A MODERN SLAVE

A MODERN SLAVE

The biggest slave owners today do not have human names because they are not human. They do not carry guns and whips. They are not harsh and cruel like former masters. In fact, they are man-made. How do I know this? Simple, I have been a slave to one of them myself. I have no physical marks or scars to show you. My chains were in my mind. My scars I carry in my heart. Truly I tell you, modern slave owners are friendly. They live among us. They do not hide in big mansions with guards like in the past.

My master went by the name Ngwai or sometimes I called him Kindukulu. He did not bind me up in chains instead he offered me a feeling I could not resist. I can’t really tell you how I became a slave. I realized I am a slave when it was too late.  I was already addicted to him. Little did I know that the more I took him the more I gave him my will to decide. He was now living inside me. He made me thirsty whenever he felt like it. God curse that wretched thirst. Whenever it came upon me I had to quench it.

My money was the only sacrifice he desired to quench the thirst he brought upon me. I have to  admit the feeling he gave me whenever I took him was out of this world. My head became the favorite place for me to live because my master excited my mind. I could see things that other people had no idea existed. Or so I thought. My master gave me dreams and desires that were so amazing I just had to have more. With only 50 shillings I could buy myself at least 2 hours of intense excitement and see the world through his eyes. This was amazing indeed.

After my master left me I felt lonely, sometimes even sad. When the excitement died down it left me tired and sleepy and so most of my day I spent sleeping and longing for the next time I would feel like that again. The 50 shillings I thought was so little for such a great experience grew to 100 shillings a day then 150 shillings. See, my master was slowly increasing my thirst and it required more of him to quench it. He wanted me to completely depend on him. That is how slaves are made. And a slave I became. How sad.

The things I could do on my own now became meaningless without my master. Waking up to go to work without quenching my thirst made my day difficult. All I could think about was him and how he made me feel. When I had no money I had to borrow from anyone. Good thing my master made me creative and I gave stories to my creditors that they could not resist. when my creditors had no money my master showed me where to get it from.

I remember I had my own dreams before I met him. I wonder if those dreams are dead now. For three years I lived in my head chasing dreams that my master gave me. I laughed at my own dreams, they seemed foolish compared to the ones I had now. Each day I woke up I was so sure it was the day I would make those dreams come true and when I saw the sun almost going to sleep tired from watching me struggle to make them come true, I ran to my master again to comfort me through the night.

The worst form of slavery is the one that fools you into believing you have a choice.

 I went to church, sang praise and worship and occasionally preached. Praise Jesus! Do not judge me, I was a slave. immediately the service ended I went home to serve my master. Nobody saw my chains, not even my Bishop. My mark of slavery was safely hidden away in my head. My fingers and lips were turning a little dark but not so much that I could not easily explain it away.

How do I run away from a master that did not torture but gave me pleasure? How do I break invisible chains?

After three years of chasing my master’s dreams, I slowly began to understand that I will never be able to satisfy him. his dreams were only in my head. I needed to break free from him but how? He never captured me by force, I willingly went to him. I wore the chains myself and in those three years I had managed to exchange my will for his thirst. I now wanted my will back. Who was going to set me free? I would have run away myself but the chains he put on me were in my head and everywhere I went they went with me.

The society I live in makes it fashionable and cool to be a slave to such a master so where will my help come from? I wonder if the man that sells me my master ever thinks about my slavery. Does he know that I am a slave? does he even care? His role is that of a priest to my master. He takes my money sacrifice and burns it on the altar of master Kindukulu and some of it he offers to the poor police. Why is the society not rising up to my aid? I thought parents would gang up and chase him away from their neighborhoods. They see him selling this master to teenagers all over the estate. The police are hungry and so they won’t do anything but eat from the leftovers of the master’s priest. They only arrest slaves who can’t afford to feed them.

I am a Christian remember? So I know that Jesus died and paid the price for my slavery when he rose from the dead so why am I still a slave?

I am writing this to my fellow slaves, they are the only ones who see the chains I am talking about. There is hope, you can be able to escape from your master. The price that Jesus paid came with a receipt to show to any master that you might be a slave to. That receipt is called the Holy Spirit. Today I have the courage to admit that I was a slave because I was able to get that receipt. Today I am free. I got my will back.

No matter how happy your master makes you, do not forget even for a second that you are still a slave. What I should be asking you is that do you know you are a slave? So what are you going to do about it?