poor mother had as her only food some locusts, some mtama leaves, and a bit of red mud.
What a position for her poor daughter!
In the evening I could not eat; I was ashamed to bring the good food they offered me up to my mouth.
How can a child who watches her mother die from hunger get the courage to eat?  How can one be insensitive to the sufferings of a mother?
This filial sentiment was so poorly interpreted  by the inhuman master that he had me beaten again, and I was forced to swallow my food doused with my own tears, without any consolation of sharing with my good and unfortunate mom.
The next day, oh day of sadness!  Our caravan entered a plain that had been burnt as far as the eye could see.  There was not a single green plant to be seen anywhere.  What struck my sight was an immense expanse of land charred and blackened by fire.  It was impossible for my poor mother to procure the least bit of food there, or even red clay to fool her stomach.
During the day I saw her fall several times, drained of energy.  It was only because of her desperate efforts that she was able to reach the night camp for that day.
When the food was distributed, more inhuman words tore my heart again: “Chase that old woman away from the camp and be sure that she does not get anything to eat.  Whoever disobeys this order will be severely punished,” said the master of the caravan to the slave in charge of guarding the group.  He continued with the following: “Tomorrow, if it pleases God, we will be delivered of her; tomorrow I hope she will leave us alone; today is her last leg, because she can go no longer.”
These words were accompanied by a ferocious laugh that explained their sinister meaning.
How can I describe for you, my good friends, what I felt in my heart while this barbarian spoke, with lightness of heart, the death warrant of the only person in the world that I passionately loved, and who had endured so many sacrifices for me?
The words “pain, torture, dashed hope” are too weak to express what I was suffering within myself.  Ah! even the thought of these torments makes me shiver!
That night we camped under beautiful stars, the fire on the savanna having consumed all the grasses and brush.  It was with a happy sadness that I was able to join my poor mother.  When I thought everyone was sleeping, I slithered like a snake out of the camp.  The darkness of the night and the black color of the plain favored my escape.
I have to admit, once away from the camp by several hundred steps, I was seized by a great fear for I had never walked alone on a dark night.  For an instant, fear froze the blood in my veins but at the same moment the love that I had for my mother welled up stronger than ever, and I cried out loud, “What would a daughter not do for her dear mother?  Isn’t it better that I die with her rather than survive her death?”  These words gave me courage and I quickly continued my way.  Soon I heard some hoarse cries that made me recognize the voice of my mother and the place where she was.  From as far away as possibleI cried out to her, “My mother console yourself, here is your child who is coming to comfort you.”
She heard these words which caused her to sigh with love and tenderness.  When at last I had the happiness of nearing her, she held me in her thinned arms, placed my head on her knees.  Then I felt her tears flow on my hair.  She cuddled me as strongly as her energy permitted her like she used to cuddle my little brother.  She sang very quietly while sobbing like we sing in our country during burials.
“Swema, my child!  Why did you not die with your sisters?  I would at least have had your graves, something that no one could take away from me.  Happy is the mother who can “return the spirit” while crying on the graves of her children!  The graves of your brothers and sisters are far away and you are going to be separated from me forever; and poor me I have neither the strength to follow you, nor the strength to return near to the bones of our family!  Oh!  Where are you going my poor child?
Death is not as bitter as slavery.  Who will now comb and braid your hair?  Who will wash your head?
It is the cold dew of the morning and the rains of the rainy season that wash the head of the orphan; and tears that wash the face of the slave.  Wet land is her mother.  The grave is her country, the only place where she can rest her burdened soul.”
This is what my mother sang while sobbing according to the custom of burials in my country.
As you can easily imagine, I had a heavy heart.  Tears no longer ran from my eyes for I felt smothered by pain.  I felt as if I had le gosier filled with burning coals.  A convulsive hiccup tore through my chest.  Despite the fatigue of a long and difficult day of walking, the sweet cuddling and plaintive voice of my mother put me slowly to sleep.  At dawn I felt myself being tighlty squeezed.  I woke up and realized that it was my mother who was holding me in her arms.
All of a sudden I heard the resonating steps of the men who were sent to search for me.  They came closer and closer, and finally some of them found us, calling out to their companions.  They circled about us.  Rolling his terrible eyes, the Arab grabbed me by the hand and tried to drag me away by force.
