If Not This Dream: Book One: the Hausas

By Larry D. Clark

If Not This Dream is an 1134-page fast-paced novel, presented in three books. In The Hausas Mdawwri chieftain Zaki sacrifices his eldest son to save the rest of his villagers from 1807 Oyo slave raiders in Northeast Nigeria. The Oyos are led by Atticus Clarke, an English slaver, making his first middle passage with his new ship, Naimah. Zaki promises his people that he will return one day in flesh or in spirit. His dream will be passed down five generations in his family. The twenty Hausas are taken from their little village in northeast Nigeria to the seaport at Lagos. The slaves spend weeks inside Naimahs belly, chained hands and feet in the tall ship, on their passage to Charleston, South Carolina. Naimah stops at Havana, Cuba, where Clarke purchases sixty-seven additional slaves and crams them into Naimahs hold. In Charleston, Naimah is met by William Biggs, a cotton and tobacco farmer who has ordered twenty Hausa Africans to work on his plantation. He pays $5000 for Zaki and $1500 each for his nineteen villagers. He also buys twenty-five additional slaves at $400 a head. Biggs invests $43,500 for fifty slaves to work his plantation. Through the years Biggs maintains a pure bloodline of Hausas. He breeds Zaki to handpicked non-Hausas in exchange for allowing the big Hausa to begin his own family with a female from his African village. Biggs trains Zaki to slowly manage the rest of the slaves as they work the cotton and tobacco fields. Nabilah, an overweight house slave, manages the day-to-day maintenance of the Biggs mansion. Biggs also puts her in charge of pairing male and female slaves and keeping records of their bloodlines. Book one chronicles the parallel lives of both the Biggs and Zaki families from 1807 to the present day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504925082

Larry D. Clark

Larry D. Clark has taught high school English and Psychology of Self-development for forty-four years. This Grapes-of-Wrath descendent has undertaken an exhaustive twenty-year study of love that inspired the writing of his second novel, Will the Real Jeff Creek. He now lives in Richland, Washington with Pam, his wife of forty-seven years.

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ACKOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you Julie Bussell and Jennifer Hernandez for your assistance in setting up the Indiegogo account for If Not This Dream.

Thank you Gil McCargo and Julie Bussell for your help with my computer and photo assistance.

Thank you Linda Klavano for formatting the final draft of If Not This Dream for publication.

Thank you to my granddaughter Jordyn Clark for editing my photo for the author page.

Thank you to Dorian Studios for permission to use the author photo. If you need individual or group photos taken, contact the Dorian Administration Office at 4212 W. Sunset Blvd. in Spokane, Washington. You can also call 1-800.826-3535. Dorian has studios in Boise, Denver, Kennewick, Seattle Spokane, Las Vegas, Phoenix, Portland and Oakland.

Thank you for the support and love of students from the three high schools where I taught English, Psychology of Self-development and Native American Studies during my forty-six-year teaching career: A.C. Davis High School in Yakima, Washington; LaSalle High School in Union Gap, Washington; New Horizons High School in Pasco, Washington. I believe you can fly!

The

HAUSAS

CHAPTER ONE

The African moon shone full and bright, the light it cast on this giant land filtered by passing clouds as they carried their promises across the sky. A small stream gurgled in the quiet woods and then splashed its waters a few feet to the jagged rocks below, trying to find its way to the Kadejia River just a few yards away. In a clearing, a flickering fire cast shadows of tall men against small, round huts. The tallest man in the gathering, his face grim, commanded the attention of everyone as he recounted some unpleasant news. Wearing a djellaba, his abeti-aja covering his head, his strong, black arms bulged as he held his spear in both hands high above his head. He brought the heavy shaft down sideways across his uplifted knee, breaking it close to the head of the spear. Every man duplicated this act, each tossing his spear shaft into the fire.

These were proven Hausa hunters, herdsmen and farmers, prized in the slave market.

