Sunrise at Dusk: A Story of Love and Slavery

By J.A. Adamson

Adama is a teenage slave of African descent living in the Nigerian village of Apa. Like many others in the land, he has not had the privilege of being loved, by either his parents or owners. As a string of masters leave him feeling confused, he meets an older slave boy who changes everything.

Born without privilege or promise, Akan is gifted with an infectious smile and haunted by a never-ending yearning for freedom. When Adama notices Akan’s suffering as he weeps alone in the forest, he offers him an ear of parched corn and a kind word. In that moment, the boys become friends and Adama pledges to be Akan’s guardian angel until they become men. Adama has already accepted that someone in his position in life must sacrifice pleasure and love. Akan, however, is determined in his pursuit of love and to fulfill his desires. As their opposing views of love conflict with the rules of slavery, now only time will tell what will happen to two slaves who dare to question their circumstances and whether they are worthy of love.

Sunrise at Dusk is a poignant story of sacrifice, the pursuit of happiness, and of great friendship and love as two young slaves become friends amid challenging conditions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665596398

J.A. Adamson

J. A. Adamson is a software engineer by day, and an avid reader and writer by night. Sunrise at Dusk is his debut novel.

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© 2022 J.A. Adamson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/21/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9640-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9641-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9639-8 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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About the Author

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Once upon a time there was a man of African descent…

Please forgive my untamed desire to begin my story this way. One must admit that it is a classic that promises to whet the appetite in predictable ways. It prepares our minds and hearts for the story to be told and ensure that we do not miss the little details that make it all worthwhile.

This story, as much as it is for our man of African descent, is also my story. It is a story of sacrifice, of the pursuit of happiness, and of great friendship and love.

What qualifies one for the honour of being called a great friend? Is it the giving up of oneself in a sacrifice of great consequence? Is it when something invariably proves to be ominous to one’s health and well-being in a near or distant future on someone else’s account? I do not know if I can be called a great friend. Well, not by any standards I can think of. My love and sacrifice are not known to many, save the two for whom they were given. Like any love story worth telling, theirs too is filled with sacrifices, hurt, pain, opposition, hurdles to jump, and bridges to cross (and burn, if need be). Most importantly, their story tells a tale of love. It isn’t likely to be told by anyone other than me, for I alone am left to tell it. I tell it in the hopes that it will be retold to the few whom it would benefit. So permit me to tell it as best as I can, and I in turn will let it pass under your scrutiny.

The present is nothing without an understanding of the past. The destination is not at all what it seems and is never fully appreciated without the journey. The great love stories that stick in the mind and leave us all in pensive moods are the ones that end tragically, and mine sure seems to end that way, seeing as I alone am left to tell it or prove it ever happened. But tragedy in this case is a matter of perspective. I’ll leave it to you to decide as well.

I am of African descent, born at the time when Africa and the country of the two great rivers were just making their introduction to the known world, having been left behind in a blinding darkness that engulfed the minds and hearts of its inhabitants. Untold wealth and riches, known only to a few, were lying fallow beneath our feet and way beyond the reach of the greedy and callous who now walk amongst us. This was the time when our heads were bowed every other day in reverence to some deity, represented by a ruler who did his bidding on earth. This ruler, whether we knew this to be true or not, often seemed to decide our fates without so much as a second thought and was ready with a sentence that favoured all but the one whose life was staked. We could never confirm our fears, for to question this ruler’s judgment was punishable by death.

This was also the time when our farewells in the dead of night, before we headed for our bamboo beds and parted with our loved ones, were of perfect uncertainty. I can still hear them whispered along with a tight hug or a warm handshake: I hope we see tomorrow, but if we don’t, may we meet again in the presence of the gods, never to part again.

This was usually followed by a response also filled with uncertainty about a future only a couple of hours away from the sun rising: And if it be that we are not taken by death, yet I cannot see you tomorrow, then I wish you well wherever the gods lead you.

Such pessimism and obvious lack of faith were brought on by the slave trade. I said my fair share of those farewells, and I heard enough of them to last a lifetime. Sooner or later our fatal predictions and sad premonitions were justified, for one in ten of us vanished days later without a trace or reasonable explanation. This only strengthened our resolve not to question the deity’s mouthpiece or his decision to leave such disappearances unexplained. All that was left to do in the end was bid one another farewell in the manner that we had been so cruelly taught—in resignation to our fate and abandonment of all hope.

