This was the Coming.

* * *

Throughout the night, we squirmed and grumbled. The Wolof man sat in a corner and stared at us. His eyes said so many things. He would not serve these people for the rest of his life. Or even for a day. Whether in his own land or thousands of miles away, he was still a warrior, and he wanted the world to know it. The rest of us were far less resolute. A few still dreamed of home, surely, but by now their hope had dissolved. Most of us simply wanted to know what was planned for our lives. We still wondered if we’d be eaten. Treated like animals and penned in their stalls, we considered the possibility quite seriously.

When the sun rose, captors entered and shuffled us out. We marched past small wooden buildings where people obviously lived. We marched past edifices we could not identify. We marched until we reached what appeared to be the center of the village. People were all around, viewing and studying us. Even the Wolof man couldn’t hide his alarm. He bit his bottom lip to keep from trembling. They had given us strips of thin cloth with which to cover ourselves, and now we stood, bunched together, in the center of a foreign land.

What came next can hardly be described. They grabbed the Wolof man and stood him upon a raised structure. He looked at us, then at them, and back at us again. Pale people spoke all around him. Then, one by one, they explored his flesh. They pried open his mouth with bare hands, searching inside as if he were hiding something. They rubbed his chest and arms, nodding with approval. Then they stripped away his loincloth and gawked—both in awe and embarrassment. The Wolof man frowned and covered himself with his hands. Buyers forced his hands away so that the people might examine him unrestrained. One touched and shifted his privates with a stick, grimacing as if his penis were a nasty, vile, filthy thing. The Wolof man huffed and growled. On they went, lower, exploring his thighs, calves, and feet until they stepped back with obvious admiration.

The Wolof man wept with rage as pale people negotiated the price of his flesh. They waved money and shouted with glee. The Wolof man shuffled in his chains. A pale man stepped forward and grabbed his arm. The Wolof man chopped his throat with the edge of his hand, and the man crashed to the ground, gasping for air. Within seconds, the Wolof man’s body was riddled with bullets, but he did not fall. In homage to him, we dropped to our knees. Someone beckoned the gods to come and carry him away. Only then did he tumble, covered in blood, facedown on the earth. We cried freely. His fingers were balled into permanent fists. We believe they buried him that way.

Then they stood Abuto upon the block. He never lifted his head. Someone paid minimally for him and took him away. It was a waste of money. He wouldn’t last a year.