Their blood had mixed with ancient migrating Dinkas of the lower Nile hundreds of years earlier. They were taller than other Hausa tribesmen in Northeast Hausaland. The grown men stood between five feet ten inches and six feet five inches, sometimes taller, their legs and torsos strong and sinewy from long hours in the fields and bush. These Hausas knew no fear, and their keen minds made them ideal for ruling men and beasts.

Zaki, the chief of his village, had taken a scouting party to the southwest a few days earlier. On this journey, they had witnessed a slave raid by the Oyos and their white leader. He had heard about the bloody Oyo raids all around the Hausa towns of Katina, Kano, and Zaria. He wanted to see for himself. Hausaland had been free of slave raiding parties for over a year.

Sitting high on a brush-covered hill, Zaki and his warriors watched the band of Oyos wade into a Hausa village. They hacked to death all resisters. They left the village with thirty captives, leaving behind 100 dead men, women, and children. Zaki and his warriors watched their African brothers herded off toward waiting ships in the port of Lagos. The Oyo slavers continued northeast toward Zaki’s village. Shocked into action, the Hausa’s rose as a body and ran toward their homes and families.

Two days later a young scout came running into the village with the long-dreaded news. The slavers would surround them by daybreak. They could expect a dawn raid.

Zaki signaled the village. The Hausa’s knew what to do. He had rehearsed them for such an attack, hoping his people would never have to experience one. Mothers moved their babies and small children, joining all females, to the village ceremonial area. All teenage boys circled the women and children. The older men walked around the circle, handing each member a spearhead with a short, broken shaft. This done, the older men of the tribe formed a second circle around the boys, leaving a small opening facing a path from the bush.

Zaki walked among the women and children, encouraging them. He walked around each circle, touching each spearhead to his heart, and then pushing it into the ground. He walked to the small opening, by this time aware of the unseen eyes hidden in the predawn bush. He raised his hands to the sky and emitted a long, loud, chilling cry that echoed through the Hausa kingdom. His warriors withdrew their spearheads from the rich, dark soil and turned to face the outside of the circle. Their backs to the women and children, they placed their spearheads to their hearts. Engrossed in what had to be done, they pushed their spear points through their djellabas into their flesh. Circles of blood appeared on white cloth. Zaki and his people faced the unseen enemy and waited.

CHAPTER TWO

Sunlight filled the sky, sunbeams piercing through the morning mist. The calm that had enveloped the night continued into the sunrise, birds refusing to settle in the trees around the Hausa village.

Zaki stared straight ahead, separating the stealthy, muffled sounds of humans from the other sounds of the bush. Tension spread throughout the two circles and to the mothers and children within.

The Oyos materialized at the edge of the bush about fifty yards from the village. The Hausa’s could see their faces, glistening with war paint. Zaki gripped his spearhead tighter.

The Oyos began shrieking. After five minutes, a stout warrior stepped forward and raised his spear. The slavers began running in place, their knees lifted waist high. Every few seconds they cocked their arms and faked throwing their spears, following with a loud chant. In the background, the Oyo war drums pounded their lust for Hausa blood. They stopped, the bush echoing the remains of their cries. Two tribes stared at each other, waiting.

A short, stocky, redheaded white man appeared in the opening of the bush. Zaki sensed, by the man’s demeanor that he was frightened. The stubby man spoke with two Oyo leaders. Zaki strained to hear their voices. They seemed to be arguing with the white man, gesturing toward the odd Hausa formation facing them.

The conversation halted when the white man pointed toward the Hausa circles. Both warriors walked within ten yards of Zaki and buried their spears in the earth. They stared straight into Zaki’s eyes, one of them turning and motioning for the white man to join them. He walked toward them, wiping his brow, his shirt soaked with perspiration. Zaki gained confidence. His plan had confused the Oyos, but he knew the worst still faced his people.

The white man could speak Hausa well enough to communicate with Zaki. He looked up into Zaki’s eyes, searching for an advantage.

Do you know why we are here? the white man asked.

