Written by Lester Thomas

Many rains ago, a mighty African king planted a click-bok tree on the day his son was born (for those of you who don’t know, a click-bok is an acorn tree). The king prayed and believed the tree would protect his family, and she did.

When the king died, his son buried him under the shade of the click-bok tree, so that even in death, the mighty king could protect his family. Whenever the son needed a spear, he would use wood from the click-bok tree, and he would be protected from the lion and the tiger. Whenever the son went to battle, he would always trick his enemies back to the click-bok tree where her low branches would tangle them, so he could win his battles. With the help of the click-bok tree, the son became a mighty king himself.

One day, strange looking men came with powerful magic – sticks that made lightning. The new king tried to lure the men back to the click-bok, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, they captured his wife and sons. The king attacked the men with the fierceness of the tiger, but the lightning sticks were too powerful. Just before his oldest son was taken away, the king gave him a nut from the click-bok tree and told him “plant this where you plant yourself.” The mighty king then died.

The strange looking men took the king’s oldest son to America in chains, as their slave. And they made him work on a large plantation in south Alabama. The son did as his father told him, and planted a click-bok tree on the day his own son, Zebedee, was born. Zebedee’s father prayed and believed the tree would protect his family, and she did.

When his father died, Zebedee asked the Taskmaster if he could bury his daddy in the red Alabama clay dirt under the shade of the click-bok tree. The Taskmaster was a mean ol’ hateful so-n-so, and told Zebedee, “No!” But when he did, a heavy branch from the click-bok tree fell on him and broke his leg, crippling him for life.

After that, things got hard for ol’ Zebedee. Every night, the Taskmaster would find a reason to beat Zebedee until he bled. If, for some reason, he couldn’t beat Zebedee, he’d beat Zebedee’s wife. Zebedee had made up his mind to just up and run away, when his wife said she was heavy with his son, Young’un.

Poor Zebedee had to stay now, ’cause being on the run was no place for a gal that was heavy with his Young’un. When the Young’un was born, that mean ol’ Taskmaster made Zebedee’s wife work the fields the very same day. So she strapped her Young’un on herself and went to work the fields that cloudy October day. When the Taskmaster saw her Young’un, he said to her, “The fields ain’t no place for no baby! And you done had enough time off having him, so you can’t take him back! Put that baby in this ol’ empty horse trough under that tree y’all love so much. That way he can’t crawl off!”

Zebedee’s wife was afraid of a beating, so she left the baby and went off to the fields, being sure not to go off too far so she could hear her Young’un crying. She had worked most on the day when it started to rain. Not just a sprinkle, mind you, but a downpour! It was rainin’ so hard the critters started pairing up and heading for the nearest mountain.

At first, Zebedee’s wife was enjoying the coolness of the rain. But then she remembered her Young’un. She ran back toward the trough, but the ol’ Taskmaster blocked the way. She pleaded with him, “Please let me get my Young’un! He’ll catch his death in this rain!” Ol’ Taskmaster just cracked his whip and said “Get back to work! That li’l thing is alright. Can’t you hear him bawlin’?”

But just then, the crying stopped! Zebedee’s wife cried out, “My baby! Oh lawd, my baby done drowned in that trough!”

When Zebedee and the others heard this, they all stopped what they were doing and started toward the Taskmaster. Before they could reach him, he pulled out his pistol and shot two times into the air, and said, “If y’all don’t get back into that field, I’ll fill ya’ with lead!”

As soon as he got them words out, he heard something behind him. BOOM! It sounded like a tree falling. BOOM! It happened again! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! This time, Zebedee’s wife backed up in fear. Ol’ Taskmaster swung around to look, and what he saw struck fear to his heart – Click-bok was walking toward him!!! The tree was actually pulling its roots out of the ground and walking, like a man walking in deep mud. And every time she pulled her roots up, she left no trace of ever having being planted there.