But mine was not as precarious a position, and my situation was not as dire. No. I whispered the farewells too, not in resignation like the others but to not be considered unempathetic. I was a slave, like many others in the land where I lived. I did not have the privilege of being especially loved—by parents whose affection was unconditional, or by owners whose affection was meant to be earned.

After a string of masters with whom I had no luck, my master was none other than the chief priest himself—the deity’s mouthpiece who could not be questioned, cautioned, or queried. I was arguably the best servant to this man and his wives for whom secrets were non-existent when wine and the intoxicating contents of big calabashes were rapidly emptied into bulging stomachs. I knew the secrets he intended to be kept from the people of Apa. I knew the explanations they deserved. But I dared not offer them for any price, and in return I was afforded my freedom to serve without fear. This left me both content with my fate and earnest for the future that seemed certain, but also guilty for knowing and concealing the truth behind my countrymen’s sufferings. It was in this rather confusing state that I met Akan.

Akan was a slave like me, born without privilege or promise. He was not always in our village. From what little he remembered of his rough childhood, he had been sold to as many masters as needed work done and had been reclaimed as many times as he had tried to escape his given fate. Finally, he was here in Apa, and with him the proof of his troubled existence.

It was not difficult identifying a slave. After some regrettable experience or other, each owner inevitably branded his property with a unique, distinguishing mark. This mark was very soon nullified upon sale of the slave, as the new owner branded a mark of his own. Some marks were made not necessarily to show ownership but to punish, at the master’s pleasure, any perceived notions of freedom in the mind of the slaves. By the time I met Akan, his back was like a canvas that told an awful story about human nature. Every whip and red-hot branding iron that once sank into his skin left marks to be seen once he turned his back.

But Akan was not without blessings. He stood taller than most, even most of the men who wielded the whip. He had a full crown of hair, and his skin, now baked, did more than just try to hide the scars on his back. It also did well to make his features altogether desirable. His smile after a decent meal was infectious, as was the glow in his eyes that told any perceptive person that he yearned for freedom and would soon attempt to gain it despite past failures. There was a look of destiny about him that was soon forgotten once he spoke, for he was vulgar in speech and unreserved in his conduct. His looks, met with his personality, invariably turned his blessing into his curse. He was the object on which jealous masters and their heirs vented their frustrations. One fanciful look from any woman of beauty—a wife or betrothed, or the object of the heir’s desire—guaranteed Akan many strokes of a bamboo cane, whether he knew of it or not.

I remember the day I met him. It had rained heavily all day, and the sky was still dark with clouds promising to empty their store any moment. But that didn’t deter my master, the chief priest, from trotting passionately into the forest, with me trying to keep up. He had called for a general sacrifice weeks earlier to thank the gods for the rain, and was not going to allow the same gift for which he was grateful to be the reason for his lack of devotion. We started back home hours after the rites had been performed and the sacrifices offered in order of families and their wealth in relation to the gift of rain.

My master was giddy with delight, and he did little to hide it. There was a spring in his step and a grin on his face, and his swinging staff was pointed home to a night of blissful drinking.

I trotted behind, much slower than before, carrying on my head a fraction of the various foods offered that day. I would come for the rest much later if the rain permitted, or at the first light of the morning.

Then we saw Akan. He had just come out of the bushes and was more startled than we were. He had little time to regain his composure, forcing my master to speak first.

What has become of the slaves in this kingdom? my master asked.

He turned to me with obvious surprise. Have the liberties afforded you animals gotten to your heads, or have we overfed you to the point that you lose the little sense that has been beaten into you?

I stood speechless, unable to answer or defend the boy, who, upon realizing his grave error, knelt and bowed his head. His face almost sank into the muddy puddle in front of him.

The insolence and nerve of this slave to stand where I stand is causing me a headache. I must know who your master is.

I’m sorry, master, the boy said, never lifting his head. I was caught unawares by your sudden appearance. Forgive me, wise one.

I thought there was a crack in the boy’s voice, and it seemed his mission in the wet bushes was not one of a pleasurable outcome. He could not have been more than fifteen years old. There was little doubt that he had been crying when he lifted his head, probably to ascertain whether his apology had been accepted or not. As he looked from my master to me with obvious fright in those big, red, teary eyes, I felt genuine pity for him. Even though he was at least three years older than I,

Reviews for Sunrise at Dusk

[Solomon Tersoo · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Undying love in the face of an unyielding culture! Wow. Hits the spot. Well done J.A. Adamson. Hope this gets made into a movie.