When the rhythms slowed into whole notes, we knew the end was near. And when Death came, we called our comrades’ names or a name that could’ve been theirs, as a verbal libation and communal recognition of a friend, a brother, a baba, an umi who had begun the journey with us but would not see the end. We slept next to Death until bodies were tossed overboard to the giant fish that awaited. These were our loved ones, our sisters and brothers. Gone but not forgotten.

In his nightmare, Abuto screamed, “Chisanganda!” His head tossed and his chains rattled. Someone touched him and when he woke, he shivered with unspeakable dread. We did not know the content of his vision, but whatever it was, it left him frightened enough to scream even louder: “Chisanganda! Chisanganda!” We tried to quiet him, to avoid a visitation from crewmen above, but he would not be consoled. Only light tapping from the upper deck, like the rhythm of a song, confirmed that she’d heard him and so his fretting ceased. But he continued to murmur her name throughout the night, as if conjuring some sort of protective shield around her.

During dance the next morning, Abuto stared at all of us, even his lover, with fear and sadness. He’d seen something in the night, something troubling, something disturbing. He didn’t seem to believe the way he once had. She felt his misgiving and wore a frown of disapproval. But the problem dwelled in his head—not his heart. He loved her no less than the day before, but he’d seen, in his dream, his lover violated. He saw her reaching for him, but they could not connect. Captors dragged her away as others held him at bay. This he relayed to the few who shared his tongue. It was a bad omen, they said. Spirits had sent him a warning. Some tried to say that dreams are not to be taken literally, but they didn’t believe that. Abuto didn’t either. They’d come from people who trusted dreams as much as they trusted God. So, yes, something would happen, and he’d be unable to protect her, and he couldn’t live with that. Not now. Not ever. She was everything to him, everything he had. We shook our heads and prayed silently. Abuto sighed. It was only a matter of time.

With anxious energy, we began to create rhythms with our fists and feet. All of us. On one accord. Together. One person would introduce a beat, and the rest of us would add our complimentary thump until the entire lower portion of the ship shook. Thump, thump, thump joined thump, de-dump, de-dump, dump, which then joined dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat, which then joined dat-dat-dat, bump, bump, dat-dat-dat, bump, bump, which then joined bump, bump … (rest) … bump bump … (rest), which then joined loud bangs of 4-count whole notes: BOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOM! The sound was so intimidating they dared not try to stop it. If they’d killed us all, that would’ve been a blessing. And a deep financial loss. So we beat rhythms for hours. Loudly. Softly. Angrily. Sometimes we did it in unison, creating a stronger, more direct sound. Sometimes we swayed our heads to the beat. Sometimes our teeth chattered along. Sometimes we cried. Most times we didn’t. Sometimes we lay exhausted afterward, feeling good that we’d made ourselves known. Sometimes we beat our own traditional rhythms. Sometimes we played along with the sea. Sometimes our ancestors joined in and played djembes and djun djuns right next to us. Then, as the rhythms waned, they faded into the atmosphere.