Scars of slavery-2: Why Slave Master began to drink heavily, haunted by memory of the crippled daughter he had rejected and lost
We buried Violeta on a small hill overlooking the valley where we had been happy. There was no priest, no elaborate ceremony, just me, my new-born son, and the promise that her memory would be honoured. When we arrived at the farm the next day, Colonel Ferreira was waiting for us at the gate. His face showed a mixture of relief and fury.
