For those who survived, disgrace lounged upon their faces. It left them wounded in the soul. These were women and men—proud, strong, young, agile—having served as the repository of our enemy’s vile desire. Humiliation darkened their countenance, causing them to look away when we tried to love them. Sores and accompanying illnesses only reminded them that they had been defeated. Many hung their heads so low we hardly saw their eyes. There was little hope of recovery. They could never find their beauty again. Some awaited the opportunity to leave this realm, and when it came, they took it without hesitation. The few who remained, those who had been violated but not consumed with sexual diseases, sought the path back to themselves, struggling through mountains of self-hatred and silence, unable to hear anything about the power of the spirit over the flesh. When, days later, they lifted their heads, shame still lumbered in their eyes. It never went away. It was all so devastating.

A crewman in white clothes visited our compartment every couple of days. He examined our bodies, staring into our eyes not as a fellow human being but as one commissioned to study them. He touched us in ways similar to our medicine men back home, but he seemed to possess no healing power. He offered no herbs or drinks to correct our ailing bodies, and he never laid hands on us to extract illnesses or calm our troubled emotions. He hardly stayed among us more than a moment or two. His nose was covered with a white cloth, so he worked with only one hand. He was the one who plugged anuses of those infected with the bloody flux. If he was a healer, we thought, he was young in the craft and definitely needed more time with a master.

Accompanying him was the man they called Frank. We grew to despise him. He’d been with us from the beginning of our journey, and he guarded us until the end. Sometimes, with a cat-o-nine-tails, he beat us for no good reason. Even while we lay belowdecks, chained and consumed with misery, he often came and displayed his power by screaming at us and lashing our flesh. Most painful was that he was one of us. He bore the marks of the Asanti. We tried to reason with him, to make him see himself, but the sound of our voices only increased his fury. It was as if captors had extracted his brain and replaced it with one of their own. In their presence, he was softer, kinder, more conscious of his being; in ours, he was nasty, violent, and wicked. We asked for his name, but for an answer he spat upon us.

His pride increased whenever he demeaned us, especially in the presence of crewmen. He’d strike our flesh then, after each blow, glance at their faces. Their affirmation excited him. If they nodded, he nodded. If they smiled, he smiled. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to win their applause. He seemed to believe he wasn’t one of us. We were fascinated by his blindness. How did he fail to see that they’d kill him, too, if his allegiance ever waned?