Sometimes he walked away from us and spoke to the air. We were too frustrated to hear, but he was not discouraged. He knew who he was. He knew why he’d been sent. Both to the earth and on this voyage. And, come what may, he didn’t intend for pale men to have our souls. So he spoke into the atmosphere, and words became particles that permeated our flesh. We stayed this side of life because, as Temitope babbled, gloom weakened its devastating hold. We didn’t know this then. We know it now. We thought that, magically, our spirits rebounded and resumed the desire to live. But in adversity there is never magic. There is only faith. And it was his faith that bolstered our failing spirit. There was no other explanation. We saw the bottom of life in that stall, but we didn’t succumb because Temitope believed in us and said so every day and night. Gloom skipped over him although he’d been with us the entire journey. He was an air child, meaning one whose spirit was never heavy. So he called upon the air to carry his message to our souls when our ears could not hear.

And sometimes he spoke to the earth. On hands and knees, he’d press his mouth to the ground and mumble quietly. We didn’t know what he said. Most didn’t care. They were too consumed with misery. But a few noticed and wondered what exactly he was doing. He’d rise occasionally and clap with excitement as though understanding something we did not, then return to the position of humility. We believe now that he saw our future and understood why things had to be this way. We believe that, in speaking to the earth, he assured our ancestors we would survive. And we would understand. One day. We believe that Temitope saw beyond the moment, and knew that our dispersal around the world would be to the world’s benefit. He was centuries ahead in consciousness. Of course he despised what happened to us and how we were treated—he spoke that fury, too—but he seemed less concerned with pale men than with keeping our spirits aligned with our past. The day he took the block and some old pale man bought him for almost nothing, we sighed and shook our heads. He murmured the entire time they twirled and touched him. Then he smiled as they took him away. We did not understand.

Not until we returned to the stall. There, the resulting silence almost killed us. We had not comprehended, much less appreciated, Temitope’s effort. It had been his voice that had kept us from total anguish. His words had fought for us. They had shifted the ether. They had rearranged devastation looming in the air. We had forgotten the power of the spoken word. We’d been taught this. Every elder had said it: Be careful what you say. Words exalt or ruin lives. We assumed that, among a strange people, words lost their authority since language could not be understood. Our assumption was naïve. Years later, we realized what Temitope knew: The power of speech does not rely upon meaning. Words carry energy all by themselves. They vibrate through the air, with the intention of the speaker, shaping consciousness and touching hearts whether understood or not. In our case, many shared Temitope’s tongue; we simply didn’t want to hear him. Positive speech was an irritant in the midst of misery, so we begged his silence that our sorrow might be reverenced. He turned from us, but never from his mission. Often he paced across spittle, vomit, and mud, dragging chains behind him, declaring, “We shall live! We shall live and not die!” Sometimes he repeated it for hours. The day they sold him away, we heard him finally. His words lingered in the air. They teased our troubled minds. They soothed untouchable places. And in his absence, without conscious consent, we believed him at last.