Ol’ Taskmaster swung around with his pistol and fired a round smack dab into the heart of that tree. Click-bok swung her limbs in the air like she was in a wind storm. Then – BOOM! BOOM! – she took two more steps. He fired twice more, and this time Click-bok stumbled backwards and let out a mighty cry – a painful cry that sounded like a man dying and wood splitting, all mixed up. She took another step, BOOM! This time coming close enough to for the ol’ Taskmaster to touch. The Taskmaster knew that was a might too close, so he swung around and aimed at Zebedee’s wife and said to Click-bok, “Make one mo’ step and I’m gonna shoot!”

Click-bok stopped and stood very still, just like a tree should. Then the Taskmaster looked at Zebedee and said, “It’s yo’ pappy’s fault for planting this Devil tree. Yo’ wife is dead.” And with that, he pulled the trigger and the shot rang out.

Click-bok quickly pushed a root in the way and caught the bullet, letting out a painful cry. Ol’ Taskmaster swung around, put the gun right up against the Click-bok and pulled the trigger. The gun let out a mighty… CLICK!

Click-bok had been counting on this, for she had been counting the shots, and she knew he was out of bullets. The Taskmaster turned to run, but Click-bok reached out with a root, wrapped it around his ankle and started to pull. Ol’ Taskmaster reached for his Bowie knife and went to cut off her root, but she was too fast for him. She wrapped a root around his arm and pulled the knife away. Then she started to pull him into the ground. Ol’ Taskmaster started to scream – it was a horrible scream, the scream of a dead man.

Zebedee’s wife covered her ears from the sound. When Click-bok saw her, she wrapped a root around Taskmaster’s mouth. The last thing anyone heard of the ol’ Taskmaster was his muffled screams coming from under the ground. And then the ground was still, like that tree had always been there – all was quiet.

Then Zebedee’s wife heard a whimper in the tree. When she looked up in the low branches of ol’ Click-bok, she saw her Young’un. She ran to climb the tree, but Click-bok lowered her branches and gently handed Young’un to his mama. Then Click-bok spread her branches and stood up tall and proud. And she’s stayed that way to this very day.

Now, in the fall of the year, you might find yourself seeking shelter from the rain under a big ol’ oak tree. If you listen, you can hear the acorns hitting the ground (Click-bok! Click-bok!). Some folks say if you listen real close, you can still hear the muffled screams of the ol’ Taskmaster. Now don’t you worry, because as long as the red Alabama dirt is fertile and the rain comes down, the Click-bok tree will be protecting her children – now and for many rains to come.

- THE END -

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Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey and Curtis Richardson

On the Georgia coast, there is an island called St.Simons Island – a beautiful place where the sea laps against the sandy shores, the Spanish moss sways gently in the salty breeze, and there is a real sense of peace.

But St. Simons is also a place of mysterious and tragic stories – some true, and some folktales that have become legends. One of these stories concerns a lone grave marker sitting a few yards off the main highway. What is strange about this grave is that no vegetation grows around it – no trees, no grass, and no moss.

The most popular version of this story takes place over 100 years ago, when large rice plantations were in operation up and down the coast. One day, the plantation owners on St. Simons decided they were going to hire a schoolmarm to teach their children. So they found a young woman from Ohio named Margaret to come down and live on the island as the local teacher. She was a wise woman, for she had traveled in Europe and had attended a number of well-known schools. Margaret would teach the white plantation children during the day – but at night, she would teach the black slave children whose parents toiled day and night on the plantations. The plantation owners did not like this, for they did not want the slaves to be educated in any way. They thought that, if the slaves became educated, they might rise up and attack their captors.

But Margaret was headstrong, for she had seen how other people lived around the world, and firmly believed that blacks were as deserving of an education as whites. Since Margaret was such a good teacher, the white plantation owners reluctantly looked the other way. But they became very suspicious of Margaret, and kept a close eye on her.

There was one little slave boy named Joshua who Margaret liked to teach the most. Joshua soaked up knowledge like a sponge, for he felt that a good education was his ticket to freedom. Joshua especially loved English literature and poetry. Long after the other slave children had left school, he would stick around and beg Margaret to read to him some more.

