The evening and the morning were the first day.

* * *

The next day, we woke to shouts and curses from captors, commanding us to open our mouths for daily victuals. Most did not hesitate. Our hunger had not been satisfied since we’d left our villages. Their food was strange and distasteful, yet we swallowed it still, hoping only to survive. Its taste revealed its contents: beans, flour, cornmeal, water. Mere mush. Some vomited as soon as it was received. Some swallowed just enough to stay alive. Some wouldn’t take it at all. Starvation was their weapon, and they fought valiantly. A few spat mush back into captors’ faces. They were killed on the spot. And that’s precisely what they’d wanted—immediate death that gave no joy to the murderer. As for the rest of us, we swallowed what we could and prayed that, wherever we were going, it would be a land of plenty. If we’d known then what we know now, all of us might’ve refused food and succumbed to Death’s invitation. But we didn’t know.

The remainder of the day we lay in abject misery. Tossed to and fro, our backs were rubbed raw. The slightest movement caused immeasurable pain. Many suffered sickness of motion. Some went out of their minds. Some began to hate themselves for being unable to fight. For having given traders the benefit of the doubt. For having ignored the signs of communal distress. For having killed men from other villages who were now family. Many shouted curses at a God who would allow such a calamity. They resolved to rid the world, one day, of the enemy, if they ever got free. Others lay motionless, no doubt staring, in their minds, at memories of home. Still others wailed. We wailed the names of our women above, whose screeches and pleadings drove us mad. We wailed for those who’d be dead by morning. We wailed for sons without fathers. Fathers without families. Families without communities. Communities without elders. Elders without children. We wailed from stench so horrendous it made us sick. We wailed to remind ourselves we still existed. Mostly we wailed because we didn’t know what else to do. A few struggled in their chains until wrists and ankles were worn, bloody, white flesh. Many squeezed their eyes shut, hoping against hope that this was all a bad dream. It was not.

The evening and the morning were the second day.

* * *

Each morning, they dragged us to our feet, still bound inches apart, and took us above deck. Coming out of darkness, the sunlight blinded. The ship swayed. We leaned upon one another to keep from falling over. Soon our eyes adjusted and we looked around. The land had disappeared. Which way was home?

A young boy, whom we’d never seen, beat a makeshift drum, and captors beat us until we danced. Chains sliced our flesh with each movement, but we had no choice. Furious blood streaked the upper deck of the ship, leaving it slippery and stained deep red. Still, we danced. We danced the dances we knew. We danced Kuku and Manjani, Sorsonet and Soli. We tried to explain that what we were doing was against our beliefs, that our dances were sacred and not to be performed unless in the context of ritual, but they did not understand our words. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.