Crewmen came belowdecks one day, a few moons after the uprising, and beat us again with instruments we’d never seen. We’d been flailed with cat-o’-nine-tails and sticks, but these were larger whips that tore our flesh asunder. The pain was unimaginable. Throughout the hull, the smell and sound of ripping flesh loitered for days. Flies gathered to lick our open wounds. We tried to shoo them away, but they persisted until crewmen, understanding apparently the potential cost of such mutilation, returned and covered our sores with thick ointment. Soon blisters scabbed over and peeled away. We never figured out why they beat us so that day. All we knew was that they meant to claim us as their own. Someone had bought us and they meant to own us forever.

Yet if we’d been bought, we reasoned, we must’ve been sold. But by whom? Who’d had the power to do such a thing? Truth was, there were many. In separate tongues, several were considered such as Ayokunle of the Yoruba. He was one of the chief’s men who owned more cattle than most. Perhaps he’d traded our flesh for more grazing territory. Or maybe it had been Ikenna of the Ibo. He was a weaver who hardly spoke a word. People whispered of his unpredictable nature and his questionable integrity. Yes, it could’ve been him. Or perhaps it had been Kwaku of the Akan who sold some of us away. Deceit and stealth shrouded his character, his people agreed. Parents warned children to avoid his cunning nature and not to envy his excessive. Kave, too, of the Wolof had proven untrustworthy, some remembered, having been accused, though never convicted, of several offenses due to his lying tongue. We considered practically everyone who held any position of authority. Yet there was simply no way to know. Would our own kinsmen have traded our flesh for trinkets of silver and gold? Would chiefs have justified our bondage in exchange for silk and salt? The more we pondered, the more convinced we became that someone in our own villages had participated in our capture. It simply couldn’t have happened otherwise. Captors didn’t know enough about us to destroy us so easily. They couldn’t have subdued hundreds of warriors unless they knew where they would be prior to the attack. Someone must’ve told them. It was the only explanation. And when we went to retrieve weapons, they were not there. Captors could not have found our weapons on their own. They were hidden in a secret place for just such an ambush as this. Someone must’ve told them! As we thought about it, even the time of the attacks appeared calculated. Our strength was divided. Elders were in council meetings, warriors were combing the forest, other adults were tending gardens. Young children were consumed with play, older children were being initiated. We were living our simple, though multifaceted, lives. It was the perfect time for an onslaught. That’s how we knew someone must have assisted from the inside. The timing was simply too deliberate. The destruction was too complete. We hung our heads and sighed.