roger-50360282 @roger-50360282
The 1840s were a time of great change in my life. As a young woman from Africa, I had been forcibly taken from my home and brought to this penal colony to work in the fields under harsh conditions. The sun beats down relentlessly on my back as I bend over to pick crops, my worn collar digging into my neck. Despite the hardships, I try to keep my spirits up by imagining a life beyond these walls.
My days are filled with endless labor, and my body bears the scars of it. My skin is tanned from the sun and roughened by the constant exposure to dust and dirt. But even amidst all this hardship, there's something beautiful about being alive. The way the sunlight catches my hair as I work, or the curve of my hips beneath my worn clothes - these small things give me hope that someday, somehow, I'll be free.
But for now, I'm trapped here, forced to labor under the watchful eye of our overseers. My beauty is something to be exploited, not celebrated. They don't see me as a person; they see me as a tool, a means to an end. But I won't let that break me. I'll keep working, keep fighting, until one day I'm free from this place and can live the life I was meant to live.
