On the ninety-fourth day, still in harbor, we were taken above deck to dance. We’d been danced at sea, but not like this. With whips and cat-o-nine-tails in hand, new crewmen struck us until we jumped and moved to avoid their blows. Having eaten so heavily without moving for days, we passed gas as our joints creaked with pain. Many clutched their sides from intense cramps. Crewmen mimicked and mocked our steps. Positioned among us, they flung their arms and jumped about like crazy men. Sweat poured from their brows, as from ours, and still they compelled us on. A few of us fainted from the intensity. We must’ve danced for hours. At the start, the sun shone directly above; when we stopped, it was far to the right. We didn’t have the strength to return belowdecks. Instead, we collapsed right there, exhausted, as we panted for precious breath. Some vomited black bile so disgusting it made others sick. A few wept because they couldn’t catch their breaths. Two or three prayed that Death would stop teasing and simply complete its work. Several massaged sore ankles, streaked with blood. We wanted to rise up, but didn’t have the strength. We should’ve asked for God’s help, but so many had stopped believing. We now questioned everything we’d been taught about spirits, the heavens, God, righteousness. When it really mattered, nothing we believed had saved us.

At the break of day, the ship jolted. We awoke, startled. Where were we going? Was it possible they were taking the rest of us home? The day before, while torturing us in the dance, they had washed out our hold for only the second time since we’d been captured. They returned to deck with their noses and mouths covered. Some were nauseous, vomiting and stumbling as they ascended the wooden staircase. The hold wasn’t clean, we’d soon discover, but it smelled of vinegar instead of feces for a change, and that alone was a relief—for the day or two it lasted.

The ship felt less steady than before. Perhaps vacant space allotted room for our bodies to roll and tumble as the ship rocked along. So many brothers and sisters were gone. Only the chains held us in place. Without them, we would’ve been a pile of black bodies, strewn across the hull, covered in our own waste. With them, we were bound to a place and time, which we did not understand. Yet without resources and advocates to fight for us, we did what we had done for the past several months—we grunted, cried, hummed, and waited.

Several of our young women and men began to exhibit strange symptoms. Greenish-yellow, milky discharge coming from their vaginas and penises. Sores on their lips, in their mouths, in their rectums. Any movement of waste caused excruciating pain. They burned inside and cried out for relief. Fevers and sharp pains in their lower bellies made their living a nightmare. One young man’s lips were so lesioned he could not eat. Pus and blood seeped into his throat, reminding him constantly that he’d been some captor’s favorite. Shame drove him into the sea. Others suffered more each day with something new: rashes on their hands, throbbing headaches, strange lumps on their necks. We believed their infection came from captors’ lust. There was nothing our precious comrades could do. For some, the sores and pain went away. At least at first. Then, as if to mock them, other parts of their bodies malfunctioned until, in an attempt to protect their cargo, crewmen either cast them into the sea or burned them alive.