Naima B. Robert – From Scholar to Slave

This is a story,

a story of old.

It is our story,

A story untold.

Once upon a time in a land far

away,

Africa,

we lived free.

Our griots sang our stories. We're

Pio, Pula. Our griots sang our stories

of kingdoms and cities,

and the coming of Islam

that united our hearts.

For we were Muslims.

African Muslims.

Following the call of the Arabian prophet,

we spoke Arabic and wrote it. We read

Quran and taught it.

We traveled across the deserts and into trade

routes. We passed peasants and sultans as we

journeyed to Mecca.

We were farmers

and blacksmiths.

We were merchants and weavers.

We were students and teachers. We were princes

and leaders.

But that was all in a land far

away,

Africa.

When we were free.

For in many different ways,

through kidnap and war,

We found ourselves

shackled

and cast out to sea.

And in ships thick with bodies,

with tears, and with filth,

we called out to God, Allah,

to free us from our chains.

Long days

and long nights,

we rot in those slave ships.

Some died of diseases.

Some met death in the water.

But some of us survived.

Our fate was to make it.

To these lands far away, the new world

as slaves.

So

on slave auction blocks,

our captors renamed us,

stripped us, and sold us

to work the plantations

so far from home,

where they beat us and lynched us,

shamed us and cursed us

as savages

to this civilized

land.

And yet,

through the terror,

the pain, and the darkness,

a bright flame flickered.

A flame strong and proud.

The memory of Africa and what we had

seen and where we had come from and

who we had been. Songs of childhood

still beat in our blood.

The words of the Quran

engraved in our hearts

as we traced its letters

with sticks in the sand.

And we would pray Pray in brief stolen

moments,

washing with water, facing the qibla.

We remembered the fast and the ways of

our people

and we clung to who we knew we

still were deep inside.

4,

inside, we were scholars,

students,

teachers,

traders,

and weavers,

princes, and leaders.

And in this new land,

our fortunes

differed.

Some of us run away.

Some died while trying.

Some lived as maroons.

Some died as slaves.

Some became famous.

Still more were unknown.

Some stayed in the new world.

Still others went home.

Those of us who stayed

toiled and struggled,

sweated and labored to build our new homes.

The lands called Trinidad,

Jamaica, and Cuba,

Brazil and Antigua,

Virginia, and Georgia.

We had children and families

that went to our graves.

And to our dark graves,

we took that proud flame.

And the memory of whom

we had been long ago.

For we had been scholars,

students, and teachers,

traders, and weavers, princes, and leaders.

We left barely a

trace. Just a memory,

a name,

and the shadows of our way

in an

old creole prayer.

But that was all in a time long

ago

when we were slaves.

And you are our children

and the children of our children. Blue, black,

deep brown, brick red, and sat.

You met,

multiplied,

and covered the land.

Fulani.

Mandinkke,

Puel,

and Pulaj.

You will again sing our stories

and remember the tales

of when you were scholars, students, and teachers.

Traders, and weavers, princes, and leaders.

This is a story.

A story of

old. And it is our story.

Your story.

A story now told.

For this is a story, a story of

old, and it is your story, a story

now told.