All day and every day, I get sent to the quarry, spend it breaking rock. Lift the hammer, strike. Lift the hammer, strike again. Turn rock to rubble, strike again. If not the quarry, I end up stepping on the treadmill. Up down, up down, the wheel turning, rumbling, creaking all day long. Bare feet, marching on the spot. Hands holding tight to the pole, so I don’t drop off. Praying when it jam me legs don’t get mash up in the rolling stair them. And all the while, me body sweat till it dripping wet. Sweat and more sweat, with no shade from the hot afternoon sun. I lose so much water when the guards say, ‘Stop the mill – break and rest,’ I tumble off into the barren yard behind the workhouse, vomit up what little food they give us. It so dry and dusty the ground suck up the watery mess like it starving.

If I knew what going happen next, me heart would be sore with longing to return to even them threadbare days.

Early one morning, the warden send down orders for a watchman to bang on the cell door. Open it, drag me off along the stone-laid path, pass the wash house, the supply hut, the little garden that can’t seem to grow nothing, only weeds. Push me into the warden’s office, leave me to stand to attention in front of him big desk full up with papers, wide windows on each side. The sunlight round him shining like a halo, like the power of sunlight is him power and is why him put him desk there.

The warden a stout man with a big nose. Have not much hair on top. Him use lackeys under him to do him dirty work. Keep us in line. Beat us if we not grovelling enough. Hold up food rations when they want to control us, keep us quiet.

‘This is your lucky day, boy,’ the warden say, looking at me sideways like Massa used to do.

‘Yes, sir?’ waiting to see what game him going play, the kind or cruel one.

‘Instead of the rope.’ Him mouth a thin smile. ‘Left to hang rotting in the town square.’

‘Yes, sir?’ Hope in me voice that backra finally going release me.

Most of the other prisoners, long time gone from the workhouse. Some been executed, some already sent back to the massa they belong to, after getting plenty lashes. I would be happy to get some of them lashes, if the warden going release me from the hell I been living in.

‘You are to be transported,’ him say, shuffling him papers.

‘Transported?’ I say, wiping the sleep from me eyes.

‘Something wrong with your ears, boy? Yes, transported,’ him smile getting wider. ‘Sent away.’

‘Leave Jamaica?’