They sold her within minutes. They assumed her fainting had been a ploy, a stunt, to distract buyers away from wanting her. So pale men bid even higher, intrigued by one with such talent and strength, especially after having been in the stall so long. Yet Amma had no tricks. She was barely standing. Shy and withdrawn, she’d always avoided crowds, especially the center of them, even among her people. Now, with harsh, unloving eyes gawking at her, her legs promised to give way if she did not retreat. Of course, she could not. Instead, she closed her eyes and shuddered. The world around her swirled. She felt as if she were on the seas again. The very ground upon which she stood seemed to spin, and all Amma could do was fight to steady herself. We saw her limp form, swaying like a sapling in the wind, and we prayed she wouldn’t fall again.

And she didn’t. Pale people laughed as if at a performance. Some pointed each time her body leaned one way or the other. We whispered in our minds across their mockery: You are the mighty river, daughter Amma. Let your spirit flow! Do not surrender your power unto the undeserving! Stand, daughter of the Akan! Stand! Amma’s spirit apparently heard us for, somehow, she managed to remain upright.

One very bold pale man approached the platform, frowning at Amma as if she were from another galaxy. He proceeded up the short steps and stood before her wobbly form. Without shame or hesitation, he cupped her breasts, each with one hand. We turned away. Unbeknown to us, his eyes rolled to the top of his head as he imagined the ecstasy Amma might provide. Too tremulous to resist, she simply swayed as his hands massaged her breasts gently, then more intensely, before he bought her altogether. She collapsed into his arms. He seemed not to mind. His imagining of her use did not require her consciousness. She could provide precisely what he wanted without ever again being cognizant of her own existence. He carried her to his wagon, in the bend of his arms, as if bearing dead weight. We never got to wave good-bye. We shook our heads as the tattered wagon switched down the winding, dirt road.

Those symbols outlasted us in the stall. Surely pale men never noticed them, etched into their walls at the level of their feet. But they were there, in undetected glory, prepared to tell our story—if, someday, someone cared to know it.

This was not the end. There would be another day.

*   *   *