Margaret was truly touched by Joshua’s eagerness, and found herself growing close to him. But Joshua never got a chance to use his newfound knowledge. One day, a slave uprising erupted on one of the plantations. During the furor, a white slave owner was killed. Later that evening, an angry white mob rode through the island and started beating the horrified slaves, whether they were part of the uprising or not. They kicked down the door of Joshua’s home and savagely attacked his parents. When Joshua leapt to his mother’s defense, a young white man viciously clubbed him in the head, killing him instantly.

Margaret took the news of Joshua’s death hard. She was so grief stricken that she isolated herself from the community. The only time she would speak to anyone was when she was teaching the children. The rest of the time, she wandered the backroads of the island, alone and sad.

It was while she was walking down an island road one day that she had a strange feeling she was being watched. She looked above her and saw a large black raven flying overhead, seemingly following her. As the days passed, the same raven would always seem to be around her. Whenever she arrived at school in the morning, the raven would perch upon the windowsill and watch her teach the children. And when she would go home, the raven would follow her and perch in a tree near her front door.

At the end of one of the school days, after all of the children had left, Margaret was cleaning the classroom while the raven watched her from the window. She looked at the bird and thought about how much she missed Joshua, for this was the time of day she used to teach him one-on-one. She picked up a poetry book and began to read to the raven. The raven bobbed its head up and down, as if understanding what Margaret was reading. Margaret smiled and read more poetry to the bird, and before she knew it, she was reading lessons to the bird every day after school. Margaret would sometimes laugh at herself for reading aloud to a bird, but strange as it was, she found it to be a good way to deal with her grief.

Late one afternoon, some white children returned to school to pick up some belongings they had left behind. When they got to the school, they saw Margaret speaking to the large black raven on the windowsill, reading the day’s lesson. They ran back to their parents screaming, “The teacher’s a witch! She’s a witch! She’s brought that little black boy Joshua back from the dead as a bird!”

The parents didn’t believe them at first, but they agreed to accompany the children back to the schoolhouse. When they got there, they also saw Margaret reading poetry aloud to the bird. When they saw Margaret smile at the bird, and the bird nod its head back, the parents ran back to town and, like their children before them, screamed “The teacher’s a witch!”

The islanders were a close-knit, fiercely religious community, and were frightened of anyone who practiced black magic or witchcraft. The rumors of Margaret being a witch also fueled many islanders’ long-held suspicions about her. So it wasn’t long before an angry white mob marched to the school, dragged Margaret outside and killed her, leaving her body for the vultures.

When the time came to bury her body, one of the plantation owners had pity for Margaret. He tried to have her buried at Christ’s Church, a famous church on the island where John Wesley had preached. But the other plantation owners wouldn’t hear of a witch being buried in a church cemetery, or in any other cemetery on the island. So the kind owner buried her body on a small piece of land he owned off the main road. He had a grave marker made for her that was inscribed with three simple words – “A Beloved Teacher.”

Within a month, the locals who happened to visit the grave noticed that all the vegetation had died within a few feet of where Margaret was buried. And for the next hundred years, nothing grew around the grave – no trees, no grass, no moss.

If you’re ever in the area, ask one of the locals where the grave marker is and see for yourself. You’ll see that nothing grows around where they buried the beloved teacher.

-THE END-

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Written by Veronica Byrd

I got wings, you got wings —All God’s chillun got wings. When I get to heaven, gon’ put on my wings, gon’ fly all over God’s heaven, heaven. Everybody talkin’ ’bout heaven, ain’t goin’ there, heaven.

I bet you always thought those songs were about dying and goin to heaven didn’t you. Well, I’m here to tell you different. Those songs and many other Negro Spirituals were actually secret songs. They sounded like one thing but they actually meant something else. For instance, during slavery time “flying away” actually meant running away or stealing away late in the midnight hour when Ole Massa wasn’t paying his slaves no attention. Whenever one of the slaves would start to sing that song, that was a message to the others that somebody was gonna run away that night. But long before slavery time, before the slaves were brought over from Africa, that song was really telling the truth.

You see, long ago, when Africans were still living on the continent of Africa, they had a special God given ability to actually fly. Oh yeah, what I’m telling you is true. It wasn’t until just recently here that black folk lost their ability to fly.

