Zondu was an African boy who lived in a little village in the interior of the dark continent. Never in his life had he seen the terrible things he saw that day—which turned out to be the most fateful day in his life and in the village’s life. Men with white faces came stalking through the woods, each carrying a stick—a magic stick that barked terrible noise and fire at one end.
Zondu could remember his father—strong and brave, standing at the door of the hut. And as he stood protecting his family, suddenly one of the sticks barked out, and Zondu’s father fell dead. After that it was hard for him to remember just what happened. There was a long, tiresome trek through the forest then they finally came to the shore of the sea.
Zondu remembered being herded together with other captives into the hold of a great ugly ship that rode deep in the sea. He could remember the tossing and rolling of the ship as it plowed through the ocean waves—day and night, day and night. It was hard to distinguish the days from the nights because so little light came through the deck into the hold below, where he and his fellow tribesmen were chained. His mother became very sick. Days later she was carried out. Zondu never saw her again.
After many days the boy heard the sound of the rubbing of the ship against the dock. At last he saw the clear light of day. Zondu had come to America to be sold as a slave.
He remembered that great auction block where he was sold, then carried away to a cotton plantation. There, as a boy, he knew nothing but hard work and ill-treatment. Day after day he worked in the cotton fields. He grew taller and became very strong. He was the strongest of all the young slaves of the plantation. When he reached the age of nineteen, he was taken back—back again to the city where once again he mounted the auction block. Here again he was sold. This time he was worth a much greater price. The auctioneer sold all the other slaves first, then paused as Zondu stood alone on the auction block—a strong man and valuable slave.
“Who will bid five hundred dollars for this excellent slave?” called the auctioneer to the great crowd.
Someone said, “Five hundred dollars” another, “Five hundred and fifty” another, “Six hundred” another, “Seven hundred.”
Zondu looked out across the great crowd. Out on the fringe of the crowd stood a tall man apart from the rest, looking at the whole spectacle with disdain. He stood beside a great coach drawn by four shining black horses.
Another man countered, “Eight hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Nine hundred dollars,” “Nine hundred and fifty dollars.”
The man with the black horses called out, “One thousand dollars.” Everyone stood amazed. It was the highest price paid for a slave for many years.
The auctioneer took Zondu with a chain on his wrist through the crowds to the tall man at the edge of the crowd, and hauling him over to him, together with the key, said, “Yours for a thousand dollars.”
He received the sum and went back toward the block. The owner of the coach turned the key in the lock which held the chain to Zondu’s wrist and let the chains fall. Zondu was about to reach down to pick up the chains.
“No,” said the other, “we’ll not need them. Come with me.”
Walking over to the coach, Zondu saw the man take a satchel from the coach from which he drew a quill, a horn of ink, and a paper.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Zondu,” replied the slave.
Writing for a moment, and blotting it, the man turned the paper over to the young man and said, “This is your freedom paper. You are no longer a slave. You are free.”
“Free!” The wonder of the word was so great that he could hardly understand it.
Zondu stood paralyzed with amazement. He stared at the paper, barely realizing what it was. He grasped it to him, then without so much as speaking a single word to him who had freed him, he turned and ran—ran as fast as he could—ran away from the horrible auction block—ran away from the city—ran away from those great wharves where the ships plied their trade from Africa. He ran as fast as he could, away from all that spoke of slavery and bondage.
“Free,” he shouted aloud, leaping and dancing with joy. Anyone seeing him certainly would have thought he was crazy, but Zondu was so happy with his freedom that he didn’t care what anyone thought. The afternoon wore on, and at last the sun reached the horizon and disappeared behind it. Long rays of light stretched across the sky, painting it with all the soft and beautiful colors of the sunset. As the shadows lengthened across the cotton fields, and the lights came on in the little cottages, Zondu began to listen to the strumming of the banjos and the singing of the spirituals by the slaves in their cabins.
Suddenly there entered into his mind for the first-time thoughts that had not come before. “Where was he going? What was he going to do? Where would he find a bed tonight? Where would he have supper? Where could he join in the fellowship of others, strumming the banjo, listening to familiar songs?”
He looked about him and knew that he was alone. Nowhere in the world was anyone that cared for him. No longer did he leap for joy. No longer was he running. He lifted one tired foot after the other in plodding weariness.
Hardly realizing what he was doing, Zondu stopped in his tracks, turned slowly around, and began to walk back in the direction from which he had come, still clutching the paper in his hand. Then his pace began to quicken a little. He began to run. Back toward the city he sped, back toward the auction block, back toward the great wharves from which he had run with such joy earlier that afternoon. He was running like a man possessed.
It was late that night when Zondu again reached the city. A question here and a question there, and he started out again from the city, out along the highway toward the west. As he ran, he questioned all he saw. In the early hours of the morning, Zondu reached a highway inn. There he saw the coach beside the inn. Beyond, he could hear the munching of the black horses in the stalls. Running quickly to the door of the inn, he knocked again and again. At last the keeper of the inn opened the door a crack and looked out. On seeing a black man there, he slammed the door again, but Zondu was insistent.
“Let me come in! Let me come in! I must see the man who owns these horses and coach!”
The innkeeper refused to open.
Suddenly, a kindly voice came from the upstairs room, “Friend, let the man come up. I am waiting for him.”
Reluctantly the innkeeper opened the door.
Zondu climbed the stairs and entered the room where the owner of the coach and horses sat waiting for him. Falling down on his knees before him, he threw the paper at his feet and cried, “Sir, I don’t want to be free. Take this paper back. I want to be your slave.”
Then, looking into his eyes, the man said kindly, “No, Zondu, you can’t be my slave, for I have no slaves, but you can serve me. I need you to work on my plantation, not as a slave, but as a free man. I will pay you wages.” Then the joy that Zondu felt was greater than any he had known before. He had come back to the one in all the world who cared for him. Willing to be a slave, but now, not as a slave but as a free man, he served his master and received his reward. He had the greatest joy that he could know.