Excerpt from "Cold Black Night"

Cold Black Night:

The Johnson’s plantation had more than sixty field slaves, fifteen house slaves and they all shared three cabins. The big house was right in the center of the plantation; Mr. Johnson liked to make sure everybody was working. Johnson was relentlessly vile; he beat slaves and overseers alike if he figured they weren't doing an adequate enough job. One-time Mr. Johnson beat Ekwueme’s little brother, Solomon, so badly that he went blind; he cracked his skull with an iron skillet. Solomon was talking to a house slave that Mr. Johnson was quite fond of, a profound fondness, one could say, which caused him to almost kill a man. “Nigger, you best stay in ya place. Keep them eyes of yours on ya work, boy. You just itching foe a chance to stick that big black nigger dick in her, ain’t ya?” He screamed those words as he struck Solomon every time he tried standing up, he just struck him harder. This image of love he had was more distorted then distortion could ever be—“For whom the Lord loveth he chastenth, and he scourgeth every son whom he receives.” So, out of love Mr. Johnson beat Solomon until all he could do was lay face down in his own blood, “It’s to teach you a lesson boy, you best know ya place.”

Pride less, powerless, now blind, he laid. Mr. Johnson spoke some muttered words, but Solomon could not hear him over the blood. “From the dirt, it then started talking to me” Solomon thought, “It told me freedom is nearby, and that I sholl better get ready.” In that talking blood, his face drenched in red, he laid there waiting for death’s soothing touch. “Swing low, sweet chariot, come forth carry me home” he sang in perfect peace, it was odd how peaceful it was. Mr. Johnson was not yelling, the slaves were singing a melody in the distance, there was a butterfly that landed in Solomon's blood. They sang “The fare is cheap and all can go, the rich and poor are there, no second class board this train, no difference in the fare. Get on board children, children, get on board.” Then right there, from the blood a train arose, it came to take Solomon away, it came like that of a chariot. Solomon only heard the loud roar of the engine, the churning of the wheels and the smell of the charcoal. Where was it taking Solomon you ask? Solomon had no idea either, he had no idea that his brother was on board that train. 

Blind, all Solomon could hear was the voice of a man singing “The blood still works, the blood still works.” Solomon stumbled trying to get up, the floor beneath his feet seemed to be moving on its own, he grabbed the railing, caressing those cold metal bars. They were all that seemed to be supporting him right now, those cold lifeless bars gave him the most comfort he ever received. As he looked through those bars with his blank, bloodshot eyes, he couldn’t see much of anything. He felt a hand rest on his left shoulder, rough and callus, yet loving and gentle.

Tears started to flow from his eyes, he cried profusely, his tears wet the weathered floor. Solomon’s hand ran across that floor, the feet of slaves graced this floor once. How that floor was once flooded by tears, slaves that never imagined freedom, slaves that had to leave mother, brother, child behind; did they cry tears of joy or tears of pain? Did they fall softly like a bite of Mama Ruth’s cornbread or did they crash like June Bug after trying to ride that horse? The man that touched Solomon’s shoulder spoke “It’s been a long time since I’se seen you. You was a lil ole thang when they snatched you from my arms. Now looked at you boy, big and strong.” Solomon knew that voice, that was the voice of his brother, “Timothy, Mr. Johnson hurt me bad, he….” Ekwueme, lovingly placed his finger over his little brother’s lips, “Say no mo’, Obi. I understand what happened to you, and we gone get em back. I promise.”