She was deemed unfit for marriage, so in 1856 her father married her to the strongest slave, Virginia.

He told me bluntly, “A white man will never marry you.” It’s true. But you need protection.

When I die, the inheritance will go to your cousin Robert.

He’ll sell everything, give you a few cents, and leave you dependent on distant relatives who don’t care about you. I said, knowing it was impossible, “Then leave me an inheritance.”

“Virginia law doesn’t allow it.” Women can’t inherit alone, especially…” She pointed to the wheelchair and couldn’t finish her sentence.

“So what do you propose?” “Josiah is the strongest man in this heresy.” He’s intelligent; yes, I know he reads the secrets, so don’t be surprised. He’s healthy, fit, and, from what I’ve heard, has a good heart, despite his size.

He won’t abandon you because he has a legal obligation to stay. He will protect you, meet your needs, and care for you.

The logic was terrifying and unyielding. I asked him, “Have you asked him?” He replied, “Not yet.” I wanted to tell you first. “What if I refuse?”

At that moment, my father’s face seemed to age ten years. “I’m still trying to find you a white husband, and we both know I can’t.”

And you will spend your life after my death as an adopted child, dependent on the charity of relatives who consider you a burden. He was right.

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I hated his reasoning. “Can I see him?” Talk to him, really, before we make this decision on our own? “Of course.” Tomorrow.

The next morning they brought Josiah home. I was sitting by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

The door opened and my father entered, then Josiah had to bend down, literally, to squeeze under the doorframe.

Oh my, he was huge! He was almost two meters tall, muscular and well-built, his arms barely touching the doorframe, and his hands bore the burn marks of a forge that looked like it was crushing rocks.

He had a wrinkled face, a thick beard, and his eyes looked around the room, paying no attention to me.

He stood there with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, in the pose of a slave in a white house. The nickname “Beast” was more than deserved: he looked like he could tear a house to pieces with his bare hands.

Then my father spoke: “Josiah, this is my daughter, Elilapar.” He looked into my eyes for a moment, then looked back at the ground.

“Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet calm, even gentle. “Elilapar, I explained the situation to Josiah.” He understands.