Horror is like the scream flying from the mouth of the dark-skinned girl, shattering the silence

Like the men approaching her village, white men, must they come?

Horror is like the sight of these men, heavily laden with their weapons

Their swords and daggers strapped around bulky waists, rifles swung over beefy shoulders, and iron-tipped spears at the ready

Horror is like the fear lodged deep into the girl's heart, as successfully as if it is a bullet hidden in the barrel of the gun

Horror like, the horror of a child of nine needing to run as fast as is mortally possible to raise an alarm

Like the cry: "The slavers are coming!" and the chaos that follows

Horror is the mothers searching for their children, husbands their wives, and adults a familiar face; so fast they are able to overlook the well-known

Horror is like the hope that someone else would tell them what to do, they need directions

Like the girl's tears drenching her mother's clothing as she awaits her fate; her tears are the same color as a white girl's tears

Horror is like the sheep the dark-skinned people are corralled like,

How their feet and hands tied

How their heads bound by the neck to poles

Horror is like those who try to escape being shot

Horror like, the horror of mothers clinging to their babies for they had heard the stories, horrid, horrid tales

Horror is like the stories coming true

Horror is like all children unable to walk – being slaughtered. Machetes do quick work, but don't stop the blood

Horror is like women screaming and the children still alive violently weeping

Like the crack of the chicote as the caravan moves on

Horror is like the sun slowly easing herself under the horizon, leaving a weeping, blood-filled sunset

Horror is this pain

chicote: whip