Zaki watched the white man continue to perspire. I know why you are here, he answered.

The white man made a sweeping gesture toward his Oyo warriors. I have ten times more Oyos as there are Hausas in your village, he challenged.

Your numbers cannot humble my people, Zaki said.

Your strange fighting formation has kept us from already destroying your village, the white man said.

We knew you would appear. We have watched you kill women and children and take men from their villages in chains. We are ready for you, Zaki explained.

Zaki stared down into the white man’s eyes. He wanted to crush him, but he could not alter his plan.

Why do you stand with your spears to your hearts? The white man asked.

All my Hausas will die if you do not agree to what I command, Zaki answered.

Beads of sweat trickled down the white man’s face. He stepped back and wiped his brow and the back of his neck, looking at his Oyo companions, hoping for an explanation. They were as confused as their white partner.

The white man regained his bravado. Nonsense. We have you far outnumbered. If you resist, all Hausas in this village will die.

If you attack my village, all Hausas will kill themselves, and you will get nothing, Zaki said, continuing to stare into the white man’s eyes.

We will return to the bush. We shall give you one last chance to lay down your arms. If you don’t, we shall kill everyone in this Hausa village, the white man challenged.

The white man started to turn.

Zaki broke the silence with a piercing cry.

The white man whirled around, stunned, just as Zaki raised his hand, pointed to a tall, muscular Hausa, and dropped his hand. The Hausa’s powerful hands pulled his spearhead deep into his own chest, a burst of air escaping from his lungs as he fell to the ground in a heap.

The white man stared in horror as blood gushed from the hole in the fallen Hausa’s chest.

Zaki didn’t give the white man a chance to regain his composure. His fierce cry echoed again throughout the Hausa bush. He raised his hand and pointed to the next Hausa.

No! Wait! the Englishman yelled.

Zaki looked at the next Hausa and told him with his eyes that he would not have to take his own life. The Hausa offered no sign of relief, but relaxed his grip on the spearhead and awaited orders from his chief. They both understood.

What are your demands? the white man uttered as he looked at the bloody body on the ground beside him.

Zaki spoke. Fifteen Hausa men and five Hausa women will go with you. We will keep our spears until we reach the sea. If your people try to gather those in the circle, all Hausas will die by their own hands.

How do I know you will keep your word when we reach the sea? the white man asked.

I am a Hausa chief, Zaki answered.

The Englishman couldn’t mask his superiority. We shall depart at once.

No! Zaki boomed. I must speak with my son and make him the new chief. You may choose your Hausas, then you must go into the bush with the Oyos; I will bring the chosen ones.

This time the Englishman did not question Zaki’s resolve, or his advantage. He walked around the outer circles, pointing out fourteen males, and then he walked inside the circles and chose five females.

These are the ones I want, along with you, the Englishman said.

Zaki nodded.

The Englishman and his two companions joined the rest of the Oyos in the bush.

The two circles of Hausas remained in formation as Zaki entered the circle.

A young boy, no more than sixteen years old, emerged from the inner circle and walked toward his chief. His six-foot-three-inch frame matched his father’s. He looked like his father. His high cheekbones cradled large, almond-shaped, dark eyes, evidence of the ancient Egyptian blood that had passed on to him by his migrating Dinka ancestors. He dropped to one knee, head bowed, before his father, the village chief.

Damisa! Rise my son, Zaki commanded. You are Damisa, the leopard, and you will now become chief of your people. You must lead them with strength.

The young boy repeated his name and new title to his father. I am Damisa, chief of the Hausas, he said with pride.

Zaki smiled at him, placing a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. Your first duty as chief will be to take your older brother Auta to the high place and bury him. Remember this day, my son.

Zaki pierced his son’s wrist with his spear and then pierced his own. The Hausa chief and his son pressed their bleeding wrists together, raising them high above their heads, announcing the beginning of the reign of a new Hausa chief.

