![]() These women lived as members of the white race, and often failed even to acknowledge their African roots. Believing that the interbreeding during the slavery era had resulted in the loss of African DNA, the Brotherhood conducted genealogical studies into white women suspected of having black ancestors. She was at a breeding facility, run by the Brotherhood, an underground African-American nationalist organization. "Is this a hospital, and what do you mean my husband is gone," she demanded, "and what am I doing here?"Īt this, he sat on the corner of the bed, closed the chart and explained to her that she was not a patient, but rather a prisoner. He barely finished that sentence when she cut him off. He pulled what looked like a medical chart from under the trolley, flipped open its cover and started to read. "Your husband is gone, and you are here," he said matter-of-factly. "Where the hell am I, and where is my husband," she demanded, struggling with her bonds. He carefully shut the door and pushed the trolley over to the side of the bed. Remmick," he said cheerfully, but in a high-pitched voice. Nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, and built like a football player, he filled the doorway. Pushing a stainless steel trolley was a large, bald-headed black man. For her, Africa was of no interest.Īfter a while, a key rattled in the door, startling her and she trembled ever so slightly as it opened. In fact, the only reason she went was because he wanted to see the latest sculptures and woodcarvings from southern Sudan that the museum had bought. "Is this a hospital," she asked herself, "and where is David." Her husband had been only a few steps behind her when she left the exhibition. Still tied down, she lay there, strangely relaxed, but more aware of her situation than she had been yesterday. When she woke the next morning, light streamed in from a window behind her. Her yelling brought no response, only tiring her more and she drifted off into an exhausted slumber. "Let me out of here," she screamed at the top of her lungs. All she could remember was walking out of the African Art exhibit when she felt a bee sting her in the shoulder and now she was here. "What is happening," she asked herself, fearful of her situation. Her arms and legs were secured to the bedposts, and no matter how hard she tried she could not loosen the binding. It was then that she discovered she was a prisoner. The room, or what she could see of it, reminded her of her college dorm. A television set and VCR stood off in a corner. The room was quite small, sparsely furnished, with a desk and two bookcases - but she was too far away to make out the titles of any of the books. ![]() ![]() It took her a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the twilight, and she felt extremely groggy, as though she was suffering from a hangover. This story is dedicated to the all of my brothers who have successfully bred the wives and daughters, descendants one and all, of our former masters. When I saw them leaving together, I hoped that he would soon be sharing her bed. Its inspiration was an image I saw last Spring of a beautiful, blonde model dancing lasciviously with a tall, well-built black man in one of the Big Apple's best clubs. ![]()
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