I remember this story my great great granddaddy used to tell me. There once was this old slave master down in south Georgia, down by the coast, by the name of Jessup. Now Ole’ Massa Jessup was the meanest man you’d ever want to meet. He worked his slaves so hard he near bout’; killed them all off, and those that were left were so worn out from the cruel treatment that they weren’t able to do the hard work that needed to be done in the fields. He decided he was gonna get him “the real thing”, not these “domesticated” Negroes from America, he called them. He went right down to the dock and brought him a whole company of native Africans, just off the boat from Africa. He figured they were much stronger than the “watered down Americans.”

He wasted no time. He took them on back to his plantation and put all of them straight to work in the cotton fields. He worked those poor folks so hard, it was inhuman. He’d have them working from sun up to sundown. Now he wasn’t just working the strong ones, no siree, he worked the men, women and children equally as hard. That man was meaner than a stirpped snake.

Whenever they would get to the end of a row of cotton they would try to take a rest, but Ole Massa Jessup had an overseer who was equally as mean as he was. He would ride to the end of the row and if he saw one of the slaves slow down he’d pull out that big old black whip and snap it in front of them to insure that they didn’t even think about stopping to take even a moments rest. Nobody wanted to catch the wrath of that ol’ whip, so they just kept on going. Now the human body can only take so much, and there were more occasions than not where the poor slaves would drop from sheer exhaustion.

There was this one young girl who had just given birth to her first child. I can’t rightly remember her African name, but folks just called her Mimi. You would think that Ole’ Massa Jessup would give the girl time to recover from childbirth; but no, he had that girl right back out in the field the next day. So there she was trying to tend to her baby as well as do her chores in the field. Well, that baby started to cry, as all babies do, and that overseer hollered “shut that thing up a’fore I come over there and beat the both of you.”

Well, Mimi tried, best she could, to stop the crying. But she was a new mother, she didn’t know what to do. That baby kept crying and sure enough, the next thing she knew, that old black whip was slicing through her back. She fell to the ground, baby still strapped to her hip. But she got up as quick as she could so as not to get hit again. She managed to stagger to an old man who was working a few feet in front of her. She whispered something to him and he immediately shook his head as if to say “no.”

She went on back to her place in the row and started back to picking. The hot sun beaming down on that poor child, and the fact that she still hadn’t regained all of her strength back from giving birth, that child’s knees buckled and she fell once again. And that old overseer laid that whip on her quicker than you could imagine. This time she didn’t even take the time to whisper to the old man, she just called out, “Is it time yet father, is it time yet?”

That old man’s voice sounded as if it were coming from the sky, the ground, and even from the thicket of trees that stood just beyond the cotton field. “Yes, daughter, yes indeed, now is the time!!”

With that, that girl slowly rose to her feet and just kept on risin’ and risin’ and risin’. And before you know it, she was flying high over the cotton fields. And that baby that had been crying all along, was just as quiet and calm as could be.

The other slaves looked at one another, and even though they were tired beyond measure, there was a sudden glimmer of hope in their eyes. The old man called out in some unknown tongue, “Kuliba — Kuliba!” As if obeying his command, the workers dropped their bags full of cotton and raised their arms to the heavens, and faster than you’d believe, they too start started to slowly rise off the ground until they were all hovering right above the cotton field.

Now Ole Massa Jessup and his over seer didn’t know what to make of all this. “I don’t’ know what kind of African hoodoo you’re trying to pull here, but all of ya’ll better bring yourselves back down here, a’froe I take this whip to ya.” With that the slaves rose higher and higher until they were nearly out of sight.

The overseer and Ole Massa Jessup started towards the old man, with that whip ready to give him the lashing of his life. But all at once the old man let out a sound that sounded like it came all the way across the water from Africa. Then he too rose into the sky as fast as could be. He began to mumble something in an unknown tongue right at Ole Massa Jessup, and then he laughed and laughed. He caught up to the others and they began to sing and clap their hands, and flew off into somewheres where I can’t even imagine. Not one of those slaves was ever seen again.