Damisa walked his father to the center of the circle, toward a tall Hausa girl. She pulled their wrists apart. Zaki took her hand and placed it in the bloody hand of his son.

You have chosen well, my son, Zaki said.

Zaki turned to the girl and looked into her beautiful, dark eyes. Zubaydah, join your new chief as queen of the Hausas. Help my son lead the people.

Zubaydah bowed before her new husband, and then she stepped back into the group of mothers and children, her mother hugging her with pride.

Zaki walked to the outer circle, the gap now widened by the death of his oldest son. He stooped down and scooped a handful of earth and put it into his empty food pouch.

He returned to his son Damisa, placing a hand on each side of the boy’s head, looking into his eyes. The boy showed no sign of tears or fear, just a deep love for his father.

I shall now make the journey to the sea, my son. I will carry with me this pouch of earth from our village and my necklace of lion’s claws. I should pass this necklace to you, but I must keep it so our souls remain connected. You must journey to the west and kill a lion with your own spear and create your own necklace of lion’s claws. Someday, I shall return in body or in spirit. Send someone to the high place each day with a pouch of sacred earth from this place for seven seasons to watch for my return. If I do not return in seven seasons, you may stop waiting for me. Pass this day on to your children and tell them to pass it on to theirs. Pass your own pouch of Hausa earth and your own necklace of lion’s claws on to the new chief. One day, our people will be together again, either in the land of our fathers or in the land above. On that day we will combine our two pouches of Hausa earth and our two necklaces of lion’s claws and be one people again. This is my dream.

Zaki raised his hands once more to offer a blessing to his people. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, Sai an juma, until we meet again.

Damisa raised both hands high over his head, standing for the last time before his father, and said, Sauka lafiya! Arrive safely.

Zaki looked at the village his young son would lead. He looked at the young Hausa boys who would follow him. He looked into the eyes of Damisa and Zubaydah. He had faith in his son’s ability to watch over his people. His radiant queen stood tall, powerful, and dignified. Zaki knew she would one day nurse the future Hausa chief.

Zubaydah understood Zaki’s thoughts and promised herself that she would name her first son Zaki.

Without another word, Zaki walked through the gap in the circle and led his band of Hausas into the bush. He did not look back. Fifteen Hausa men and five Hausa females followed him away from their homes, toward the sea.

The Englishman and his Oyo warriors surrounded the small group and herded them deeper into the bush toward Zaria. Zaki guessed his captors would have boats waiting at a branch of the Kaduna River. They would walk about fifty miles to awaiting riverboats. Zaki squeezed the pouch of sacred earth, touched his necklace of lion’s claws and, head held high, walked into a life of slavery.

Near Zaria the Englishman loaded the Hausas into large river canoes. The line of boats headed downriver to the southeast, past Kaduna, following the Kaduna to the Niger River, traveling east and northeast until they reached the confluence of the Odin River. They followed this river south until it became the Odan River, which took them due south to Epe and Lagos Lagoon and an easy paddle across to Lagos.

CHAPTER THREE

The caravan of Hausas marching single file from the harbor into the coastal town of Lagos, in southern Hausaland, presented a strange sight. Businessmen, laborers, and slaves stopped their work, captivated by these warriors and their women. The red blotches over the hearts of the unshackled Hausa males’ djellabas stirred the curiosity of the slave owners

Embarrassed, the squat Englishman shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands into the air when one of his colleagues hooted at him. The citizens of Lagos had never seen slaves armed with spearheads herded into town without shackles. The scene offered a respite from the routine in the slave community. Several white men cocked their rifles.

Zaki yearned to lead his people back to their Hausa village. He looked straight ahead and followed the redheaded white man into a stockade.

The Englishman raised his hand, and the procession halted. Zaki looked around the stockade, devoid of huts. A raised, rectangular platform, about three feet high, stood in the exact center of the enclosure. Steps on all four sides led to the top of the platform, and imposing ten-foot poles, eight inches in diameter, comprised the walls of the stockade.

