The evening and the morning were the sixty-second day.

* * *

One might think this episode ruined our resolve. It did not. It became fuel for our survival. We knew a day of reckoning would come. It was the promise of the universe.

More of us died. Diseases, melancholy, and big fish all took their portion. But more of us lived, too. Each day after the sixty-third, we began to speak our names aloud. It became a collective ritual, a daily roll call, an announcement of the yet living. Someone would beat his planks like a drum and say his own name three times. That was the sign. Then the rest of us would join in, beating our planks with our fists and speaking our names in succession: Amadi, Kayode, Yafeu, Kwesi, Abubakar, Dumi, Enyinnaya, Atiba, Ogbonna, Bekitembe, , Shamba, Oluremi, Ayzize, Chitope, Najja, Damani, Oifie, Ato, Giunëur, Ousman, Yoro, Chukwudi, Akintunde, Akinyele, Akinfola, Ajani, Bem, Boseda, Wole, Oshundwaqueke, Alatanga, Tafataona, Tamba , Tefase, Mensah, Ansa, Olufemi, Bataraishe, Adika, Muomaife, Ogunwale, and more. When there was silence, we knew a warrior had fallen. We didn’t always remember his name, but we ceased drumming long enough to honor his memory. Then, fists pounded again until every living soul made his presence known. Above deck, our women did the same once our calling subsided. They shouted their names that we might hear: Citalala, Ama, Tegbe, Naki, Mabasi, Pepukaiye, Ifetayo, Chisanganda, Omolara, Akili, Camara, Jaha, Anela, Kariamu, Zinzele, Oluyassa, Osizwe, Makata, Efuru, Binta, Nilaja, Olutobi, Titilayo, Enomwoyi, Anoa, Iyabode, Aminata, Ayodele, Yewande, Nsombi, Buseje, Dofi, Nakpangi, Folasade, Ijeoma, Dzigbodi, Nazapa, Adenike, Monji, Kwansimah, Lebene, Ngozi, Wahde, and more. We struck planks once between each name. There were other names, too. Far too many to recall now. Yet with each name we nodded and knew someone had survived.

When rations ran low, we suspended roll call and conserved our energy. Sometimes, we barely ate once a day. Even then, we were given a mere handful of paste. As our stomachs growled, we spent countless, numbing hours trying to imagine where we were going and what it looked like. Were there trees? Grasslands? Wild beasts like our own? Were there rivers and streams? Forests? Fruits? There had to be pale women, of course. And what of their girls? Surely they were kinder than crewmen had been. We wondered, too, why these people even wanted us. What justified killing half of us for the other half? Whatever the business, couldn’t they do it themselves? We had no answers. Only questions framed in fury. How long would our gods let this madness continue? How would we ever commemorate those lost at sea? Was mush the only food pale people ate? Did captors assault their women the way they assaulted ours? Did they plunge their way through other pale men without permission? Allah? Oludumare? Chukwu? Who are these people?