September 11, 1861















Mood: Afraid

Dear Diary,

I’m sitting here in a ship, on a bench (bed) worrying about what the man with the white powdered face will do to me. He scares me so much, that when he comes close, I jump like the time our tribe was invaded. The man gives me a minute piece of bread, and water in a milk top. I was grateful for that because my mother and father didn’t receive anything. Sometimes when I starve, they give me their meal. I wasn’t full, but it’ll do for now.

They didn’t separate my mother or father from me. They put us next to each other, side by side. Hopefully, it stays like this.


September 12, 1861














Mood: Confused

Dear Diary,


Why is this happening to me? Is it because of my skin color, my rusty African accent, or are these people just so monstrous? Today I had nothing to eat. It feels like millions of horses are trampling inside of me. I’ve never felt so hungry. My mother is sleep right now, and my father is chanting old African songs. I don’t know what got into him? I think he’s becoming crazy. He’s been talking to himself, and having conversations with my deceased grandmother.

I don’t know what this ship does to people, but I know is that I’m getting sea sick. The constant feeling of waves beneath my feet, fishes swimming carelessly, and sharks waiting for another body to be thrown aboard.



September 13, 1861















Mood: Cowardly

Dear Diary,


My mom was taken away about while ago. I was screaming my lungs off; I thought my voice would be disconnected the next day. When they take a women slave away, they throw her aboard if she’s useless. My mother suffered from the flu at the time, and the white men obviously didn’t want her to get everyone else ill. When she was being swept away, she whispered fiercely that “she’ll be with me”.
I was nothing without my mother. She was my crutch my whole 13 years of life. When the mean men dragged her out the door, I went ballistic. I begin to bang my head, bang the chains that were suffocating my wrists, and yell like there was no tomorrow. An hour has passed, and I am drained from the screaming. But then I heard something. I heard my mothers’ beautiful voice, saying “I love you Abrafo.” She said my name like never before. Then, screaming that faded downwards, followed by a heartless splash.
Within a day, my mother became a worm on a fishing rod. BATE!