When the stockade gate slammed shut behind him, Zaki whirled around. He watched the guards pull a rusty chain around the latching pole, securing it with a padlock. Zaki and his tribesmen searched for a weak spot in the stockade walls, awaiting Zaki’s command to breach them. But Zaki remained silent, looking once more at the stocky, redheaded white man.

Zaki walked toward his English captor, who had crammed ninety Hausas into the stockade. Outside the enclosure, other white men waited for the Englishman’s next move, all of their guns pointed at his slaves, two cannons pointed at the gate to thwart an escape. Zaki stopped in front of the Englishman, looking into his eyes, waiting for him to speak.

Zaki, you gave me your word you would lay down your spears when we reached the sea. As you can see, we have arrived, the Englishman said, gesturing toward Lagos’ Harbor.

Zaki watched perspiration bead on the Englishman’s upper lip and brow.

I gave my word, and I will keep my word. You will make a fire on the sands next to the sea. I will lead my people to the spot and we will throw all spears into the fire, Zaki answered.

What difference does it make where you put the spears? Just lay them on the ground and walk away from them. My men will—

I have spoken! I will not bargain! Zaki said.

He turned and looked at his people. They understood he had demanded dignity one final time. He turned again and faced his enemy. Inside the stockade, all became quiet. Outside the stockade, white men grumbled.

The Englishman wanted the slavers’ respect and authority over the slaves.

You must do as I say, Zaki. Lay down your spears, and I won’t harm your people. Refuse and you and your people will die here in bondage, the Englishman challenged.

Zaki sensed the Englishman’s fear uttering such strong words. The Englishman knew Zaki would not heed them.

The Hausas searched again for an escape route. They could see at least 100 guns pointing at them through the stockade walls. Zaki’s male Hausas circled the five females. They watched their leader and waited.

The rifles pointing through the stockade walls gave the Englishman confidence. He strutted back and forth, hands behind his back, and then stopped in front of Zaki.

Well, Zaki? he blurted.

Zaki tensed his muscular arms. His Hausas anticipated what would happen next. They tightened their hands on their spearheads.

Silence enveloped the stockade as Zaki and the Englishman stared at each other.

Zaki raised his spearhead above his head.

The Englishman jumped back.

Fourteen Hausas raised their spearheads at once.

The riflemen tensed their trigger fingers.

Zaki turned to face his people. Not one pair of eyes showed regret about what the Hausas must do. He turned back and faced his enemy.

I have spoken. The spearheads will burn on the sand or be buried in Hausa flesh. I will not bargain with my peoples’ lives. I will die first. If you wish to take my Hausas across the sea, make a fire on the water’s edge. You decide! Zaki commanded.

The Englishman looked around, blood pounding in his ears. He could feel the eyes of the white men mocking his indecision. Fists clinched, he started walking toward the gate. Zaki turned, his hands still uplifted, spearhead pointing toward his chest, and watched the Englishman walk away. The rest of Zaki’s Hausas remained frozen, their backs toward the gate. Keys rattled as the stockade guard opened the iron padlock and turned the key. The gate open, the Englishman stepped out, the fate of twenty Hausa lives and thousands of American dollars depending on what he did next. Zaki and his people waited, their faces showing no emotion.

After a long pause, the Englishman shouted, Open it! Black devil! Open the gate! Build a fire next to the water! Move!

Zaki called his people around him and talked to them for the last time as their leader. He knew from this day forward, he would be just another black African for sale to the highest bidder.

My people. This is a sad day for your chief. Today you will become slaves to the Englishman who took you from your land and your families. Always, up to this day, you have looked to me and my fathers for guidance. Today, I release you from your loyalty pledge, so you can decide what you will do with the remainder of your lives. I ask you to follow your chief to the sands by the sea and cast your spearheads into the fire so I may honor my word. I also ask you to make an oath. Zaki said.

