Camino Ghosts

“I was tired and a bit wasted. Sorry. We’ll catch up in Scotland.”

“If I can wait that long.”

“Hold that thought.”

4

Nalla was nineteen when her short happy life changed forever. She and her husband, Mosi, had one child, a three-year-old boy. They were of the Luba tribe and lived in a village in the southern part of the Kingdom of Kongo.

The village was asleep. The night was quiet when loud, panicked voices cut through the darkness. A hut was on fire and people were yelling. Nalla awoke first, then shook Mosi. Their son was asleep on a rug between them. Along with everyone else, they ran to the fire to help, but it was far worse than a fire. It was a raid. The fire was deliberately set by a murderous gang from another tribe that had previously tended to their own business. Now they were known as slave hunters. They attacked from the jungle with clubs and whips and began pummeling the villagers. As seasoned marauders, they knew their victims would be too stunned and disorganized to fight back. They beat them, subdued them, and chained them, but they were careful to kill as few as possible. They were too valuable to kill. The elderly were left behind to care for the children, who, in a matter of minutes, became orphans. The women screamed and wailed for their children, who were nowhere to be found. They had been led away to the jungle where they would be released the following day. Small children were worth little to the slave traders.

Nalla screamed for Mosi but he did not answer. In the darkness, the men were separated from the women. She screamed for her little boy and when she could not stop screaming, an attacker struck her with a club. She fell down and felt blood on her jaw. In the light of the fire she could see men armed with long machetes and knives shoving and herding the villagers, her friends and neighbors. They shouted harsh commands and threatened to kill anyone who disobeyed. The fire grew in size and got louder. Nalla was knocked to the ground again, then ordered to get up and walk toward the jungle. There were about a dozen women chained together, almost all of them young mothers who cried and yelled for their children. They were ordered to shut up, and when they kept crying a man with a whip lashed them.

When they were away from the village and deep in the jungle, they stopped in an opening where an oxcart was waiting. It was filled with chains, cuffs, and shackles. The women wore only their usual loincloth around their waists. These were stripped off, leaving them naked. The assailants hooked iron cuffs around their necks and clamped them tight. One neck cuff was chained to the other a few feet away, and when they began walking again single file the women were linked together so that if one tried to run away, the entire line would stumble and fall.

But the women were too terrified to run. The jungle was dense and pitch-black. They knew it well and knew its dangers, especially at night. The oxcart led the way with a teenage bandit guiding it, a torch in one hand, the reins in the other. Two other armed raiders escorted the women, one in the lead, the other in the rear, both with whips. When the women tired of crying they plodded on; the only sounds at times were the rattles of the chains.

They were aware of other movements in the jungle. Perhaps others from their village being led away. Perhaps their husbands, fathers, and brothers. When they heard the men’s voices, all of the women immediately began calling the names of their loved ones. Their captors cursed them and cracked the whips. The voices of the men faded away.

The oxcart stopped at a creek, one the women knew well because they used it for bathing and washing clothes. The captors said they would stop for the night and ordered the women to gather by the oxcart. They were still chained together, and after an hour the neck cuffs were rubbing sores on their skin. A heavier chain was tied to a wheel of the oxcart and looped around the necks of two of the women. The captives were secured for the night.

The teenage boy built a small fire and cooked a pot of red rice. He mixed in cassava leaves and okra, and when it was ready he and the other two men had dinner, eating from the same wooden spoon. The women were too tired and frightened to be hungry, but they watched the men eat because there was nothing else to watch. They huddled together, their chains rattling with every small movement. They whispered among themselves and grieved for their children and husbands.

Would they ever go home again?

There had been rumors of slave hunters in the northern part of the country, but they were still too far away to worry about. The ruler of their village had met with other tribes and heard the warnings. He had ordered the men to keep their weapons close at night and take precautions when hunting and fishing.