Benedita, the fighter from Vassouras

When Benedita’s turn came, silence fell. Not out of admiration, but out of unease.

She was about 1.95m tall, maybe more. His shoulders were broad, his hands immense, his bare feet deeply marked the wood of the platform. His torn raw cotton garment barely covered his angular body, scarred by hunger, forced labor and scarring.

Her black hair was shaved very short. His dark eyes didn’t rest on anyone. They seemed to be staring at an invisible horizon, as if it were already elsewhere.

The auctioneer announced his name, his age and his origin: Benedita, twenty-three years old, from Recôncavo baiano. Strong as an ox, but deemed impossible to control. She had already been sent to four properties. No foreman, it was said, had succeeded in taming it.

Nobody wanted her.

Prices fell. Five reis, three reis, two reis, one reis. Still nothing.

Then a deep voice rose at the back of the square:

“Seven cents. “

Joaquim Lacerda, the man who experiences something else