All eyes watched Zaki as he reached inside his djellaba and pulled out a necklace of lion’s claws. They all knew Zaki would have placed this Hausa sacred necklace around the neck of his son Damisa. Zaki held the necklace high so all could see.

This is the Sacred Sign of the Hausa chief. I have always known the white man would one day come to the land of our people. This is a new time. Before we left our village, I told my son to kill a lion and make a new necklace for the Hausas. This one I will take with me. One day our people will meet again and combine the two necklaces. I will pass this sacred necklace on to a son before I die. Damisa will do the same. Now, as we go into this strange new life, remain strong and remember our dream to return to our homeland.

Zaki saw the strain in the eyes of his people. The Hausas gathered closer around him as he produced a small, leather pouch in his other hand, the pouch of Hausa earth from their village.

In this pouch I carry village soil with us. I want you to help me protect the pouch and the sacred necklace and see that it remains with your chief. Someday we will mix this earth with earth from our village.

Zaki replaced the items in his djellaba and started for the gate. Nineteen Hausas followed their chief to the fire, the flickering flames once again casting black shadows across the land. Following Zaki’s example, one by one, the Hausas cast their spearheads into the fire, the Englishman looking on in anger. He knew these strong Hausas would demand high prices on the slave block. He also knew he must stifle his anger and resist the urge to whip this big Hausa leader once he returned to the stockade. Whip welts and scars would devalue him in the eyes of the American slave buyers. He settled for a smirking grin at Zaki as the gate slammed shut behind him, ending his proud life of freedom.

Inside the stockade, all returned to silence. Zaki and his Hausas waited for their new lives to begin. For the first time in their lives, they would sleep in hunger. For the first time in their lives, they would sleep without spears by their sides. Many years later battles in Pennsylvania, a president from Illinois and acts of a Congress he would never see would allow Zaki’s descendants to join together once more. The fires burned on, the one on the beach and the one is the heart of a once-powerful Hausa chief named Zaki.

CHAPTER FOUR

The slave port of Lagos was alive with activity. Men, dressed in white pants and shirts, white hats on their heads, bustled all around the town. Slaves not bought by local slave dealers filled the holds of slave ships bound for sales in America. Slavers tried to make last minute deals that would earn them handsome profits. Buyers jotted notes in notebooks, marking the size, strength, age, condition, and tribe of the stock they wanted to buy.

Zaki watched the new arrivals, noting the fear on their faces. He watched pregnant mothers laboring to soothe their nervous children. Some nursing babies couldn’t be more than a few days old, born on the African trails to Lagos or on riverboats transporting slaves to the sea. He heard the loud cracking of the port guards’ whips.

Zaki wondered where his people would land. He wondered how many would choose death over living a life of slavery. Because he gave his word to the Englishman to save the rest of his village, he would choose slavery.

The silence of Zaki’s inner world burst into a cacophony of sounds as the stockade gate swung open. Several white men entered the stockade, strode toward the platform, and began to arrange for the sale. Preferred buyers demanded chairs on the platform so they could sit in relative ease as they inspected the new stock. The Englishman joined these preferred buyers on the platform.

While Zaki stared at the cannon trained on the stockade gate, an obese white man waddled toward the enclosure. His oversized white pants flapped in the breeze beneath his large blue shirt. As he approached, Zaki saw the blue veins in his bulbous nose, sweat running down the sides of his bulging neck and face. Two little black boys tagged along behind him. They also wore white pants and blue and red shirts. The fat man patted the black boys on the head, smiling at them as he removed his straw hat and wiped his brow. The little boys pressed their heads against his bulging hips and hugged his fat legs. Zaki wondered about the relationship between the obese man and the little boys.

A rusty-haired white man stood on the platform and blew a whistle several times. The slave traders came to attention. The Hausa’s huddled together.

Shall we get started, gentlemen? We have a large and varied assortment of stock, along with these ninety Hausas! he bellowed. I’m sure you are all aware of the value of a prime Hausa, the tall ones from northeast Hausaland, he continued. He coughed and drank from a glass of water. The Englishman whispered to him and left the platform.

