Imagine being stolen from your family, from your country from your continent, forced into chains, and stowed below decks like a barrel of molasses. Seasickness prevails. Nothing worse than being seasick. You want to die. You pray to Yoruba! Believe me you pray; you pray to die, to jump overboard if you can get free. One month, two months, three months across oceans. To arrive in Jamestown or the Bahamas or Havana. Sold into slavery. Now a new life, planting and cutting sugarcane. The Whiteman’s Gold.