Owen's Mystery Story

            by Owen Hillis

 

            Being behind bars is a nightmare. I don’t mean the prisons you’re familiar with. Those are a carnival compared to what I’ve been through. You’d think after centuries of slavery, humanity would have learned its lesson. As far as I can tell, it’s a facade. The apology, I mean. The “recognition” of their mistake. People label it as being something in the past and hope it will drop out of history. Society’s relationship to enslavement right now is like a kid who’s just escaped from some drug-addicted parents. Yes, it’s not you personally who are responsible for the past, after all, you weren’t born yet. But at the same time, the problem still exists. You’re in a direct relationship with the problem and even though you can’t control other people’s actions, that doesn’t mean you can’t help them get back on track. You, as a human being on this earth, need to realize and take responsibility for the horrors of the species. I heard a pretty fitting statement once. “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

            I guess that’s not really fair of me to say. Sorry. Understand, though, that until a few days ago, that topic was my entire life. Slavery still exists very much today, but most people don’t even realize it. This isn't an ordeal like life-service to a king, this is forced labor. Do a task or get whipped.

Notice that I said “most people.” A few days ago, I would have included everyone in my accusations, because that’s all I knew. The only access to information about the outside world I’ve ever had was from overhearing people passing by, fragments of conversation, a reference on the television or radio, but two nights ago, while we were passing through a town called Berkeley, I was freed. Someone out there knew about our torture and actually gave a damn.

It was sometime during the late evening. A smuggling truck similar to the ones I had been carried around in before pulled up. A team of people climbed out and  approached us. At first I thought that my captors had sold us to someone or hired a team to teach us some other job we could do, but I soon realized that my captors certainly were not happy to see them come. They exchanged some very angry dialog that I couldn't understand and finally the new group got ready to move us.

Before I continue, I need to explain how we were being held. My entire group, slaves, oppressors, guards - some people I still don't know what they were there for, but everyone seemed to regard them as a normal part of the operation, so I assume they did something important - anyway, my entire group was always on the move. I thought we might have been a pack for hire, except we always did the same thing. It didn't make sense to me, but I'll explain that in a little bit. The point is that we were always moving, from one city to another. Hell, I think we even traveled between countries. Because of this, there was rarely a holding facility for us to be locked in, so we were kept in a mobile jail-cell structure that was pulled by a giant truck. It looked like a cargo box from the outside, but if you looked closely, you'd notice ventilation. There was a window in the front of the cell, but it was normally blocked by the truck. This particular night, of course, I used it to notice our liberators' approach.

Freedom, after a life of imprisonment, could be intimidating if it wasn't so incredible. I was captured and taken away from my family while I was very young. I wish I could tell you how young, but my community never really kept track of the years, as far as I can remember. In fact, I wouldn't be able to tell you what life used to be like because my capture is one of my only fairly coherent memories from the past. Aside from it, I only have mixed images and feelings: looking up and being blinded by the sun, my mother cleaning an injury I had on... my neck, I think... and my father yelling at someone. After the capture, though, my life did a full scale rotation from heaven to hell. The only thing I can remember about the ship ride over here was being beaten unconscious more times than I can count. When we arrived, Goliath and I, though I didn't know him at the time, were put into the cell that was to be our home. Our cells were separated down the middle at first, but we were later allowed to share the cell after proving we would co-operate.

Life in this compound was horrifying and enormously bizarre. At first, we didn't move very much at all, this was when the worst would happen. A few mornings after we had arrived, they took Goliath out of the cell, and didn't return for hours. When he got back, he didn't make eye contact with me. He just started pacing the cage, staring at nothing. They told me it was my turn.

I was led into a large room with only a stool in it. Being left alone, I just sat down. A few minutes later, a man I had seen walking around the compound entered carrying a whip. I rose to my feet and took a few steps back. I would later learn that the purpose of this training was to break my spirit.

They'd whip me, hit me, do anything to make me mad, anything that would make me attack or lash out. When I'd do that, they would hit me with a mild electrical shock from a wand that our breaker carried. This went on for weeks. The only reason Goliath and I were able to keep our sanity was because we had each other.

