Rainy days were miserable. In our huddle, we shivered and tried to avoid cold streams falling from the shabby rooftop, but everywhere we moved, raindrops followed. We settled for a far, dark corner where only light mist and weaker streams drizzled upon us. Men spread themselves around women, shielding their bodies and their virtue. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. We’d been unable to do this on the boat. Now, on land, we tried desperately to become what we once were—men of valor and stature. Women did their part, too. Whenever sickness crept in among us, they spoke it away, using their hands and voices as instruments of healing. It was the only reason we survived.

Day by day, others were sold off. Our hearts hurt so badly we rubbed our chests to keep from collapsing. At home, we’d never known loss like this. Certainly people died, but mostly elders. We were prepared for their transition. We’d been taught that it was the natural order of things. We even longed for details of the invisible realm. Elders warned us not to be anxious for such knowledge. We would know soon enough. When, rarely, a young person died, we understood that their work on earth was complete. It was a sad occasion, surely, especially when he or she was beloved, but still there was purpose in the movement so we understood. In that holding stall, we did not understand. People died each day and were dragged away like insignificant stones. It was not divinely right. It was not ordered by the heavens. It was not sanctioned by the ancestors. It couldn’t have been. There was no joy in the passing, no celebration of life, no clarity of who these souls were and why they’d been sent. Or why they’d survived at all. There was nothing but confusion. And our hearts, lying heavily in our chests, bore it all.

We learned quickly the few names we didn’t know. The men were Babatunde, which means “The spirit of father has returned” and Temitope, which means “Give thanks.” There was Diji, which means “He tills the land” and Nkiraka, which means “The best is still to come.” There was Koofrey, meaning “Don’t forget me” and Hassan, meaning “Handsome and born first of twins.” His identical brother, Ata, had been tossed into the sea. Of the women, there was Monifa, which means “I am lucky” and Kaya, which means “Never go back.” There were two tall, thin women with bulbous eyes named Jaha, meaning “Dignity” and Ayodele, meaning “Joy has returned.” There was Afia, which means “Born on Friday” and Nkechi, which means “Of the spirit of God.” We did not inquire of their tribes. We cared less about that now.

Our preoccupation was with our own failures. We mumbled regret for having ignored so many proverbs. We shook our heads about lessons we’d deemed useless. We wept for having disregarded, that fateful day, the sense of danger lingering in the air. We pleaded for forgiveness for having assumed ourselves invincible. It was the only reason they overtook us. We were simply off guard. And when a community is off guard, it welcomes disaster. We knew this. We’d had warrior traditions for centuries. We’d also had gatekeepers posted at the edges of our villages, intercepting anything or anyone potentially dangerous. They warned of the pale man’s presence, his love for deceit, his willingness to destroy life to get life, but his innocuous introduction betrayed us. We’d been impressed by what he had. Now we wanted none of it.