Let’s begin the sale, gentlemen. I know some of you are here to buy Hausas, so know which ones you want, and we shall move through this sale, the auctioneer shouted.

Zaki watched two men dressed in bright green uniforms work their way toward him. Carrying a box, they pushed and shoved their way through the frightened Hausas. Across their shoulders, they carried rifles.

When the two men reached Zaki, one of them reached into the box, pulled out a bright blue band, and placed it around Zaki’s arm.

The two men walked among the Hausas, glancing back at the platform. The Englishman stood at the edge of the platform, directing them through the slaves. They would stop, point at a black man, and the Englishman would either shake his head yes, or he would waive them on. Their blue bands gone, the uniformed guards herded the twenty chosen Hausas onto the platform and organized them into a line in front of the white men seated in chairs.

The auctioneer smiled at the Englishman. They shook hands, and the Englishman made his way to Zaki.

The auctioneer shouted, Gentlemen, the Biggs Plantation of Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.A. already bought these prime Hausa blacks. This small herd will cost Mr. Biggs of South Carolina more than 30,000 dollars, he boasted. He walked to where Zaki stood, squeezing his arms and legs.

Gentlemen, you won’t find better stock than this anywhere in the world, he roared.

From the middle of the group of white men facing the platform, a high-pitched, nasal, male voice shouted, Shuck him down!

Zaki looked at the obese white man with the red face and two little black boys by his side. The other slave traders roared with laughter. After the laughter died down, shouts filled the hot, dusty air.

Shuck him down! Shuck him down! Strip him! We want to see the goods! Let’s see what prime stock looks like!

The auctioneer looked at Zaki and then glanced at the Englishman. The crowd grew quiet.

The Englishman relished the idea of humiliating Zaki like he had humiliated him in front of the entire slave community in Lagos.

Take off your clothes, the Englishman shouted in Hausa.

For what purpose do you wish me to take off my clothes? Zaki asked in a commanding tone.

The buyers want to see what a black Hausa chief looks like in the raw, the Englishman gloated. He pointed at Zaki’s djellaba and motioned for him to remove it.

The religion of the Hausa people demands adults cover their flesh. Zaki said.

You have no religion now, Zaki. You are a slave. You will learn the religion of your owner when you reach the land across the sea, the Englishman answered. Now, take off your clothes!

Allow me to gather my people around me, and I will do as you command, Zaki answered.

The Englishman, not wanting to lose another challenge, granted the request with a gesture.

Zaki’s Hausas gathered around their shamed chief on the slave platform. He reached inside his djellaba and removed the pouch of Hausa earth and the necklace of lion’s claws. He handed both items to a strong, young Hausa about nineteen years old. The boy placed the items inside his own djellaba. None of the Hausas on the platform looked at their leader while he removed his clothes. Nor did the Hausas still standing on the ground in front of the platform. He handed his djellaba to the same young man who now held the sacred items of the people, and then the Hausas parted. Zaki walked to the front of the platform.

A muffled, nasal cry emanated from the obese, red-faced man as he pushed and shoved his way to the front of the platform, looking up at the powerful, naked Hausa chief.

I’ll pay $10,000 for this one! the sweaty, panting fat man called out.

Sorry, this one is sold, the auctioneer answered.

You’d better stick to the young ones, mister! a laughing voice blared. This one would tear you into four normal-sized men!

The white buyers laughed and shouted obscenities at the fat man. He pouted and waddled to the back of the crowd, his two little black boys still hanging onto his enormous trousers, all eyes gazing at him in disgust.

Zaki stood motionless on the platform, ashamed for the first time in his life. His people kept their heads bowed, not wishing to add to his shame. Black slaves from other tribes also looked away, showing their respect.

After several minutes of humiliation, Zaki regained his clothes. Once again his people surrounded him. He retrieved his djellaba and placed the sacred items inside, squeezing the pouch of earth, remembering his promise to his people.

