Just above our heads, captors laughed and lounged cheerfully. They didn’t feel our grief. They didn’t know our sorrow. Music and dancing accompanied their glee. We wondered how, in the midst of death and disease, they could be so joyful. Then, slowly, overtime, we heard words we assumed to be their names: Jack. Nickolas. Alex. Charles. John. Wesley. David. Michael. Henry. George. Thomas. We wondered what they meant. Didn’t their names scold them for treating us like beasts? Didn’t someone’s name remind him to act like God? Didn’t “John” or perhaps “David” mean love the stranger? Didn’t their names mean something? Maybe that was the root of their behavior, we thought. Maybe they had been given names without meanings. They even called the Asanti beast one of their names: Frank. He answered with enthusiasm. They couldn’t have called him his original name. His spirit wouldn’t have supported his despicable behavior. So, as Frank, he separated himself from his purpose and thus became a tool for our destruction. If only we knew his real name, we could’ve called him back to his center, back to his sacred self. But as long as that name remained a mystery, he could be like the pale man.

The evening and the morning were the One hundred and third day.

* * *

The wind returned with a vengeance, rocking the ship and causing waves to slap against it. Each movement reopened scabs across our backs and buttocks. With so many gone, we had very little comfort. We felt more alone than ever. Our hopes of a revolt faded. Empty spaces meant we had no human buffers from the storm. Our worn, tired bodies tossed like blades of grass in the wind as the ship twisted and turned from the rocky seas. Some vomited. Some cursed angrily. Some closed their eyes and prayed the storm would pass. Some hummed to still their turbulent bellies. Some envisioned how they’d kill crewmen. Frank, too. Some imagined, amidst furious waves, the faces of those who’d met Death in the waters. Some spoke aloud to ancestors, begging for intervention. Some said nothing at all.

Rain drizzled through the upper deck, pouring upon us in miniature waterfalls. We opened our mouths and drank. The cold water quenched our thirst at first, then became an irritant. Half naked and shivering, we were drenched and miserable. And the rain kept coming. We’d rarely seen a storm so relentless. During our rainy season, water fell each day to nourish the earth and sustain our crops. Sometimes it rained hard. But never like this. “The gods are angry,” some said. “Our lesson is not complete.” They must’ve been right. It rained continuously for the next two days. One man shuddered and screamed until he went out of his mind. Others tried to hum, in order to warm their chilly bodies and keep their spirits calm, but we were too upset to sing collectively. The most we could do was breathe deeply and beg the storm to pass. Of course, we couldn’t sleep. Every few hours, someone called out names, hoping not to lose family members we’d made. An Akan man shouted “Yeabo!” repeatedly, declaring his will to survive. We were downtrodden, but we had not surrendered the fight.