His name wasn't Sambo. But that's what they called him. Other times, he was "boy" or "slave" or worse.
He lay shivering in that stinking loft above the dark brewhouse where the sailors drank. They thought him dumb but he knew their gargled voices.
It was the fever that kept him quiet, right until the end, when they buried him with the rabbits by the shore.
He was a sailor, a linguist, a traveller, a brother and a son, an explorer of a foreign land. He was many many things but he wasn't Sambo.