The Chronicles of Neffie

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE CHRONICLES OF NEFFIE

PROLOGUE ~ THE SOUTH

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CI VEDIAMO DOPO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE CHRONICLES OF NEFFIE

By

A.L. GIBSON

THE CHRONICLES OF NEFFIE. Copyright © 2017 by A. L. Gibson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing from the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Robin Locke Monda

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PROLOGUE ~ THE SOUTH

The South. Some folks say it’s the greatest place on earth. Other folks say it’s a tough place to be. To be free that is. I’ve heard plenty of folks say that the South is on the rise again because of all the Southern hospitality and that good ole Southern charm. I guess that all depends on who you ask. I myself wouldn’t know anything about all that because my life here in the South is much different. You see, I was born in eighteen thirty seven as a slave in Colbert County, Alabama, so my life here in the South ain’t all that great. For you folks that ain’t familiar with Colbert County, Alabama, it’s a part of the Muscle Shoals and Florence area and it’s not too far off from the Tennessee River. There’s a lotta land to be had out here, but there’s more fields and water than anything else. Manors and plantations are just about everywhere and they’re filled to the brim with slaves.

Massa Piero Sanderson is the man who owns me, my Mama, my Papa and my three older brothers. Together we all live in one of the many slave cabins on Massa Sanderson’s sprawling Oak Manor. Neffie is the name that was given to me by my Mama because that was the only name she could think of at the time when she gave birth to me. Massa Sanderson likes to call me sumthin’ else. Ragazza Nera is what he sometimes calls me which means Black Girl in Italian and I can’t stand it. No, I absolutely hate it. For the life of me, I can’t understand why this man hardly calls me by my name. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose because he knows it ruffles my little feathers. I like the name Neffie and I feel it suits me just fine. That’s what my folks call me and that’s what I’ll only answer to. I flat out refuse to answer to anything else.

Massa Sanderson, my slave Massa, is the chile of an Italian mother from Sicily, Italy and an English bred father who hails from Bowling Green, Kentucky. He’s proud of his roots and he’ll tell anybody and everybody who’ll listen. If I had to describe him, I’d say he’s an uppity braggart because he’s always walking around with his chest poked out. He’s one of those slave Massas who thinks he’s better than everybody, but in reality, he’s about as useless as a wooden frying pan. Truth be told, he has about as much sense as a drunken gnat. He’s always talking about what he has or what he’s got. Don’t let him fool you. What most folks don’t know is that everything Massa Sanderson has, it was given to him by his rich English father. A fact he always forgets to tell.

What bothers me the most about Massa Sanderson is how he’s always talking about how much money he spent on his slaves and how well he cares for his slaves. True, he ain’t no outright cruel Massa, but he can still be mean and hateful at times. There’re some days you’d think he was the Devil himself. Although Massa Sanderson ain’t a cruel Massa, I still don’t care for him or any other slave Massa. He has no right to own me, my family or anybody else. No person, be it a boy or girl, has the right to own another person. It just ain’t right. I hate how these hateful White folks look down at me at times and order me around like I’m some animal. I’ve got a lotta sense, plenty of sense and I’m not as dumb as I may seem.

My burlap straw stuffed mat hides a secret, a big secret that could really get me in trouble if Massa Sanderson ever finds out, but he ain’t gone ever find out. I’m gone make sure of that. Massa Sanderson, like most slave Massas, don’t like for his slaves to be able to read and write. That’s not tolerated here in the South and if a slave is caught reading or writing, they can be punished badly. I’ve heard stories of slaves who were whipped and lynched because they could read and write. Being a smart slave is a big No-No and I don’t know why.

I’m one of the few on this manor that can read and write. A secret I’ve worked very hard to keep. I’m almost sixteen years old and no one, not a single soul knows that I can read and write except for my two friends. My own Mama and Papa don’t even know that I can read and write. There’ve been many times where I’ve been tempted to tell them, but I was too afraid. Afraid of what they may think. Afraid of what they may say. Afraid of how they may act. A big part of me would like to think that they would be proud of me and deep down, I really think they would. Although they’re slaves, my Mama and Papa are a proud people. Strong, determined and resilient is how I would describe them. Traits me and my three older brothers share equally.