My mother hugged me and held me so tightly against herself that the cruel man did not succeed at separating us.  He dragged us both along the ground.
“Strike this damned old lady, kill her with a stick,” he cried in a voice trembling with anger.
Soon a battery of blows hit my unhappy mother.  Despite all her sufferings she did not let go of the hands that held me tight.
“Strike, strike as much as you like,” she whispered, “hit me so that I die before being separated from my last child.”
The master heard these words but his ferocious spirit would not grant her this last consolation.
“Strike,” he said, “strike the child instead.”
The pain caused by the beating made me cry plaintively.  Finally my mother lost her energy, her arms opened.  They seized me and carried me away.
Making a final effort, my mother rose to her knees and sadly extended her hands in the direction they had taken me.  A moment later I saw her fall on herself.  She was undoubtedly fainting, suffocated by pain.
They tried to make me walk by striking me with their sticks.  But their efforts were in vain!  With each step, I tried to return to my mother.  Overcome with pain I fell on the ground.
Tired of my resistance, the master ordered a slave to carry me.  The caravan set off.
Soon we arrived at the summit of a hill.  I looked back into the middle of the charred plain, and I saw my mother for the last time with her hands stretched out toward me.  I had the pain of seeing a large number of vultures circling over her head, and waiting with impatience for the moment of her death to devour her.  You can imagine, my good friends, what my heart endured at that moment.
I will not tell you, good friends, of our journey from this point to Kilwa, which is situated on the coast.
Nevertheless you should know that during this part of the trip I spilled so many tears that my eyes puffed up because of the way I cried.  I thought I was going to become blind.  They started beating me again to make me walk.  All these cruelties were useless because I was not even capable of standing, crippled by my misfortune.
“Master,” said the conductor’s female assistant, “why should we carry this cadaver any longer?  You can easily see that this little girl is only good for the vultures to eat.”  “I cannot leave her here,” he responded, “I purchased her for my own boss.  If I abandon her I will lose the silver piaster [a silver dollar] that I receive for each slave brought alive [to Zanzibar].”
The man who carried me was furious over his extra labor.  The poor slave tried everything he could to get rid of his burden.  Each time that he reached a designated goal, he threw me to the ground with all his might.  When we went through trees and bushes, he always scratched me on the back with the branches.  What is really terrible was that this inhuman treatment provoked the humor and the approbation of my poor captive companions.
I spent some days in Kilwa; for me it was a respite from my suffering.  There, nobody mistreated me.  I slept in the darkest part of the house.  There was water beside me, which enabled me to quench my strong thirst.  This was the one comfort that brought me back to life.  But I was indifferent about everything else.  I hardly knew where I was, and I only vaguely remembered my long sufferings.
The whole time from the separation with my mother until that moment was like a terrible dream.  It seemed to me that the dream was going to end, that everything that encircled me would soon disappear, and that I would wake up one day by the side of my poor mother in the small hut where we were so sad, yet so happy in comparison to our present condition.  Then, one fine morning, I was put on board a boat for Zanzibar.
The slaves in the group began to tremble and to wail in a very strange way.  “Ah! They said, we are lost.  We are going to Zanzibar where there are white men who eat the Blacks.”
Although I had been generally indifferent to everything that had happened around me, I could not remain long in this state in the boat, where my sufferings were even worse than before.  We were so packed in that not only could I not turn, but I could not breath either.  The heat and thirst became unbearable.  A strong seasickness increased my suffering even more.
During the night the cold wind from the water froze us, covering us with spume from the sea, which was sent up by the violenceof the blowing.  The next day each of us received a little bit of fresh water and a bit of dry manioc root.  This is how we spent six long days and six nights, which were even more difficult.  Hunger, thirst, seasickness, the sudden transition between a great heat and an unbearable cold, the impossibility of resting our heads for even one moment because there was no place, all these combined sufferings made me regret for the first time our difficult journey across the desert.  But courage! Our situation would change, because there we were beside the island of Zanzibar!
A good wind continued to fill our triangular sail, and soon we were before the large city [Zanzibar City].  Two peals of cannon made the boat tremble.  The sail was taken in and the anchor thrown.
