“Acknowledgement” by Kim Heneke Groen
2026 Short Story Contest
Runner-Up
March 1692
Dem thinking we here to subserve, be subservient and submissive, seeing we subordinate, stolen to be servants and suitable for sex but dem think we not allowed words, or say de truth or can seek justice. I be with my head down, eyes on de ground, keeping to de shadows but inside dem rage is simmering. Dere be dem slow little bubbles rising to de surface, de temperature underneath steady but ready, always ready to boil—a constant struggle to keep dem bigger bubbles from surging, gurgling and boiling over.
Dem’s what happened with Claes van Malabar—dem burst.
***
Before de sun set—day before this one, mistress Grof be screaming at him dat de wood chopping not been done. Claes pick up dem axe and go towards de wood pile to do his chores, but den he turns, he looks mistress straight in de eye and tell her, he out finding straying cattle, and he be busy. Dat woman, she sees de animals all together and she tell him in attacking words dat he a liar and lazy.
Suppressing a snort, I mumble. Truth be, she de one, who done nothing all day but order us around.
“Fetch dem wood yourself!” Claes screams back at her.
Even from a distance, dem sweat from Claes stench of anger. I hear dem big bubbles, dey ready. Anger like dat is fire—it burns.
“Insolent,” Mistress Grof say, picking up a broken tree branch and swinging at him. Claes, he too fast. He swings dat axe.
I move away, slip behind de house, but Marij, she still naïve, she cries out, “Mother is dead! Mother is dead!” Master be gambling inside with dem other men. Dem come running out and fight Claes off. Take him away. I come and pull dat Marij away. Tell her dat ain’t her mother, and her leaving de world ain’t no loss to her.
“Me children be hers,” Marij says. “She own dem.” I explain to her, dat ain’t so. De children born from her body, belong to Marij, no matter what dey say. She don’t owe mistress nothing. Mistresses’ offspring be siblings with Marij’s brood. Father be de same. Their children be always related.
Next day, we all be marched out to see justice. When de minister mentions de wrath of God to Claes, he says, “God nor de Devil be nutin to me, I happy to die.” While de south-east wind rages, dem men break him on de wheel. Claes be departed by one o’clock.
Not long after, Marij move into main house and live as wife to master. Her children be baptized, sent to school, dem offspring marry, beget children who marry and so forth. Dey forget where dem come from. All dem histories be forgotten—whitewashed. Marij’s children divided, separated over dem years. De privileged overlooking dem down.
De truth telling don’t go away, still simmering, buried in dem DNA, de memory ready to bubble—blended and mixed.
Converged at de continent tip, we here by accident, necessity and for de majority, by force. We be making a life between dem mountains and where de two oceans meet. Where de wind whistles and whips, and howls and hollers—just like dem free burghers. This yarn be complicated to unravel, so many textures of fibers spliced, overlapped and marled together.
Marij requests dat me deliver her newest babe. Master—Jan, as she now calls him, he be waiting for me when I arrive. I be dusty and dirty from sitting behind dem oxen. I nod, say nothing, but Jan talks until dat red sun slides under de horizon. Dunno how he keeps count of all dem offspring from different mothers plus illegitimate grandchildren living in de mix. He saying how we be tough, two of de first inhabitants in this munificent place. I roll me eyes. I remember when I was teetering from girl to woman, and he try to stowaway on a ship back home. He be storming about this forsaken land. Now, he talking about this place’s beauty and dat chance connected us for de intentional purpose. I be tired of serving, except when it come to new life. I love dem babies, no matter who or how dem come about. Jan tell everyone, dat I be de best to bring babies into de world—he names me midwife.
Worry be now, dat Marij’s baby taking too much time. I frightened, dat my mother’s knowledge, gleaned from before I was stolen, is not enough to pull dem through. Marij’s too worn wearied to push. I talk like never before, try to keep her spirits up, tell her about my earlier life—foraging with my mother for remedies. Learning dat de way forward can arise from unexpected conditions and chance discoveries. Marij perks up, she reminded of a tale from her childhood bout three princes. Stories are for later, I tell her, now we need to birth de babe. Between her breaths, she tells me, dat Jan promised on his death, de testament will grant her and their children freedom.
Why dey have to wait? I say soft. Dem bubbles dey rising—bubbling. I curse. We not de same, me and Jan. He free to pleasure and sow his trouble. I condemn him but he keep dat promise. I misjudge Marij too, thinking she not strong. I just like everyone else. Dat babe, a girl, dat I deliver, she be freed at eight and she marry as woman, becoming de mistress of big winery. Marij’s children be blessed with a future.
I learn patience. A way to find my own freedom through de gifts inherited from my mother. Truth telling be dat we all connected, de fabric woven, sequences started dat can’t be undone.
