Spring 1814 – A Message from a Jumbahbe

I felt its eyes before I saw its face. The feather touch of a distant watcher on the back of my neck prompted me to turn to search the crowd. Bright sun beat on the skins of slaves and slave traders, drawing out sweat and making them glisten. My watcher did not glisten. Its skin was dry as stone. Its simple garments told me that it was not a purchaser and the expression on its face told me that it was no slave of men.