Me father say that ours was fertile land. The soil sustain us for thousands of years. But soil cannot protect you when the slave raiders come.” They were sat by the ashes of the fire, watching whispers of smoke float from a few still-glowing embers. “Me don’t want to see it,” Quamina continued. “What become of it all. Maybe me too much of a coward. Me just sit here telling stories. The fear that nothing is left—that’s why me know me never gon’ go back. This me home now.”
