History recycles itself. The forms might change, but the underlying principles remain the same. He didn’t know this neither did it matter. His weary body was dragged along, bound in chains by the neck, hands and feet.
As they reached the sea, he looked back at the land that had been his home. He remembered his wife and son whom he had hidden in a bush before the raiders grabbed him. He said a prayer for them as he turned back to the sea of abyss before him.
400 years passed. Almost all the dusty tracks had been covered with asphalt. The bush he hid his family had been cleared for a mansion. The iron chains had been replaced with silk ties, etcetera.
His descendant, completely oblivious of the path his ancestor was dragged on was down the same path a few hundred kilometres from where he had said a prayer for him. A prayer that failed to travel through time and space. Even the place he had said his prayer had become a tourist site, the “Point Of No Return” was what they called it.
The descendant had tried to get a visa to Europe for a chance at a better life and had been rejected every time. He had chosen the hard way.
He would go through borders, by land, till he gets to the sea between Africa and Europe. He would make it across that sea by any means necessary. Determination was all he had. Whether master likes it or not, a new slave is coming to the fields.