The Age of Phillis. Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
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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