Eventually, we spoke our longings: “Our children shall laugh and play beneath the baobab tree again!” “Our healers will cleanse us of all we’ve suffered.” “Wait till our warriors come together and rescue us!” “The griots have their work cut out for generations!” “We must learn why our gods let this happen and correct ourselves before our altars!” “We must be careful not to become like these people!” “When we get home, we must begin the children’s initiation sooner!” “I need some pepper soup!” And on and on until, in our imaginations, we had reconstructed our world. We saw hunters sitting in total harmony, sharpening arrows and tightening bows. We saw weavers weaving baskets so meticulous they carried water. We saw dancers creating movements that mimicked the stride of the flamingo and the gallop of the zebra. We saw men, strong as rhinos, carrying logs for building. We saw, in every direction, children dashing behind compounds, playing games their great grandparents had played. We saw farmers with backs bent, toiling over vegetables that would sustain us all. We saw old men, sitting in the shade, smoking pipes and telling stories of bygone days of glory. We saw old women, whispering and laughing about the truth of those stories. We felt the evening breeze bring relief from the relentless heat of the day. We saw the Great Council pondering issues until everyone nodded agreeably. We heard hyenas laughing in the distance. We heard lions roaring. We heard babies enter the world. We heard weeping when elders left. We heard young men fighting and arguing playfully over frivolous things. We heard young women chuckling about their uncertain futures. We saw the life we’d once taken for granted.

This vision propelled us on. It made us believe that, although constricted and isolated, we were not destroyed. Hours later, when crewmen entered with another feast of fattening, we swallowed meats, vegetables, and fruits until our bellies protruded. We knew captors’ motives were not pure. We’d been together long enough to know they desired only our destruction.

Waiting and wondering took its toll. In the darkness, some of us screamed and yanked our chains, just as before, until shreds of flesh dangled from ankles and wrists. Blood stained iron shackles. Even then, the screaming continued. We didn’t know what they were thinking, those brothers whose minds left their heads. We reached toward them, but couldn’t touch. We called their names, over and over—Yoro! Ato! Chukwudi—but their spirits were too far gone to connect. One man, Alatanga, screamed until blood spewed from his throat. There were no words in his lament; only the wailing of a soul at its edge. He beat his head against the plank. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and collected on the floor, carrying his life force to an everlasting place. We were now even fewer than the day before.

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

* * *

We regained our weight and our countenance. We noticed new faces among crewmen. Many of them, too, had died along the way. When they tossed our bodies into the sea, they often flung one of their own. Some died from diseases that had consumed us. Some were killed when we fought to free ourselves. Some were cut down for insubordination. Some were forced to starve that we, the cargo, might live. Some, we later learned, jumped overboard, too—once they discovered the fullness of what they’d signed up for. Their hearts couldn’t take it. Some died in drunken brawls that got out of hand. And some died simply from dehydration. Truth was, they died as we died. It made sense. The universe demands life for life.