The Age of Phillis. Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

hurt themselves,

      lest their slaves be blamed—

      women whose bodies

      are given to their masters,

      loam for foretold seed.

      Slavery’s in Genesis,

      Leviticus, Deuteronomy,

      Matthew, Ephesians,

      Colossians, Timothy,

      and Peter—

      and slavery’s in the U. S.

      Constitution, and in homes

      of Presidents: Washington,

      Jefferson, Madison, Monroe,

      Jackson, Tyler,

      Taylor, and Polk—

      slaves work for us now

      but I won’t upset you

      by talking about new slavery—

      what we eat and use today—

      I’ll simply pull you

      back three centuries

      to prophets blessing slave

      ships in God’s mighty name,

      to a trade for African

      merchants not yet

      collected into one tribe—

      not yet Negro or black,

      but members of separate villages,

      babel dust stuck to the sides

      of towers. Racial solidarity

      was not yet a thing—

      but discussing African slave

      trading might complicate your

      need for an easy story—

      and so, there once was

      a European ship called The Zong,

      purchased by a syndicate,

      a white legacy

      of fathers and sons,

      wealthy, sanguine heirs

      of patrilineal times.

      The Zong sailed down

      the side of West Africa,

      where ships’ captains thought

      the land spoke to them:

      We will gift you our insides.

      There were structures with slaves

      in dungeons and whites

      in clean quarters above—

      the castles, the forts,

      the factories that dotted

      the coasts: Saint-Louis, Gorée,

      Iles de Los, Cape Mount,

      Sestos, Grand Bassam,

      Axim, Cape Three Points.

      The Zong stopped at

      Cape Coast, then

      Anomaboe and Sao Tomé,

      named for the doubting

      man to whom Jesus

      revealed himself.

      The Zong took on four

      hundred and forty-two

      captives, a tight pack,

      and by the time

      the ship left for open

      water, sixty-two

      of those Africans had died.

      The vessel’s doctor

      would speak of the bloody

      flux of the bowels.

      It wasn’t his fault

      that a godly act crawled

      through the mouth and down,

      but the doctor was unclear

      about the sadness

      taking over the cargo.

      Despair was a deity

      calling for tribute, and ships

      would give this sad praise:

      the Adventurer, the Africa,

      the Black Joke, the City of London,

      the Eagle, the Elizabeth,

      the Greyhound, the Hawk,

      the Industrious Bee,

      the Nancy, the Polly,

      the New Britannia,

      the Thomas, the Triumph,

      the True Blue Unity.

      The Zong sailed West, and some

      say, one hundred

      thirty-two of the enslaved

      were disposed of.

      And some say, one hundred

      fifty were disposed of.

      And some say, one hundred

      eighty were disposed of,

      that in the night,

      the ship’s crew pushed Africans

      through a window, because drinking

      water was running too low.

      The sailors kept on the chains

      and the Africans quickly sank

      into water. The killing took

      three days—

      back in Liverpool, the owners

      of The Zong were dismayed

      when news of their lost cargo

      found them in that city

      of coffeehouses,

      theatres, libraries,

      a ladies’ walk, and naturally,

      slave trading.

      The owners were seized

      by an idea: they decided to sue

      their insurance company.

      They wanted to be reimbursed

      for the value of the chained,

      African dead: there was a trial,

      and then, another,

      and the truth finally

      wagged its song:

      on the night of the second day

      that the crew of The Zong

      pushed Africans into the sea,

      a heavy rain had fallen.

      There was no shortage

      of water,

      not anymore,

      but even so,

      the crew of The Zong

      drowned a third batch

      of Africans, and then,

      the ship sailed on its way.

      That’s all.

      The