This was not the end. There would be another day.

* * *

There were thirty-five now. The most preferred had been bought. We struggled between being unwanted and not caring that we were unwanted. They didn’t even look at us. They simply frowned at our deep blackness and shook their heads and went away. Most often, we were returned to the stall in silence.

Days passed this way. Some days, they didn’t come at all. It was as if they had forgotten us. There was no food, no water, no buyers. We shrunk in size and determination. A few encouraged us not to let our spirits fall, but they had already fallen. We had no word for consistent despair. We’d never lived lives of continuous sadness. We’d never known weeks on end with no joy at all. Yet we knew it now. We’d also never known that sadness could be felt in the flesh. That it took form sometimes and ached like an internal bruise. We’d simply never lived with gloom. We knew grief because we knew loss, but grief dwells in the heart. Gloom dwells in the soul. It dampens the fire of life and makes one believe that all happiness has ceased. It casts a shadow over the eyes, causing sunny days to appear cloudy. It suggests that life is not worth living. That death is better than anything life can give. In our minds, we knew better, but in our souls dwelled this deadly thing. We couldn’t shake it. We didn’t want to sing. We didn’t want to eat. We didn’t want to dance. We didn’t want to talk. We didn’t want to fight. We just wanted to surrender and move into the invisible. But our gods wouldn’t take us. So we lay upon scratchy hay, waiting for pale men to decide if someone wanted us.

There was one talker in our midst: Temitope. He was short and deep brown, not black like the rest of us. His brows were thick and unruly, and his eyes sat far apart. Beauty was not his blessing, but we loved him no less. And his tongue never tired. When he fell silent, it was only from our urging. His name meant “Give thanks” and he meant to do so, even in the land of captivity. Day and night he whispered of the majesty of God and the truth of our glory. His tongue irritated many, so his voice fell to a murmur but he never quieted. “God is God of the universe,” he said. “He is God of this land, too, and He shall redeem what pale men have disturbed.” Many didn’t want to hear this. Our situation did not confirm his sentiment. Still, he spoke with clarity rare as a white tiger. He was the only reason gloom did not consume us. Even when we chose not to hear him, his voice tumbled through the air, never letting us forget who we were and where we’d come from. Sometimes he even laughed. Not from glee, but because he believed earnestly what he said: “This is not the end of the story. The end shall justify the beginning.”