I hear tell there’s a few of us that still have the ability to fly, we just can’t remember how it’s done. But if ya’ll ever run across one of those flying’ folks, let me know. I’ll be the one hovering right above your imagination.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey

Near the mouth of Dunbar Creek on Georgia’s St. Simons Island, there’s a section of swampy marshland where some fishermen refuse to cast their lines. In the daytime, it doesn’t look any different from the other vast marshes stretching across Georgia’s coastal islands. Elongated white herons call to one another over the endless plain of reeds and mosquito infested marsh grasses. Fiddler crabs scurry across the sands. Unseen creatures plop into the black waters.

But when night falls, it is said that one can hear a different sound entirely. Swamps are known to make strange sounds at night. But if you listen closely, you may hear what sounds like the faint rattling of chains drifting across the marsh, followed by an eerie chant: “The water brought us the water will take us away.”

If you think your ears are deceiving you, think again. For the old timers in the area will tell you that what you’re hearing is the brave warrior Oba, leading his people on their final march home.

Oba, as you may have guessed, is an African name. So our story begins in early nineteenth century Africa – the coast of West Africa to be exact, in the country now known as Nigeria. It is in the southeastern part of this country that the Ibo tribe lives, and has lived for hundreds of years. Early European explorers once called these people “savages,” but the Ibos were anything but. They were spiritual, highly intelligent people well trained in the arts of agriculture, education and war. They tamed miles of tropical rain forests and coastal swampland into cultivable fields and wealthy cities. In fact, the Europeans found that there was little they could trade with the Ibos that the Ibos couldn’t produce themselves.

Oba lived deep within the interior of Iboland in a village founded years before by his great-grandfather. Oba was the proud father of two sons, with a third child on the way. He was tremendously excited about the new arrival, and even talked to the unborn child in his beautiful wife’s womb. For the Ibo believed that the dead and the unborn were always present in their daily lives, and that their homeland was holy ground that they could never leave.

As a hunter and a warrior, Oba was one of the most respected and relied upon members of his village. For it was his job to protect the village from enemies, both human and animal. Oba wore his responsibilities proudly, adorning his body with beautiful emblems that reflected his power and status.

Early one morning, Oba prepared to leave on a hunt with some other men from the village. As he sharpened his arrows, he suddenly heard the voice of his unborn child, whispering cryptically…

“The waters will bring you back to us.”

Startled, Oba looked back at his wife, still sleeping on their bed. “What does that mean?” he quietly replied in her direction.

Again, the unborn child whispered, “The waters will bring you back to us.”

Oba thought about this strange message for a moment, then shook it off. Maybe my unborn child thinks I’m traveling by canoe on this hunt, he thought. But he wasn’t – he was traveling on foot.

Oba told his two sons to help their mother with the daily chores, then tenderly kissed his wife goodbye. “I’ll be home soon,” he said with a smile. Then he confidently walked away.

Hours later, Oba found himself alone in the vast grasslands. In the distance, he spotted a herd of antelopes grazing peacefully, oblivious to his presence. Oba crept closer to the herd, stealthily removed his bow and arrow, and aimed.

In a flash, the antelope suddenly scattered. Oba watched them run away in disbelief. He had been as quiet as the wind, just as he always was. What caused the antelope to run?

Without warning, something hard struck him on the back of the head. He crashed to the ground, his head throbbing with pain. As he tried to get up, he was struck again across the face, this time by something that felt like a fist. He could hear excited voices swarming around him. Then two strong men lifted him to his feet, holding his arms behind his back. Too delirious to fight, Oba offered little resistance as the men tied him up tightly in a grass rope and shackled his ankles and neck.

As his eyes clouded with blood from the deep gash on his head, Oba could see that his captors were rival tribesmen, gleeful at their fine catch. One of them yanked on a chain attached to his neck shackle, dragging Oba through the grasslands like a dog.

Oba’s captors dragged him miles away from his village. The rope and shackles dug into his skin, and the neck shackle made it difficult to swallow or breathe. But the most intense pain came from the helplessness he felt. For Oba knew that other invaders must be close to his family, and there was nothing he could do to protect them. The thought of his wife and children in shackles made his blood run cold. He shook it off, thinking desperately about escape.

