From that day forward, all bickering calmed. We had fought each other, back home and on the ship, for reasons we thought legitimate, but now they seemed silly and unimportant. Like going to war over territorial rights and hunting lands. Or the bride price of women thought priceless. Or the killing of someone for stealing part of our harvest when we had more than we could eat! Or taking another life over disputes concerning fishing rights and river boundaries. We had even killed because of perceived disrespect. It seemed so foolish now. We had been concerned with complex, invisible knowledge, when we should’ve also been searching for God in simple things. Senior elders said this. We’d wanted to impress our neighbors, to feel superior to them, when living in harmony with them was the greater achievement. We shook our heads, the few who remained. This was what the Wolof man meant. Our strength was our unity. Our lives depended upon it. We understood. Every day he repeated the gesture until the image of his raised fist lingered in our minds.

Yeabo!

The evening and the morning were the one hundred and seventh day.

* * *

As the ship sailed on, we made music once again with the means of our bondage. Our bodies swayed with the violent seas; chains and irons began to sing. The melody had been imperceptible at first, but then, as more of us died, empty chains rattled louder, accompanying our mournful cries. A dark, hollow tune echoed throughout the ship. The singing chains were complimented by the thunderous slamming of neck rings against wooden planks. It was torturous, but the sounds comforted a desperate, isolated people. Soon, we created an ensemble of drums and shakers. Someone banged handcuffs together, and others quickly joined in. Every manacle in the room vibrated as an instrument of our survival. Our propensity for melody had accompanied us through the entire journey. Even in bondage, we were still who we were. They could bind us, but they could not extract rhythm from our souls.

We would not all die. If we could make our shackles sing, we could heal our spirits. We could create a new self in a new land. We declared it so in our minds. We said it in our hearts every time we played those chains. And we made them sing each night until we reached our destination.

The next time they brought us above deck to dance, we saw land in the distance. It was too far away to see particulars, but we had a feeling it was the last stop. There were less than ninety of us left. We were weary and despondent. The dance that day was a movement of zombies overwhelmed. We looked drunk, surely, stumbling into one another and swinging arms to a rhythm our feet didn’t recognize. Within half an hour, we were returned to the belly of the ship.

Our nerves unraveled. How would we make a life in a place we’d never seen, never been, never heard of? How would we honor those lost along the way? How would we maintain dignity and character among people who despised us? Wouldn’t they continue, even on land, their campaign to destroy our souls?