I wrote this poem inspired from seeing David Olusoga’s coverage of Sierra Leone’s Buncle Island in his book and documentary series Black and British: A Forgotten History. The video below will explain more.
The screams of Bunce Island
have finally found their form
and it’s barely a whisper –
a whimper on the forest floor –
they treat them like dogs.
Though they’re good enough
to rape. Cremating chastity
in the shack that sits over there.
It’s a game of cat and mouse –
the mansion men are howler monkeys,
The Rape House’s wooden walls
like a box to bury them in –
out in the yard the chains crawl,
jingling. Master’s mouth salivating,
ribs throbbing. It’s July, but they wouldn’t
know that based on the sky’s high fever –
parched animals looking like
master’s wrath, Britannia
flying flags like tablecloth in
the sight of the British imagination.
A slave was killed today. They didn’t
know her name. Her scream slowed
to a boil in the face of king and country,
skin flapping like the tail of a dinner jacket –
for a moment, they thought it might never
come to an end. But it does, in heavy hands
on the top of heavy heads and soon
she is half the woman she was.
What a horrid sight, her body
wrapped like a carcass ready
to be submerged – same as the
slaves that jumped from ships.
The rain falls from the sky
like dust on a shelf. And
they do, as many have,
catch droplets in their mouths
until their teeth,
tongues and throats