This way, we planned our mutiny. A great warrior from the village of Kuntaur rattled his chains one afternoon, after we had danced and been returned belowdecks. He seemed frantic but not insane, so we yielded our attention. His eyes opened so large we thought they’d pop from his head. We quickly discerned that he had an escape plan. He motioned, with his head, to various individuals, and we nodded. When his head rolled in a circle, we knew he was instructing all of us. To some he gave the task of fighting. To others the job of gathering weapons. To the Mende, the charge of watching and paying attention, since they were known as people with three eyes. To several others the responsibility of protecting women and children. To some the mission of gathering ancestral support. To others the duty of steering the ship—if we got free. Somehow we comprehended his delegation.

Days passed in silence. We dreamed of killing captors. Of fighting like warriors and hunters determined to destroy our enemy. Of swimming home and telling our story. Of being reunited with loved ones and standing as family again. We imagined big fish tasting a different flesh this time. We thought how proud our gods would be that we rose up and proclaimed our liberty. At whatever cost. We dreamed of chains broken and discarded. Guns aimed at sea-blue eyes. Free black souls standing at the ship’s edge, staring into the water, remembering those who could not wait for freedom.

On the twenty-third or twenty-fourth day, another storm arose while we danced. Dark clouds gathered and shifted in the heavens, leaving us anxious and fretful. Wind gushed and whispered in our ears. Waves dashed against the boat, as if trying to get our attention. We looked at the warrior. He nodded repeatedly. It was time.

Our women, those without shackles, led the revolt. How they knew the plan we did not know, but we were grateful. And they were fierce in battle. They attacked captors like starving lionesses, gouging eyes and ripping flesh with bare teeth. More pale enemies intervened, but they, too, were made to bear the marks of our women’s rage. Sisters, mothers, and daughters fought with the strength and fortitude of elephants. We cheered them on. One woman secured the key for our chains and began to set us free. She was shot and killed within seconds. Some called her Abeni, which means, “We asked for her, and behold, we got her.” We promised, in our hearts, to add her name to the list of African heroes before whom we bowed.

Several men were now unbound and added their power to the destruction of pale faces. Never did crewmen imagine we could reach into chests and extract hearts with our bare hands. They didn’t know we could end their breathing with one blow to the throat. Surprise leapt in their eyes. Our strength multiplied. One of our boys assumed the key to our chains and continued what Abeni had begun. Within seconds he, too, entered the ancestral realm. We would call their names at future ceremonies. We would pour libations to their priceless memory. We would name our sons and daughters after them. But, for now, with more men loosed, we fought on.