Hours later, they reached the wide banks of the monstrous Niger River. Other enemy tribesman had gathered there with similar “catches” of all ages, many weak and malnourished. Oba’s spirits lifted briefly, until he realized that his family wasn’t among the captured. Some captives he knew by sight, others he had never seen before.

The captives were thrown into waiting canoes and paddled down the mighty Niger. Oba writhed in pain on the dirty, water-soaked floor, covered in sores, intense pain shooting up his back. He watched the wispy clouds drifting through the hot African skies above him, and prayed silently to the spirits of his ancestors to watch over his family.

Oba had drifted off to sleep before he was suddenly awakened by a tremendous commotion. Night had fallen, and the canoes were docked in what Oba guessed was a large river village. His captors suddenly yanked him to his feet and ordered him and his fellow captives onto the dock.

As he stood upright, Oba’s jaw dropped. They had landed in a bustling coastal town on the banks of a vast ocean. Tall masted merchant ships, bigger than anything Oba had ever seen, were lined up on the dock.

From out of nowhere, a group of white skinned beings suddenly surrounded Oba, inspecting him carefully. Oba had heard about these white beings before, but this was the first time he had seen them in the flesh. With their cold eyes, angry mannerisms and colorful, otherworldly garments, they didn’t look like human beings at all, but white monsters that had come to terrify him. What were they doing here?

One of these white monsters suddenly nodded, and Oba was dragged to an area near the ships. He was humiliatingly held down, stripped of his clothes and proud adornments, and shaved from head to toe. Oba screamed with pain as a white monster stuck him with a red-hot iron, branding a strange symbol into his skin. He was then lead down into the dark bowels of a waiting ship, where he was chained to a rack and left.

Oba squinted through the darkness. He could make out hundreds of other eyes staring back at him, filled with the same unspeakable fear. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the hold was filled with other Ibos from across Iboland – men, women and children of all ages, shackled together in pairs onto racks. No one spoke, afraid of what the white monsters might do next.

The large boat suddenly lurched into the water, its massive wood frame moaning and creaking. The captives were tossed back and forth, some screaming and crying. But Oba could only stare into the darkness, a horrifying thought chilling him to the core. For he felt in his heart that he might never see his family, his ancestors or his homeland again.

Weeks went by, and the massive boat lurched across the storm swept seas. Fearful of the boat collecting water, the white sailors closed off nearly all of the air openings below, turning the hold into a hellish world of disease, bodily waste and death. The stale air below was so rank that the candles wouldn’t remain lit. Food and water were scarce. Many Ibos died quietly in the foul darkness.

The sick and the dying were thrown overboard. The others were occasionally taken up to the deck to dance for the amusement of the sailors, who played strange musical instruments with strings and a stick. As they danced, the Ibos could see swarms of sharks in the waters below, eagerly waiting for the next captive to be tossed over the side.

Some Ibos attempted suicide by rubbing their wrists against their shackles until they bled to death. Others thought of mutiny, but were terrified of being severely beaten.

But Oba somehow kept his head, for he had become something of a leader while on the boat. For the Ibo children who had been torn from their families, Oba provided a smile, a knowing wink and, when the white sailors weren’t looking, words of comfort when needed. When rival tribesmen turned on each other, Oba was the mediator. When desperate captives thought about suicide, Oba reminded them of the inner strength that all Ibos shared.

But Oba’s thoughts were always with his family. He wondered if his wife and child were crossing the water on similar boats, destination unknown. No matter how hard he tried to shake these thoughts off, they nagged him day and night. Sometimes, under cover of darkness, Oba would cry silently to himself.

But then he would hear a faint whisper – the same cryptic whisper he heard as he was sharpening his arrows that morning before the hunt. It was his unborn child telling him:

“The waters will bring you back to us.”

As the weeks passed, his unborn child’s voice was the only comfort Oba had. Oba still wasn’t sure what this message meant. But he felt that it wouldn’t be long before he found out.

One evening, the Ibo captives were suddenly awakened by an explosion of activity on deck. Though they could not understand what the white sailors were saying, they noticed that the boat had slowed, and some sort of landing preparations were underway. After three torturous months, they would finally be able to disembark. But where would they be?