From then on, things just got more and more confusing. By now the shock room was only a punishment used when we stepped out of line. Goliath and I were allowed to stay together during whatever they'd ask of us, but that proved to have problems of its own. When you're in a situation like ours, there's an overload of confusion, frustration, and rage going unanswered and unexpressed. I wasn't nearly as aggressive as Goliath was, so I kept it inside, but he would sometimes snap and let it out on me. It wasn't anything too dangerous; he just had a lot of anger, and sometimes I'd get a little too near him while we were working and he'd lash out. Whenever he had an outburst, I felt awful. It wasn't his violence towards me that made me so worried, I could handle Goliath myself, it was knowing he'd be dragged off to the shock room and the look that he'd have in his eyes.

The best way to describe our events and tasks was training. This actually occurred to me when I realized that we were asked to give out what I could only comprehend was a battle cry. I thought back to everything we'd done: we'd had to go through physical conditioning, and in fact were always fed a strict diet to maintain health and power, but I had always thought that it was toning to make us strong for work. The fact is, though, nothing we did seemed to be real work or jobs at all. It was all just turning us into fierce, hostile, warriors.

What I couldn't grasp was why they had picked Goliath and me. We were dangerous and ferocious, but there were only two of us. If they needed such a small addition, the compound owners themselves had already proved to be technologically superior to us. Either way, our training continued as if we had an army of thousands.

Periodically, I had noticed an inspector would show up to check on our progress. They would have us demonstrate a war cry, mark our growth, examine our arms, and overall physical health. One day, after two months of training, our inspector and sergeant had an extra long discussion about us, and both seemed to bid farewell to the other for good. Whatever we were being trained for, it looked like preparations were almost complete.

I didn't think that just because of the inspector's leave. For the next few days, there was a nervous yet excited air around the compound. People would scurry about trying to find someone or hurry to practice for a maneuver or strategy. Then, for the first time since we had arrived, they used the wheels on the bottom of our prison.

We drove for days, pausing at night to sleep and being fed at rest stops. In the early morning before the sun came up we'd start again. This continued until very early one morning we arrived at our destination. The group started setting up a temporary base of operations and we had a quick, furious, and improvised training session. Goliath and I were moved into an outdoor cell with three solid walls but one barred one that we could see out of, though I wouldn't understand why till later.

Around mid-afternoon new faces started showing up. People I'd never seen before began pouring into our camp. Most of them seemed to be distinguished military leaders themselves, inspecting our various soldiers, facilities, and equipment. Along with many leaders came young students of theirs, who all had bright spirited faces, eager to fight but young enough to play. Many of them took an interest in Goliath and I, who I had determined were going to be the “secret weapons” due to our elite preparation.

Personnel came and went for several hours until we were finally summoned. Our sergeant led us out of our cell and into a prep room. My heart was pounding, Goliath still looked stern and intimidating, but I could tell that even he was scared on the inside.

After what seemed like hours but ended up only being 20 minutes, we were called to action. Our sergeant led us out into an enormous arena packed with the same personnel who had been observing us. They applauded wildly at finally getting a chance to see us in action. Goliath and I scanned the arena for our competitors, but that idea quickly changed to temporary confusion as our sergeant led us through our usual training routine and inspection. I was the first to figure out that we still weren't here to fight. We were being sold.

The group traveled around the country, from town to town, searching for buyers for Goliath and I. Fortunately, we never had a chance to fight in whatever great war we were being prepped for. This squad of liberators with blue and red flashing lights transferred Goliath and I into their own vehicle and even apprehended a few of our oppressors. Additionally, they confiscated a few of our weapons - cannons which were used to launch our own men at the enemy – I had seen them practicing.

It took a week of detainment to get back to Africa, but we didn't have to do any more training or punishment, and we could stand a little more if it meant being free afterward. I spent the rest of my life on a wildlife reserve. I found another pride to call family and spent the rest of my days hunting prowling the plains, hunting gazelle, and forgetting I ever had the nickname “Simba.”