I heard my companions of misfortune admire the walled city and the white town.  Then they switched from admiration to fear.  As for me, I had in front of my eyes something like a cloud that obscured the view.  I no longer felt alive but for the single thought that once we were on land they would perhaps give us something to drink.  Oh!  What a cruel suffering thirst is!
I do not remember the way in which we were taken off the ship very well, nor how much time we spent in the customs house.  The view of a large crowd of Blacks all carrying burdens and the cries that they emitted to mark their walking pace really made me faint.  I cannot remember the thousand things that I saw.  It was also a bit dark when we arrived and by the time we got to the place where slaves are kept, which is a large stone house, it was dark.  There I saw the conductor of the caravan, who I had seen as the most powerful person in the world, standing humbly before another Arab, who seemed to be reproaching him in a language that I could not understand.
I sensed he was complaining about me, because several times he pointed his finger in my direction.
He told me to stand.  I made a great effort to do so, but could not.
“This slave is lost,” said the new person [the head Arab].  “Its too bad; its annoying.  Six measures of cloth, land and sea transport, and the customs tax—at least 5 piasters (25 francs) lost.  Conductor, do not occupy yourself with such stupidities.  Khamis and Marzouc put this cadaver in a mat and carry it to the cemetery.  It is useless to feed it any longer, because we will not save it.”
As soon as this order was given, it was carried out.  The two slaves took me, wrapped me in an old mat that they tied with ropes made from the coconut tree.
They attached this package to a long pole, and carried me away from the master’s house.
I was so tightly enveloped in the mat that I couldn’t see anything.  The noise of the crowd informed me that they were carrying me across the town.
After this noise I heard moving branches, which let me know that we were going through the brush.
Finally we stopped; they threw me on the ground.  I could smell the sand and understood that they were burying me alive.
The blanket of sand that was covering me was so light that I could hear the porters hastily returning to their master.  It was like I was buried in a deep silence.  An immense fear took hold of my whole being.  I had, it is true, suffered much until this day; my life had been more fertile in suffering than in joy, yet still the thought of death terrified me.  I therefore made an extraordinary effort to get out of the mat, but in vain!  It was even with great difficulty that I was able to move the top part of my body so as not to be suffocated by the sand.
At the same time I began to cry with all my might.  My voice was lost in the silence of the night.  I thought I heard footsteps passing close to me two or three times.  I cried out even louder.  But instead of getting me help, my voice scared away those who were out walking in the night [she was buried in a cemetery].  I could hear them running away.  Silence moved in again around me.
Suddenly the grass near to me began to move.  I had a moment of hope.  Then a pack of wild dogs encircled me, barking.  My blood froze with fright.  My cries and desperate movements held them at a distance for a time.  Bit by bit, however, they came closer and I could hear their barks at near range.
Finally they dug up the bottom part of my body.  I could feel myself being bitten about the feet.  I cried out and lost consciousness.
When I came to my senses, I found myself in a white room of the sort I had never seen before.  I was sleeping in a nice bed and covered with a white sheet.  Two people with white faces who I had never before seen in my life were standing beside the bed carefully watching every movement I made.  They were clothed in white and black.  They were our good Sisters, these devoted Daughters of Mary, who were so tender mothers and healed me.
Seeing their white dresses I thought that I was dead and that I was now in the land of peponi spirits.  My first thoughts were for my mother.
“Where is my mother?” I asked the sisters several times, taking them for spirits.
“Be still,” they both replied, “your mother will come later.”
They presented me with a good tasting drink.  I swallowed with long gulps and then fell asleep again.
You are no doubt interested to know what happened to me after I lost consciousness in the middle of that band of wild dogs.  I will tell you and you will see, my friends, by what admirable way Divine Providence saved my life.
M.N., a young creole from the island of Reunion could not sleep that night and had the lucky fantasy of wanting to hunt wild dogs.  Armed with his hunting gun, he came to the cemetery and headed for the sound of the barking beasts.  Instead of running away from me like the other passers by, he pursued the wild dogs that were biting my legs.
Seeing a package that was moving a bit in front of him, the young man wanted to see what it was.  He stopped, untied the ropes, unrolled the mat and saw a human body whose heart was still beating.  He picked me up and carried me to the Catholic mission where the good Sisters received me with happiness.  The young man received warm thanks from the Sisters for the good and charitable deed he had done.
From this moment I have been happy.