Both my Mama and Papa are from the Senegambia, an area in Africa that’s made up of the Senegal and Gambia region. It’s a place where the people are rich in culture and full of life. Too bad I can’t say it’s the same here. My Mama has skin that can only be described as a rich deep mahogany with strong cheek bones to match. My Papa has skin that’s the color of the night; deep, dark and jet black. To some, he’s seen as ugly because of his deep broad features, but to me, he’s one magnificent being. Both Mama and Papa have eyes that are set deep within their well sculpted faces and smiles that are broad and welcoming. Their accents, as I’ve heard some of these White folks say, are deep and their statures are a bit menacing. Yet, despite all of that, they’re seen as nuthin’ more than animals.

Black cattle amongst fields of cotton, corn and sugar cane are everywhere around these parts. Day in and day out, we toil in the blistering heat and the unforgiving bitter cold in the winter. Never a thank you. Never a job well done. There’s never any praise or rewards so we know not to ever look for it. All we have to show for our work are aches, misery and pains. This South that I hear so many folks speak of ain’t no grand place to be. Only if you’re not a slave like me. There ain’t no such thing as hospitality or charm when you’re a slave and that’s the truth. Your life is all about tryna make it through one day and hoping and praying you get to live to see the next.

As hard as it is here in the South, no slave really wants to die or even wishes to die. No, we just hope for sumthin’ better. We even pray for sumthin’ better because we know we deserve much better than what we’re getting now. I wanna be free; I even long to be free. Believe it or not, I even wish to be free. One day, just you watch, I’m gonna be free. I can feel it in my spirit and I can feel it in my bones. Neffie, I tell you, is gonna be free one day. I just don’t know when that day will be or when that day will come. All I can do for now is hope that it’ll come soon.

CHAPTER ONE

The South. What a sad, sad place to be. There ain’t no peace. There ain’t no calm. There ain’t no sense of belonging out here. All there is and all it’ll ever be is a place of domination and ruin for a young slave girl like me. Life out here in Clair County, Alabama ain’t all what these folks crack it up to be. It’s pure misery and plain torture. I dread the mornings and beg for the evenings because when the evening time comes, that’s when I get my peace and rest. Before the crack of dawn, we’re already heading out to the fields to pick a couple of barrels of cotton for the day. Sometimes by the time we get down there, there’s already a good handful of other slaves waiting to get started.

Yes, we’re ready to slave the day away. Ready to slave our life away. The life of a slave is surely grand I tell you. There ain’t nuthin’ like it. Slaving my life away for all these White folks is one of the best feelings in the world. Can’t you tell? Neffie’s one lucky slave. You believe that if you want to. Monday thru Wednesday is what we call cotton day around here. Those are the days where we spend many hours picking cotton for our "Massas." Thursday thru Saturday is when we tend to the endless rows of sugar canes of the fields and work our fingers to the bone in one of the many gardens Massa Sanderson has on his land. Lord knows that picking cotton is a thorn in all our sides, but we got to do it. What else is there really for us to do? Being free is outta the question.

Truth be told, if you’re a girl slave, the safest place for you to be is out here in the fields. In the house, you get no rest because if the slave Massa ain’t chasing you all around the house, his boys are. Being out there in the fields is really hard for me, but I’d rather be out here than in there. At the moment, Massa Sanderson doesn’t have any chil’ren or a wife, but I still don’t wanna be in no place where it’s just him and me. He hasn’t tried anything just yet, but folks can change you know. They always do. I hear the stories all the time and I don’t wanna be caught up in that mess. Massa Sanderson is twenty-six years old at the moment and I suspect his blood is getting primed and ready for a wife. If it ain’t, I’m sure his Mama and Papa are ready for him to.

I sure wish he would go ahead and get him one so he could quit eye-balling me. Massa Sanderson is always doing things to upset me just to get me wound up and I can’t stand it. There’re times when I think he knows I’m much different from all the other slaves because I do talk and act a little different. Make no mistake, when I’m out there in those fields, I know how to play my part whenever he’s around.

Yassum Massa.

No Suh Massa Sanderson.

I’s git it for ya Massa.

Massa? Can I do anything else for ya Massa?

That just about kills me every time I have to act like that. My soul becomes uneasy and my sprit becomes disturbed. Surely this ain’t how life is supposed to be. It can’t be. At least that’s what my heart’s telling me. When Massa Sanderson and his friends come over, I can just about climb the walls. They’re so uppity and they think they’re so much better than everyone else when they ain’t. I feel like knocking them all