If you are reading this letter you probably have some idea in your head of what it was like to be me, a black slave, but I know what you are thinking will be far from the truth, so this letter for anyone who finds it, is the true account of what it was really like to be a black slave. I have written this letter for I want you to spread the word, of how life was for us Blacks, I want you to prove that the way that the Whites will say they are treating us is all lies, the truth needs to be heard and you need to be one to shout it.
My name is Courage, but that was not the name given to me. My real name though, the name I was born with is Akinlana. I can't really remember my surname, all that I know is that it was something hard to spell and hard to pronounce. I used to live in a tiny village in East Africa with my mother and my six younger brothers; my father was killed for standing up for my mother after white man attacked her. Because of this act of bravery, I decided to call myself Courage so that I could one day show the bravery that my father did and live up to my name, by writing this I hope that I am.
My life was the furthest away from that of luxury, we were poor, my mother had to work endless hours for a pointlessly small amount of money in order for us to survive, but don’t worry we got by because we lived of the love we had for one another. Life was bearable up until the day it happened, the day I was dragged away from my mother by those rich white men, in their fancy outfits. They hauled me out of my hut, chained my feet together and my hands together and forced me on this ship; if I struggled or attempted to fight back they beat me. So I had no other choice then to mount the ship. That was the last time I saw my mother, and the last image I have of her, is the pain her heart felt when I was dragged away, the look on her face as she lost me, the tears that ran down her face, the look that constantly haunts me, I would do anything to go back in time and change it. I had no idea what was happening, why they wanted me, if I could ever go back, all I know was that I was in a tiny, squalid, room with lots of black men around my age. I did not understand a word they were saying, but according to these men, I was a slave, whatever that was. Well I soon found out, and now my life is being forced to eat, sleep, breathe and be a slave.
I share a room with boys around my age; we are all slaves working on the sugar cane plantation. Our room stinks and as it never gets cleaned, we all have to share a toilet, and there are 30 of us, plus we are chained up most of the time so we never get