We always part of the kinship—no matter where we come from, we converge and go forth seeking, unearthing a new path. Unbeknownst to me, sharing serendipitously common centimorgans, which will be mapped and acknowledged.
Recognition will happen well after me lifetime. Presently, me have more pressing worries. Summoned, me stand before de council. Dey inform me of an imposed journey, in words me not want to understand.
To me, dey say: The request from the suppliant, to accompany his pregnant wife, is unanimously approved.
To him, a company official, dey say: The afore mentioned will be in your service for the duration of the voyage, at your cost for the passage to and fro. Also, you agree to indemnify should the same oft mentioned abscond or die before her return to service.
He concurs and signs.
No one asks me.
Me gather misgivings and prepare de herbal remedies. Give goodbyes. Grieve.
When me get to dem gangplank, me give way. Dey drag me on dat vessel flailing and wailing, awaiting suffering and chains. Instead, him take me and show de woven grass mat in de corner of his wife’s cabin. Tell me to live up to me reputation as midwife. Watch over his Missus and unborn child.
During daylight, me do de bidding. At night de darkness devour. Me nightmares awaken and disturb dat woman heavy with child. Her listening kindness make me spill all dat’s dormant. Memories of me, twelve-years old, captured from within, by my own. A commodity sold from one complicit group to de other. In chains, me endure horrors, storms, a near sinking, privateering, and de relocation from one hold in a vessel to another. Torn from me mother—merciless, too much, so much of me and many departed, lost at sea. On land, lined up, barely able to stand, me sold. Shattered, me name effaced, and me owned, in service for life. Dem bubbles came raging out, with dem truth-telling of de bygone, a retching of friction, swells breaking, wind surges, and undercurrents causing whopping waves.
When me stop me storming, her eyes grow like de full moon. She cannot possibly cognise me words and all dem told experiences. Me expect de worst. A long silence follows. Den she say, she has compassion, and granted nothing can ever be guaranteed, she’ll advocate manumission for services performed. We are brought together for reasons, she say—a blessed happenstance.
Me trust is thin. Still, me do all to care for her and dat unborn.
Both beauty and wrath can be seen on de seas from above and below, de splendour of de colour and depth, de vastness, reaching out all around—endless eternity. We told de land be coming in sight soon. De unborn, not heed de timing, baby slip into de world, birthed when de waves stretch out calm. Remedies do their job. Everyone be pleased. Me hear de joyful celebration above, while tending below to de mother and newborn. Me have high hopes.
On land we disembark. Dere be no mountains, de water be everywhere, even between de buildings and running down me skin in beads under me garments. So many people gathered, so much noise, spectacles, substantial buildings and bustle. Unlike anything me ever seen. In de scurry of de port, holding her babe tight to her chest, de woman conveys dat if me disappear in de crowd, she will not notice and say nothing. Fading, all of me, my midwifery, and me kin are back over dat never ending deepness and distance. Me not waver, choose to endure three long months to return.
When me go back in reverse, journey be long. Cape of storms be still but me know dem depths. For now, me enjoy de lull. When dem mountains come into view, me feel de homecoming. De ranges are rugged, rocky, and raw—like me past. De waters dark, unpredictable, and wild—like me present. De histories—dissenting, dramatic and dynamic—like me future.
Sometimes even with no choice, we choose.
When me step onto de solid ground, me off course. De wind whirls, spinning from inside. Sea legs on land. Taken some steadying but de swaying has since stopped. Rebalanced, me energies now be focused on petitioning for de freedom dat me be promised. Time has long passed. Yet still me wait. Dere is always dem and us.
De days, de months, den de new year rises. Even when de southeasterly winds keep blowing in challenges, dere is hope for something better. Dey, de privileged will celebrate first. Tomorrow we will be given our one free day of de entire year. We will welcome in de second of January with a festivity. Hand in hand with de child of me child, we will watch de parade of cultural beats, take in de whiffs of diverse foods, put de babes to bed and den hear de revelry of different rhythms and rhymes until morning glows behind dem mountains. De sun will be hidden but de deep red will colour de horizon, for me and all to see.
Raising me eyes and looking around, me take in de majesty of de mountains and de cascading clouds dat flow over and blanket their flat-topped summit. In de distance, de roar of de waves reminds me of whence me came and who me now become. Not what me defined by others, but by myself—a midwife, a mother, a matter. No more journeys for me. Dey will be for de ones dat come after. Many dat be born of me will be seeded forth. Some will remain, sown in de soil near at hand, others scattered in shades over many waters. Me will be forgotten—and den remembered.
Acknowledged.
Celebrated.
January 2026