A colorful flyer for a twerking competition, pink neon script on black gloss, was taped to the window of a restaurant in Pompey Square in Nassau Bahamas. A lone pair dined alfresco.
The waitress sat on a high top chair, slumped over behind the hostess stand in the shade beneath a white trellis awning atop the doorway. Her bored eyes cut adrift on the sea of cruise passengers walking past without seeing her.
Steps away in the square’s center was a plaque denoting the very site slaves were once bought and sold; a veritable marketplace of the human body, bodies as objects owned to this day, but by whom?
But by whom.
