One day, rain fell continuously, hour after creeping hour, until we were sure the whole world had flooded. Droplets danced on the upper deck, creating a rhythm so strong, so intoxicating, so melodious we had no choice but to close our eyes and listen. The constant tapping sounded like a thousand djembe’s being beaten simultaneously, causing the very ship to tremble. Water fell so hard the vessel vibrated. We were not afraid. Thunder and lightning accompanied the rain and quieted our anxious hearts. Then we understood. We knew the message. A woman from our village voiced it. Amidst the noise, she bellowed, “We shall not all die. We shall live again. In a new land.” She paused, then continued: “And we shall prosper and teach the souls of men the ways of God.” Water from the sky, she explained, was an ancestral libation to those we’d lost along the way. They had not been forgotten. Each drop was a soul, a mother or father gone before their work was done. Oh, how it rained! Together, the chaotic sounds of the heavens droned a healing melody we hadn’t heard since we’d left home. It was beautiful. Our spirits opened up. For a moment, we stepped beyond our chains and saw ourselves again. We were strong. We were mighty. We were gods. We belonged to ourselves. We belonged to each other. We belonged to the land. Our spirits were free. They had bought our flesh, but not our souls.

It rained all night long. Some hummed, just loud enough to create melody in the room. We were the last, but we were here. We had endured.

This was The Coming.

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

* * *

By morning, when the rain ceased, our frustration and fury multiplied. Where were we? What had they done with our comrades? What were they planning to do with us?

By now, many of us knew each other’s names. We’d called them daily, as a ritual reminder of our existence. We’d learned to shout “Yeabo” or “Ashe,” which means “It is so,” as the verbal affirmation of each life. The collective chorus elicited the only joy of our days. It was beautiful, hearing the refrain repeated by the Ashanti and the Akan, the Mende and the Fulani. These voices had generally never joined together in ritual space, but now they rang out in unity, summoning life-sustaining, communal power. It was a chorus of determination, a merging of differences we never thought we’d see. Yet we needed it. We knew much sorrow. Out of more than 300 captives, there were hardly 100 left. Our confidants, our midnight companions, had been sold away. Most of us lay abandoned, with no one on either side. Only silence between. In some ways, it was worse than the noise of the sea. It made us hear rats scurrying beneath us and captors murmuring above. It made us know loneliness without the comfort of a friend. It taught us to go within for answers though we’d been trained to seek others. It made long hours longer. It intensified the buzzing of flies and gnats around our heads. We screamed as the irritation drove us mad. Some shook their heads so hard their brains loosened. They cried and fought, but they didn’t win. Eventually, they surrendered to the annoyance and let the insects have their way. Our death toll leveled. We ate and dreamed of home.