Imagine being tormented and tortured for hours, forced into confessing a crime you never committed, then being executed.
Well these were everyday occurrences at the Castle of Good Hope three centuries ago.
They say it’s a historic monument. This castle was meant to be a fortress, protect its people. But I guess this applied to a few and exclusive. The bloodstains might have been washed, but the pain and sufferings still roam and haunt these chambers.
The inscriptions on the mahogany timber incarceration chamber doors dispel any hope all this might just be a well orchestrated fiction. These people probably had wives, kids, brothers and so forth, who loved and cherished every minute spent with them. I know they say only a handful on these slaves were natives but there’s every little chance that one of them carried my bloodline.
I stood in those chambers and thought to myself, someone spent their last moments alive – and probably died – here. This wasn’t good for me. This is not a castle. It’s a grim reminder of these savage acts.
They were harmless from what I made out. Why clasp them on to shackles as if they were some vicious stray dog spreading a deadly virus? It boggles the mind.
Just like their torturers; these people were once conceived, birthed. But because they weren’t of a particular class, they were ridiculed and treated worse than the senator’s dog.