African American Narrative

The place was very large. I assumed the man who took us was rich. He was rich enough to allow us to sleep and eat at his home. I wish that was the case. He was rich, but he did not care for us. We reached a small cabin compared to the large home he lives in. He unlocked the chain of our shackles. He flashed his gun to assure any of us that trying to run away will cause harm.
I looked over his movements carefully, just to be safe. I sighed looking around me. The man walked over to a field that seemed to go on for miles and miles. The white man yelled over at a man, calling him a name. The tall skinny man walked over to us. He spoke in her native language explaining what happened to us and what is expected from us.
Slave? I was a slave now. I could not let that word sit right in my stomach. I could never be a slave. In Africa other tribes had slaves, but not mine. My father saw it as wrong and inhumane. I was used to being a free man. How could I …show more content…
The cabin was small and crowded. There were only two beds, but four of us were expected to sleep in here. I sat down on the wooden chair as I watched the others try to find comfort in their new surroundings. This was my new home and lifestyle. I could not live like this. My life is not going to become me living up to a white man. I was not going to allow this man to control my rights and freedom. I could not watch other Africans be killed, whipped, and beat because they did not work hard enough for this man.
That was the past. That was over four years ago now. My life is now used to the way slavery. It was nothing new to me being a slave. I stood in a field picking cotton along with the rest of us. I wiped my forehead from the sweat. The sun was now beaming down on my skin. I could feel the heat burning on my skin as I worked. I did not let that stop or slow me down from my work. Those who were slow or stopped did not receive a break to get water. I was going to get a break