Akinyemi went first. His name meant “He shall be our warrior.” He was short, with round features. Pale people seemed not to admire him, but they made their bids and he was off. A pale man chained him to a wagon, and Akinyemi strained to see if someone else might come along. It did not happen. Among his people, he’d been a singer of songs. At every gathering, he said, he and others sang their people’s history. His voice was high and chirpy, like that of a warbler bird. Sometimes we’d hear him singing, with his eyes closed, heralding the triumphs of kings, hunters, and warriors. When he realized he was singing, he’d stop abruptly as if having subconsciously violated a sacred oath. We asked him to continue, since his voice soothed and massaged our memory of home, but he would not. His songs were not for entertainment, he said. They were cornerstones of ritual and ceremony for a people who loved themselves and their God. He would not sing them out of context. Not intentionally. We respected his position, but urged him nonetheless, hoping that the intensity of our need might override his conviction. It did not. Occasionally, however, laying upon his back, he’d drift into trance as mellifluous melodies emitted from his throat. We’d freeze, trying desperately to capture every precious note. Sometimes, we’d lean our ears toward his mouth, summoning sounds directly into our memories. His voice recreated our past so completely that often we wept. It sounded like wind blowing through trees. It sounded like the soft strain of the brook. It sounded like easy-flowing rain on a rooftop. It sounded like a chorus of birds welcoming the morning sun. Often, minutes passed before Akinyemi realized he had serenaded the world. We were grateful every time. When he stopped, we sighed collectively as if we’d been holding our breaths. His voice was a sweet melody, a healing song, while we remained in the stall. As they led him away, we heard a bird in a nearby tree sing his praises.