The white men gruffly unchained the captives from the racks and shoved them up on deck. In the bright moonlight, Oba could see that they were drifting down what looked to be a creek of some sort. He also noticed that the white men’s voices had suddenly become hushed and anxious.

The boat finally came to rest on a bluff near the end of the creek. The plank was gently lowered and, one by one, the terrified Ibos were marched into the black night, their ankles shackled together. They shivered as the cold, muddy soil of this alien land squished under their bare feet.

Oba could now see that they had landed in some sort of salt marsh ribboned with tidal creeks. Rustling palm tree fronds and Spanish moss filtered soft streams of moonlight down onto the black waters. In the stillness, Oba could hear the eerie sounds of night birds calling one another, crickets and frogs chirping in the grass, unseen creatures splashing into the water. The air was thick with the salty smells of the sea.

This new world, in fact, felt like the Niger Delta marshland back home. Oba suddenly had a glimmer of hope. After all that time, had they turned around and returned to Africa?

Then the glow of pine torches emerged from the black forest, and Oba could see that they belonged to more white people, their garments as strange as those on the white merchants back home. In hushed tones, they closely inspected the Ibo captives – pinching them, prodding them, stripping them of their clothes. Liking what they saw, these new white people produced wads of money and bartered with the sailors.

Now Oba realized the horrible truth: he and his people were being sold into slavery. This wasn’t a strange idea to him – his village back home had used prisoners of war as slaves before. But what lay in wait for them deep within this black, alien swamp?

Oba looked into the eyes of his fellow captives. Some were vacant and weary, others wide with terror. Some captives even flashed sparks of humiliation and anger. They all seemed to know that their fate had been sealed – that they would spend the rest of their lives enslaved to these brutal white monsters, in a world they could never hope to understand.

Again, Oba thought of his family back home, both above and below the earth. He took some comfort in knowing that, as all Ibos believed, his soul would one day return to Iboland upon his death. But his soul could not return while his living body remained in the white man’s world. Besides, he thought, the white man does not deserve to reap the fruits of my labor.

It was then that Oba again heard the voice of his unborn child, this time booming through his ears:

“The water will bring you back to us! The water will bring you back to us!”

Oba suddenly understood what his unborn child was trying to say. As the white people hastily negotiated with one another, Oba leaned over and whispered something into the ear of the captive next to him, who in turn passed it down the line. All looked back in agreement with Oba – men, women and children, some with tears in their eyes. And as they slowly turned together and walked away from their captors, they began to softly chant the words that Oba had whispered to them:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Up on the ship, a white sailor suddenly noticed what was going on. He rushed to the side and looked down upon the Ibos, walking hand in hand into the black water, their shackles clanking around their ankles.

“They’re walking into the water!” he screamed.

The other sailors snapped to attention and ran after the Ibos, sloshing blindly through the dark marsh. They pointed guns in their direction and ordered them to stop. But the Ibos kept walking deeper and deeper into the water, their eerie refrain growing louder and louder:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Oba placed his hand down the head of a young boy about his son’s age who had been ripped away from his parents. There was no fear in the boy’s eyes, only a defiant certainty. The two smiled at one another as the waters rose to swallow them, their loud voices trailing off behind them:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Within seconds, the rattling of the chains stopped, and the voices were silenced. The white sailors watched with horror as men, women and children sank together into the murky depths, never to return.

This act of defiance did not stop the slave trade in coastal Georgia. For over sixty more years, slaves from Africa continued to toil on the vast cotton plantations that blossomed throughout the area.

But when work was done, the slaves would sometimes gather around the fire and tell the story of the Ibos. For to them, the Ibos’ defiance gave them hope that one day they, too, would return to the motherland – if not in body, then in spirit.

And to this day, they say that if you sit near the mouth of Dunbar Creek on certain nights and listen closely, you’ll hear the sound of the Ibos’ rattling chains, along with the sounds of bare feet slapping against the dark waters. And, if you’re not too frightened already, you may also want to keep an ear out for their solemn, defiant refrain as it drifts like a whisper through the marsh:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

- THE END -

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