They sold one more that day: Amma. When they grabbed her, she kicked and swung her arms, but at our protests she calmed. She had been sick with the flux when we arrived, so they had yet to present her at sale. Filling her anus with wax hadn’t helped, and every day she’d smelled like feces and vomit. Today, though, she seemed better. Our healers had done their work. So, for the first time, she took the block and stared at hungry, pale faces. Within seconds, she fainted. We screeched and moved toward her, but pale attendants blocked our way. One of the men who’d dragged us that morning approached Amma and kicked her slightly. We winced. He didn’t care. He wanted her to rise and be sold. At least for something. Someone passed him a dipper of water, and he dashed it onto her face. She stirred a bit, collecting her consciousness, then struggled upward. Pale women shook their heads with pity. Pale men gazed to see if her struggle was sincere. The auctioneer started the bidding again, but this time much lower. Amma wobbled unsteadily, threatening to collapse again. We spoke strength to her spirit and made her look at us instead of at them. She was Akan, she’d said, and her name meant “Born on Saturday.” It also meant, according to her grandmother, “The happy one.” While in the stall, too sick to move, she’d spent most of her days etching symbols into the base of the walls. Her people believed in symbols and the power they carried, so they created them for practically every communal idea. One symbol, adinkrahene, was a small circle surrounded by a larger circle, which was surrounded by yet a larger one. Amma said the image stood for greatness or royalty. She said it could be found anywhere in her village: on thatched doors, clothing, or upon the ground. She scratched it into the bottom of several planks. It was small, so most would never notice. Another symbol she called duafe. It looked like a wooden comb. She said it meant “love everlasting” and “a woman’s virtue.” Girls often placed it upon their headdresses and sometimes drew it upon their flesh. Still another symbol was called gye nyame. It represented the omnipotence and immortality of God. It looked like a human spine with moons connected on both sides. We’d never seen anything like it, but we liked it. Amma said people bowed before this symbol in public. So we bowed. The strangest symbol she carved into the wooden wall was called sankofa. It resembled a bird whose head was bent backward toward its tail feathers. We frowned, but Amma said her people took its meaning quite seriously. It was about the power of the past. It stood to remind the Akan that they could always correct their mistakes. It was about the beauty and power of wisdom. How the past functions to help create a glorious, more excellent future. How experiences build insight and help construct sharp perception. In essence, Amma said it meant “go back and get it.” It reminded her people that, often, we miss things in life that we later need. Humility insists that we simply return and fetch it. We wondered what we might’ve missed that had landed us where we were. Amma shook her head. All she knew, she said, was that one day we’d have the chance to correct our faults and we’d see our failings. We nodded. The image of that strange bird looking backward never left our consciousness. Neither did Amma.