We needed our gatekeepers. Those who traversed the boundaries of sexuality and spirit, those whose hearts and bodies knew no limitations. They could’ve told us how to heal rape from within. They would’ve reassured us that unless a body invites another’s entry, the memory cannot linger. Yes, the sting would never be forgotten, but it need not govern one’s consciousness. Simply from their touch we could’ve been reminded that to expunge a person from our spirit is to erase them from our hearts. We’d been taught this. Yet in the midst of trauma, remembering is difficult. Our gatekeepers stood at the edge of our village, watching and studying the world, prepared to protect us from any potential invasion. They had more eyes than the rest of us. They knew freedom in ways we did not. They loved each other, men or women, without public ridicule. They were free to express themselves without boundaries or restrictions. We loved them. In their presence, we prospered.

Yet without them, unable to see our future, we took refuge in memory. Endless hours were spent reconstructing lives far more perfect than we’d actually lived. We saw in our minds thatched huts and compounds, shaded by trees on every side. We heard children running from playmates and teasing each other about whom they liked. We saw elders sitting and drinking wine from kola nuts, wondering about the future of our people. We heard men speak of the difficulty of living with women. We heard women speak of their frustrations with men. We saw hunters sharpening arrows in preparation for the hunt. We saw weavers laughing together as they assembled ,multicolored cloth, which, one day, would be our pride and glory. We saw farmers’ sweat drip from their chins as they tilled the soil. We saw women braid dried grass until they’d made intricate carrying baskets. We saw the sun set across the plains and leave streaks of purple and gold in the sky. Then we saw fires built for night rituals, which aimed to cleanse the community of bad spirits. We saw ancestors stand watch over those whom they honored. And of course we heard the drums. Everyone. Everywhere. In every village. They beat with the regularity of the heart itself. Deep rhythms reverberated across the plains, through trees, and into the heavens. It was the language of our gods, the collective voice of a people. The drum’s polyrhythmic repertoire surpassed the number of hairs on our heads. Even on rainy days, it rumbled praises, far in the distance, to the Great God who’d sent nourishment to the earth. It also admonished and celebrated us. One studied many years before mastering the drum. Most never played it, but we understood its message loud and clear. In the bottom of the ship, we heard it, too, ringing in our memories.

This made our past perfect. We conjured images of loving parents although everyone had not had them. We imagined walking in forests with sages and soothsayers whom we couldn’t possibly have known. We played, in our minds, with siblings never born. We ate juicy fruits beneath groves of verdant trees, most of which actually bore minimally. We lay our dead to rest without grief. We prayed to God, and God answered us. We lived in harmony with wild animals. Elders were always wise and upstanding in character. Of course we knew better. But in exile we chose to remember the best of what we’d had. Or to create it. All of us recalled a people too strong to be overtaken. But, of course, that couldn’t have been true.