A boy was born into a slave people. All his people were owned by other people. It was expected the boy would work in the fields of his owners. But the boy was clumsy and inefficient. He became a messenger instead. He would run from the office of his master to the big city. The generally used language of his country was French, and the boy learned to speak it in his comings and goings, but he was not allowed to learn to read and write. As the years passed the young man became a valuable aide to his owner. He knew exactly how many cattle his master owned, where they were and how much they were worth at any of the markets. It was unavoidable that he learned to read and write.
When an American missionary was killed in a distant village the young slave was sent to question the people, find out what happened. He returned with the missionary's small library. In a few years he could read and understand English.
One of the books described the founding of the United States of America. The book had been written for young children and the message was plain to the young man. He must go to America. He would be free there. He could make a great life. Over the years he had acquired enough money for a one way ticket. He said his goodbyes to his family.
``I will return a great man,'' he told them. They wept.
``You dishonor us!'' his mother said.
He waited long in the port city. Bribes had to be paid, arrangements made.
At last the day came when he arrived in America. His first greeting was the coldest air he had ever experienced. He stood on a street in his mismatched clothes, his belongings tied in a striped cotton blanket. Now what?
``Excuse me...''
``Sir!''
``Sir, I beg you...''
No one responded. He was a tall young man. He picked out the smallest person he could see. An old woman of astounding ugliness, and much painted.
``Madam, excuse me, but I have just arrived in America and I have no place to stay. Can you direct me?''
The woman was about to scream for help, but instead she pointed down the street.
``That way,'' she said.
At night he was still walking. There seemed to be no place for him. Then he felt the hand on his shoulder.
``Sure looks like him,'' a voice said.
They shackled him and threw him into a cart and rolled into the night. In a couple of hours they stopped. A dog was barking.
``Got your runaway,'' someone said.
``That ain't him!''
``Close enough ain't it?''
``I am a free man!'' shouted the slave, ``This is America! I am a free man.'' Loud laughter and the spitting of tobacco juice in his direction.