The Weeping Post

The sun beat down. It lashed like a cat-o-nine tails on to the white stone floor of the market square, and ricocheted back in to itself, like boiling water in a cooking pot. Joseph stood, leaning against the post in the middle of the square; his handsome face and thin frame burning under the sunlight. His only respite from the heat was a welcome breeze from the Trade Winds as they rushed in from the Atlantic Ocean.

 

As he looked into the harbour, he could see boats, large and small, vying for position on the dock, as the wind caught their sails. He could hear the whip-cracking sound of rope against masts and the distant squawk of Pelicans as they argued over fish amongst the white horses in the bay. Joseph could smell the fresh fish as it cooked on outdoor stoves, and he watched the old men of the village, gathered under the heavy shade of a large palm, that stood, guardian-like, at the corner of the square. They ate rice and fish and, as the sun marched towards its highest point, they waved their arms at each other in animated conversation, and small children played in the sand at their feet. A tear fell from Joseph’s eye as he was reminded of home.

 

Many years before, when Joseph was a young man, he would sit under a sprawling Baobab tree in his village and listen to the Elders as his son played in the cool sand. Samuel was only six years old and he was the most precious thing in the world to Joseph. He was clearly a very intelligent child and Joseph always hoped that he might, one day, leave the village to attend school and gain a good education. He dreamed of great success and happiness for his son. Joseph also knew that one day he would become Village Chief and destiny dictated that Samuel would eventually succeed him, as it should be; as it had been for generations; as it always would be.

 

As the daydream ended, Joseph felt his legs give way momentarily. Even the fresh Trade Winds offered little comfort now. He was hungry and thirsty. He tried to swallow but tasted only salt as he licked his cracked lips. Even the scavenging dogs were able to sit in the shade and feed on left overs. Joseph raised his head and prayed for the sun to signal midday so that Market could start before he died of exhaustion.

 

His spirits were briefly lifted as, slowly, a small crowd began to gather in the square. There were some people he recognised; many he did not. As the crowd grew Joseph noticed the beautiful, gleaming white suits worn by some of the traders, which seemed to make their dark Mediterranean faces appear even more tanned and golden. Their wives carried elaborately decorated parasols and to Joseph they were the Kings and Queens of all they surveyed. Some of the children jostled their way to the front of the crowd, for a better view. Rich men from the countryside stood beside fascinated and fearful villagers and fishermen.

 

But Joseph’s vision was becoming blurred from the sweat dripping off his forehead. He was finding it difficult to breathe in the heat and the irons were digging into his wrists. He tried to focus on something; something to keep him alive; something to give him hope. But all he could hear as the crowd fell silent, was the whip-crack of ropes against a ship’s mast, and he drifted into unconsciousness.

 

It had been very early one morning when the soldiers had come. Samuel was still sleeping and Joseph was tending to the cattle, when he heard screams from the women in the village. Ten men on horseback, with guns and such brightly polished brass buttons on red tunics, rode into the village. Without a fight, they clamped irons on Joseph and the other young men of the village, including 10 year old Samuel who, despite his fathers’ desperate pleas, was tied with them, behind a horse and dragged away. After walking all day with no water, they were herded, with many others from the surrounding villages, into a ship’s hold. Joseph held on tightly to his son for seven days and seven nights. 

 

Samuel’s mother had died during childbirth and he had no memory of her. His father was all he knew and everything he aspired to be. He loved and trusted his father, but could not understand why they had left the village where he had spent his whole life. He promised himself that whatever happened he would never forget what his father had done for him.

 

When the ship eventually docked, Joseph and Samuel were amongst the first to be marched across the beach to a beautiful market square with a white stone floor. In the centre of the square stood a tall, thin, white stone post, raised on two steps, that seemed to point directly to heaven. Joseph and his son were led through the gathered crowd of immaculately dressed traders and onlookers. Samuel was dazzled by sunlight dancing off the bright materials. Frightened and captivated by the strangers looking at him, he imagined that one day he might be educated and wealthy enough to wear such fine garments. Then, still holding on to each other, Joseph and Samuel were chained to the stone post and a short, fat, bearded man climbed the steps and started the bidding.

 

Before he knew what was happening, Samuel was being unchained and wrestled from his father’s grasp by the bearded man. He was screaming and crying. But Joseph could do neither as shock gripped him. He tried to reach out to his son, but the irons tore skin from his wrists. Joseph could only watch while his son was handed over to a white-suited man and a woman, holding a parasol. Then, in a moment which seemed to hang in the air like a wave at its peak before it crashes to the sea, the woman turned and looked Joseph straight in the eye. She seemed to be crying, but she smiled the warmest smile Joseph had ever seen. Joseph could touch the compassion, sincerity and hope on her face. His heart swelled before the woman turned back and led his son away. He never saw Samuel again.

 

For twenty long years, Joseph worked hard for his Master on a plantation in the hills. From dawn till dusk he worked in the fields. He slept in the same place as the animals. He ate the same food as the animals. He was given no pay and he was beaten if he spoke out of turn. Joseph rarely spoke.

 

As the years went by Joseph grew thin and weak. Even though he was completely exhausted, he would lie awake at night thinking about his home and his son. He cried so hard his tears melted the sand beneath his face and he yearned so loudly he feared his very loneliness might wake his Master.

 

But, as Joseph was clinging to life, not one week before, his Master had died of age and illness. So, when an old, fat, bearded man climbed the steps to the white post, and the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Joseph knew it was time for the bidding to begin.

 

Joseph drifted in and out of consciousness. He could hear the crowd murmuring their discontent. Joseph was in no fit state to work and the crowd knew it. His legs finally gave way and he fell towards the floor, only to be held up by the rusted irons clamped to his wrists above his head. To die here, now, or in a few days in a field somewhere back in the hills, made no difference to Joseph. A lone Pelican flew overhead. He heard it call out as though mocking his misfortune. The Trade Winds blew sea salt into his eyes, and tears of pain rolled down his face, stinging his cracked, burned, black skin.

 

In the distance he heard a man’s voice shout “400 Escudos”. He strained to catch a glimpse of his potential new Master, but he could see nothing through the crowd.

 

As he hung from the white post, weeping and dying, he heard the jangling of keys and felt a firm hand gripping his body. And as the irons were released he collapsed, not to the floor, but into the arms of a strong, black man wearing a soft white suit.

 

Joseph looked into the man’s handsome face and saw tears in his eyes.

 

“Why are you crying Master?” Joseph asked.

 

“Because I have found my father” said the man.

 

And with every ounce of strength he had left in his body, Joseph embraced his son and whispered,

 

“Samuel”.