Zakes Mda - Cion

“Nobody’s gonna buy me, you ninny. You’re stuck with me,” said the slave with much glee.

There were no takers even when he wanted to exchange the impertinent fellow for a mere bottle of rum.

The concerns of the slave owners about breeding good healthy slaves gave Quigley an idea. He was going to invent a potion that would make slaves breed faster; a fertility drug that would ensure multiple births. He would take his example from nature. If dogs and rabbits could give birth to so many young ones at the same time, why not humans? Right there at the auction rooms he shared the brilliant idea with his slave, who merely laughed it off as the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

Quigley was not to be discouraged by the slave’s lack of faith in human credulity. Thus he became a snake-oil salesman, except he didn’t sell any snake-oil but a slave-breeding concoction of his own manufacture. He traveled from plantation to plantation meeting breeders and interesting them in his invention. Its main ingredient was extracted from the most fertile bitches, he told his customers. It was the same chemical substance that made dogs give birth to many puppies at the same time. The white drug was to be mixed with water and given to the females twice a day. In no time they would conceive. Not only would the potion induce multiple births but the period of gestation would be decreased by half. Quigley embellished on the powers of the potion as he went along and as more greedy plantation owners bought it.

Once more signs of health returned to both the man and his slave. Their cheeks began to fill out and their faces gleamed as they walked the countryside, the leashed slave carrying a sack of the powder and following the master. The leash was not to stop the slave from escaping. He had no intention of doing so for it was good enough for him that they shared the spoils. They were malefactors and scallywags of equal standing. The leash, therefore, served a symbolic function. It reminded the slave that he was a slave despite the companionship, and the master that he was the master despite the partnership in crime. The leash also showed the customers that the great inventor of the magic potion was a man of substance and a property owner. The fact that they were walking the countryside instead of riding on steeds was a matter of choice; so he made those who wondered believe.

Alas, the plantation owners discovered to their cost that the Irishman had duped them. They bayed for his blood, but it was too late because he had moved westward in the direction of Kentucky.

A plantation owner in Putnam County did not give up. The owner’s name was David Fairfield of Fairfield Farms. He had returned from carousing in Charleston one evening to find his wife excited about a purchase she had made from a wonderful salesman — a potion that would make their breeding business the most profitable ever. She showed him the white powder for which she had paid a lot of money. The Owner was suspicious at once. Unlike those who had discovered the chicanery months after trying the potion, The Owner was smart enough to know that no such mixture existed anywhere in the world, let alone in Virginia. He set out after the salesman with a posse of three of his trusted mulattos.

They caught up with the scallywags on the banks of the Guyandotte where they had set up camp and were barbecuing meat on an open fire. The Owner was very friendly. He joined the pair while his mulattos stayed mounted a short distance away. He introduced himself as The Owner of Fairfield Farms where they had so kindly sold their wonderful potion. Unfortunately he had been away on business, otherwise he would have loved to entertain them for the good service they were providing to the slave breeding industry. As the biggest slave breeder in the region he needed more of their wonderful potion. That was why he had followed them. He wanted to buy all the stock in their possession and order more for future delivery. Quigley was pleased to hear this. Most of his customers only bought small quantities to experiment with the potion first. He was surely going to strike it rich. He invited The Owner to join him at his meal. The slave was ordered to serve the two masters and then stand aside while they ate. He would have the bones afterward. The slave did all that willingly for he knew why the whole charade was necessary.

“Oh, I have lotsa whiskey for you,” said The Owner. He stood up and walked to his mulattos, who were still on their horses. He called the slave to come and take the bottles and bring them back to his master.

Quigley did not ask himself why they spent such a long time taking out whiskey from the saddlebags or what The Owner was talking about with the slave so animatedly or why the mulattos broke out laughing and the slave displayed such a big toothless grin. He was preoccupied with counting the tens and even hundreds of dollars he was going to receive for the bag of baking soda mixed with salt and any other white substance he could find on the cheap. He was already planning how he was going to use the money. The first thing he would do would be to celebrate with his trusted slave at the nearest bordello they could locate. Or perhaps the wise thing would be to buy two horses first, and maybe a cart, and then the bordello, and then find the nearest big city where he would buy more baking soda, and then cross the border to Kentucky to find new customers.

He was lost in this beautiful dream of a beautiful future when The Owner returned with the slave and two bottles of imported Irish whiskey. The Owner invited the slave, who had become timid all of a sudden, to join him and his master for a drink to celebrate the great transaction that was about to be made.

Barbecued meat went very well with whiskey and soon Quigley and The Owner were singing Irish and Appalachian songs. The slave was clapping and the mulattos looked on in amusement from their horses. Over the hills and far away, the drunken pair sang, and after an out of tune rendition they burst out laughing and shamelessly embraced each other. Then they lunged into the next song. By the time they got to singing Black, black, black is the color of my true love’s hair; her lips are like a rose so fair, Quigley’s eyes were misty. There was a deep longing in them. When the song came to an end the singers broke out laughing again and the slave couldn’t help but jump up and perform a stupid jig that nevertheless increased the volume of the masters’ laughter.

“Tell you what, mate,” said The Owner, “I wanna buy your slave.”

“Can’t sell him, mate,” said Quigley. “He’s a great help on the road.”

“I am talking to him,” said The Owner pointing at the slave. “I am buying you from him. You are the slave, ain’t you?”

Quigley laughed at the joke.

“It ain’t no joke, you ninny,” said the slave. And then to The Owner: “What’s your offer?”

“For how much are you selling me, you ninny?” asked Quigley, getting into the spirit of the joke. The whole situation was indeed funny and he burst out laughing once more. This new friend was proving to be such a bundle of fun. All of a sudden the friend was no longer laughing. And the mulattos had dismounted and were slowly walking toward the revelers.

“Ten dollars,” said The Owner.

“Fifty,” said the slave.

“Twenty,” said The Owner.

“Thirty,” said the slave.

“Sold,” said The Owner.

Things were looking serious. The mulattos closed in. They grabbed him. He fought back and kicked and scratched and bit. They pinioned his arms tightly behind him with a rope. He watched as The Owner counted thirty dollars and gave it to the slave. The Owner asked the slave to sign a receipt. Since he could not write he made a cross.