A Preview

The world has changed. Four hundred years ago there was a nuclear holocaust. Civilization was destroyed. Small, scattered groups of people, living primitively in tribes segregated by race, religion, and tribal identity, totaling less than 2,000,000, are all that remains of the United States, and, because of the nuclear winter that followed, most of those are in the southern most part of the United States, which, as a governmental entity, no longer exists. Europe, except for around the Mediterranean, is only populated by small groups of wondering nomads. Russia and China are frozen wastelands. The only region to escape devastation was equatorial Africa. It’s the only part of the world that could be considered to be civilized, and its level of civilization is similar to 15th century Europe.

Forward to the Confession of Latrese Mugumbo by Patare Lumada

I interviewed Latrese Mugumbo, the leader of the slave revolt shortly before his execution. While I, in no way, condone his actions, I feel that his reasons for them should be published, if for no other reason, to prevent the reoccurrence of a similar revolt

Mugumbo, a tall white slave about thirty years-old, with blond hair and blue eyes, was being held, chained and naked in a small, damp, cell. He had not only been castrated, as are all male slaves, but his penis had been removed as well. As he tells in his story, that had been done to him when he was ten years-old, after which he had been sold as a sex slave. His body was completely hairless, except for a slight, nearly invisible, down on his arms and legs. His crotch was smooth, except for a small opening through which he urinated. Neither was there any hair on his chest, under his arms, or on his face. Even disfigured as he was by the torture that he had received, one could tell that he had been handsome. This is his story:

The Confession

My name is Nathan-or Nat-Turner. That’s the name given to me by my mother and father. I don’t acknowledged the name, Latrese Mugumbo, which is a slave name, given to me by my first black master. I was born in the land you call Merica. We were a small tribe, no more than about two hundred, but were at peace with our neighbors, banding together, when raided by larger, more distant, tribes. In my immediate family there was only my mother, my father, and me, although, since it was a small tribe, I was, in some way, related to most. I had a younger sister, but she had been taken by a fever.

For food, we hunted, gathered fruits, nuts, herbs, and certain roots that grew wild, and cultivated some vegetables. Life was hard; we often went hungry; but we were happy. Then, one night, it all changed.

I was awakened to shouts and loud reports, not unlike the clap of thunder which results from the close strike of a lightening bolt. My father, when he rushed to the door of our hut, was struck down by a blow to the head. Strangely dressed, brown-skinned, men then, entering our hut, dragged my mother and me outside, where we were herded together with the rest of our village-those still alive. I saw the bodies of several men of our village, and even some of women and children, people that I had known all my life.

The brown men, using brush and wood from our huts, built a small stockade around us, imprisoning us inside where we waited, fearfully, with apprehension, for the dawn.

After a night, during which few of us slept, soon after it became light, a short, brown-skinned man, a scar across one eye, the pupil of the eye milky white in color, came into the stockade surrounded by his men, who called him, “Jefe.” Speaking in a language that I couldn’t understand, he pointed to certain men, my father included. Then, after staring at me, he cupped his chin with his hand, nodded, and pointed to me as well.

Protected by long knives and sticks which, with a loud explosion, belched flame, smoke, and death ( I later learned that they were called muskets), several of his men came into the stockade to bind the hands of all the men, killing, or knocking unconscious, anyone who resisted. Then they came for me.

My father, although his hands were tied, attempted to prevent them from taking me, but several men, grabbing him, took him to the center of the village, where he was strapped to a pole. When they again came for me, my mother, flying at my would be captors, was savagely skewered with a sword by one of them, . Falling to the ground, she died speaking my name. As I watched the light go out of her eyes, blood seeped onto the ground from the corner of her mouth. I screamed, “Mother, Mother,” the first words that I had spoken.

While I was being carried to a table set next to the pole which held my father, I fought, screamed, hit, kicked, but against a grown man, to no avail, . The Jefe, the man with the scarred face, waited for me there. On the table, a brazier of hot coals held several knives, their blades glowing from the heat. I was frightened, but, more than that, shocked and dismayed by the death of my mother.

Laid on the table, I was held there by three men, one holding me by my upper arms, pinning my shoulders to the table, and two others, each holding one of my legs by the thigh, splaying them, the knees at the end of the table, my lower legs hanging over, my butt pressed hard to the surface of the table. Squirm as I did, I could barely move.

I was already naked, as, in the summer, are most pre-pubescent boys in our village. Picking up a glowing knife and stepping in between my legs, the Jefe grasped my small testicles in one hand. Then I felt a searing, almost unbearable pain-such as I had never before felt-as, with the hot knife, he cut-or burned-through my scrotum at its base. I screamed. I tried not to scream-tried to be brave-but I screamed. Glancing down, as he pulled away the sack, discarding it on the table beside me, I saw my naked balls, hanging by cords below my cock, which, as if in anticipation of what was to come, had shrunk, withdrawing as if trying to hide. Then, grasping my balls, splaying them between his fingers, he cut through both sets of cords at the same time. The stench of burning flesh filled my nostrils-the pain-even more intense-I felt deep within my abdomen. For an instant, the world faded, but, as if drowning, I fought my way to the surface, not losing consciousness; there was more to come; grasping my tiny penis, he applied a fresh knife to its base, severing it. I’m sure there was more pain, but my senses, already overwhelmed, didn’t register it. There was little blood. The hot knife had cauterized my wounds. My hands and feet were tied, and I was placed into the back of a wagon. My father was next.

From my perch in the wagon, I watched the Jefe castrate him. I didn’t want to see my father hurt, but I couldn’t look away. As with me, he first removed his scrotum, slicing it off at its base, revealing my father’s balls, walnuts to my acorns. These, the Jefe grasped, one at a time, slicing through their cords individually, tossing the detached orbs onto the table where mine still lay. I heard, or imagined that I heard, a sizzle, as the knife burned through the cords-because my father made no sound-no outcry whatsoever. I wish I could have been as brave.