Below an extract from the slave novel I’m editing. I’m sending out queries to agents and so far I have collected a number of no’s. Although I finished the novel in April 2023 I have waited a while to get back to it due to my husband’s illness and death.
The novel is set at the Cape of Good Hope (17th Century) during a time when the language of choice was Dutch so I have provided a translation in brackets.
The Cook worked under the oak tree on Verkeerdevallei braiding a riem (rope). He was on loan for the day. Anke used the influence of a family member in the VOC (Dutch East India Company) to wrangle access to company slaves when Meine needed extra hands. The Cook wasn’t sure if it was legal but it was not his concern. He saw Amberike when he worked here, which gladdened his heart.
In Meine’s absence – he had gone to a neighbouring farm – Egbert and Anke sat on the veranda, drinking coffee.
Since the Cook had not joined Egbert in laughing at Arrie when they met earlier, tension had come between them. Whenever they met Egbert stopped to glare at him. The Cook thought it best to pretend not to notice and usually walked away. Even now he was sitting with his back against the trunk of the tree, invisible in its shadow.
Mankbeen sang where he was busy sweeping the yard with a broom made of tall grass. “So early in the morning,” He loved to sing. He was always humming and warbling, doing a little jig when no one was looking. The words didn’t matter; he would choose a phrase and sing it the whole day. He had been doing it since he arrived on the farm, since he had been sold away from his mother. Countless whippings could not cure him. He simply seemed to forget. “So early in the morning.”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Keep quiet!” Anke said.
She rose, went into the house and came out with Meine’s best whip of hippo hide. She flicked it across Mankbeen’s shoulders. He uttered a howl.
Egbert said, “That’s right, show him how to behave. Singing is against the law.”
Before he could think the words came out of the Cook’s mouth. “That’s not true,” he said and bit his bottom lip. Working on Meine’s farm afforded him the privilege to watch over Amberike and he had just risked that by correcting a slave owner.
Egbert head snapped back. He jumped up. “Who asked you?”
The Cook thought of explaining what he meant, that it used to be a law but was no longer one. But he recognised the folly in that as Egbert strode towards him, his blue eyes flinty.
“Forgive me, Seur. I wasn’t thinking.” The Cook lowered his head.
“Be careful, sour face. All you Eastern slaves are the same; you have no respect, always running amok (wild).” Egbert wiped his brow, it was a sweltering summer. He looked at Anke. After her exertion she was breathing fast, her bosom going up and down, fine beads of sweat on her upper lip. He forgot his duty to punish the insolent slave.
“It’s so hot. Let’s go inside,” he said to Anke.
Anke dabbed at her wet bodice with a lacy cloth. “I have cheese and lemonade.”
“What type of cheese?” Egbert’s tongue briefly touched his lips.
Anke smiled coyly. “You’ll see.”
She went into the house followed by Egbert.
The Cook had learned not to have an opinion about what the masters did. He turned to Mankbeen. “What’s that song you’re always singing?”
Mankbeen had resumed his sweeping, sniffling loudly. “Meijnheer? (sir)” Mankbeen sometimes muddled the difference between how to address an older slave and how to speak to a master and often thought it better to err on the side of caution.
“It’s always the same tune. The words change but it’s always the same tune.”
“My mother used to sing it to me.”
“So you sing to forget but also to remember,” the Cook said under his breath.
“Meijnheer?” Mankbeen put his hand on his back, rubbing it like an old man.
The Cook looked at Mankbeen’s tattered shirt. He judged the boy to be about eight, maybe ten. Not that age mattered. Nobody cared about your name or your age. “You can call me Mustapha. Have you ever heard of Allah, the most glorified?”
“Does he live here?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, Allah is god, the only god, and we are his subjects.”
Incomprehension shone in the dark eyes. The boy wiped his snot on his sleeve and started singing again.
The Cook returned to his work on the rope. His back itched. It had healed but ropes of excessive skin had grown out of the wounds. They bulged like snakes under his shirt. He scratched gently there where he could reach and pressed his back against the tree.
He’d befriended Mankbeen to convert him by telling him about Sheikh Yusuf who was banished to the Cape in 1694. He admired the determined cheerfulness of the little fellow. Why this morning he was singing “It’s such a good day,” on a cold, rainy winter morning. Still using the same tune and with such gusto.
“That was a good song, my friend.” The Cook slapped Mankbeen on the back, and rewarded him with a warm smile.
The Cook rarely smiled. There was nothing to smile about. He had had five owners, all irascible men determined to break the spirit of all those around them; self-proclaimed gods who brooked no opposition – not from slave, wife or child.
He was attracted to Mankbeen’s spirit, how did he do it? He had lost his mother, and his previous home. Heaven knows what happened to his mangled leg and still he found reason to sing. The Cook was in need of such brightness.
“I want to teach you how to defend yourself,” he said during a lull in the singing. Ever the pessimist, he saw no reason not to prepare the youngster for tougher times. Slave men were tempestuous.
Mankbeen stood eagerly in front of him.
“Make a fist. No not like that.” The Cook put away the rope he was braiding. “Let me show you. Now, hold up your hands, like this.” Mankbeen was beside himself with excitement.
“Put your one leg back to steady yourself. No, that’s not working. The other leg is too short. Just stand firm. Now punch, punch. You’re a natural.”
Mankbeen did a little jig, punching the air.
The Cook saw Egbert and Amberike returning. “Get back to work. That was your first lesson.”
Mankbeen skipped away singing “I am a fighter na-na-na.”
The Cook suppressed a smile.
Cornelia Smith Fick 