The Englishman barked orders, and the two men in green uniforms herded the Hausas from the platform. The auctioneer began the auction as Zaki and his people followed the Englishman to the port of Lagos. When they reached the port, Zaki and his tribesmen saw the cages and cells of various sizes. They filed into a large cage; the door slammed shut behind them. Two armed guards stood at each end of the cage.

Tell the cook to prepare food for twenty Hausas, Tim, the Englishman yelled to a boy aboard the ship. The boy ran below deck. The Englishman climbed the gangplank.

Zaki glanced at the name on the bow of the ship, Na’imah, a Hausa word meaning enjoying the bounty of God. He faced northeast, thinking of his family. Hours later he watched the sun set beyond the ship until it became a dark silhouette against a pink sky.

Just after the sun set, two men emerged from the belly of the ship carrying a large iron pot suspended on long poles. The guards opened the gate. The Shipmates placed the pot on the ground in the center of the cage. The young boy Zaki had seen earlier on the ship’s deck came into the cage carrying a sack over his shoulder. He placed twenty wooden bowls on the ground near the iron pot. This done, the two men and the boy returned to the ship. The two uniformed guards took their positions on each side of the cage.

Zaki walked to the iron pot and removed the heavy lid. Dust boiled when the lid hit the ground. The aroma of stew filled the night air. The men gathered around the pot. The five Hausa girls, ages twelve to sixteen, filled bowls with stew and placed them in front of the men. The stew contained vegetables and large chunks of dark meat. The Englishman wanted his cargo well-fed before they sailed. Weak stock could prevent a sale.

When the men had their fill, the women fed themselves. The hot stew soothed their nagging bellies. The men gathered and discussed the unknown days ahead. The women huddled by themselves in one corner of the cage. The men didn’t reject them; it was their custom. They wondered what would become of their customs.

As darkness enveloped the town of Lagos, the Englishman appeared on deck. He walked arrogantly down the gangplank to the cage. He ordered the two guards to light the torches, one on each corner of the cell, commanding them to be extra alert. Slave thieves prowled the streets at night. The penalty for stealing a slave in Lagos was the same as stealing a horse in South Carolina, death. However, this failed to discourage serious thieves. The Englishman returned to the belly of his ship.

The next morning, before the sun broke over the horizon, the stubby Englishman exited from the belly of the ship, stretching and yawning and wiping his bloodshot eyes. He walked to the edge of the ship and urinated into the harbor. This done he began shouting orders and testing the wind. The time had come to load his human cargo and break for the open sea.

The two guards who had watched the cage throughout the night opened the cage door and herded the slaves aboard ship.

Luckier than most slaves packed into the holds of ships making the middle passage, Zaki’s Hausas would avoid this during their journey to Cuba.

The guards herded the Hausas down a stairway into the belly of the ship. A narrow hallway guided them into a hold about 100 feet long and the width of the ship. The fifteen men, shackled hands and feet on one side of the hold, watched the five girls chained on the opposite side. Each Hausa tested the strength of his shackles as the guards moved to the next slave. The chains prevented movement more than two feet in any direction. A single trough ran down the center of the hold, smelling of the human waste of the ship’s crew, overwhelming the Hausas. Some lost the stew they had eaten the night before, adding to the putrefying smell clamping down on the hold.

The slaves chained in place, the Englishman entered, smirking at Zaki when their eyes met. He held a cat-of-nine-tails in his right hand, stroking the leather strands through his free hand, making sure the Hausas saw the lead weights on the ends. He knew he had succeeded in sending his silent message and began to speak, the smirk still on his face. The Hausas could understand some of his Hausa pronunciations, but they understood all of his inflection and body language.

From this moment on, you are slaves, the Englishman began, the expression on his face showing he would not last long in the slaves’ dungeon.

You will eat and drink once a day on the journey. If anyone tries to break his chains, it will be a sorry day for him, the Englishman continued. He slammed the cat-of-nine-tails