Someone bought Zinzele and Olufemi together. They were blessed. In years to come, they would be forced to mate and bear children who, like them, would be worked into an early grave. Yet for now, they were glad. They were young, too—hardly eighteen or nineteen rains—and far more able to bear disappointment than the rest of us. They believed that in going together, they were recipients of God’s grace. And they were. In their future hours of gloom, they sought each other and avoided the bottom of sorrow. Yet they would know hurt in the loss of all their children—the premature, the beaten, the sold away—and, in the end, they would have only what they had in the beginning—each other. Zinzele found herself pregnant every year for the next twenty-five years, and Olufemi believed he’d fathered only six of them. Their love dwindled into functionalism, and when Death came, it came for one in the spring and the other in the summer. But they didn’t know this then. All they knew was that wherever they were going, they were going together. That was comfort enough.

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

*   *   *

And, finally, there was Atiba. He didn’t care who bought him. He just didn’t want to remain in the stall alone. Not by himself. Not with Death. A night in that place would kill him for sure. He’d lived among his people, the Fon, back in his village. He’d dwelled and suffered on the ship with kinsmen he’d learned to love. He’d sat with survivors in the wooden stable and decided to live. And now he couldn’t imagine life on his own. Without someone to touch. Someone’s breathing to listen to. Someone’s words to settle his rage. Anyone. Just not Death. Death was a poor companion. He didn’t talk much. He loved to taunt and mock the weak of heart. He had a way of shifting and moving that left others unsettled. Sometimes, without permission, he’d evoke laughter at the absurdity of life and, suddenly, take one’s breath away. Just like that. No, he couldn’t dwell with Death. And who else was there? In the darkness of the night, he could feel ancestors and speak to them, but they wouldn’t come. Death came easily. He came whenever summoned. He even came unsummoned. And he hated leaving alone. So Atiba begged God to send him somewhere. Anywhere. Just not back to the stall.