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

* * *

There were thirty-four now. For days, no one came. We were still chained and bound in the stall, but it appeared as if we’d been forgotten. We’d wanted to be forgotten. Perhaps, then, one day, our chains would rot away and we’d simply walk out. Unnoticed, uncared for, unobserved. But that didn’t happen. Instead, we sat for numbing hours, avoiding eyes and conversation, listening to the sound of the pale people’s world. Horse hooves clanked constantly against the road, and men’s voices tumbled through the air. We noticed that, unlike at home, we heard no children. In our villages, on any given day, children’s shouts and cries filled the air. There was no end to their merriment. Whether playing games or questioning elders, they stood as the announcement of our abundance. They were never silent. Even at night, they screamed as boys chased girls and girls feigned disinterest. There were far more children than adults in our village. In every village. Each age set consisted of thirty or forty children who belonged to everyone. They roamed the earth as if it were their inheritance. Indeed it was. Elders taught that land, animals, trees, rivers, everything in nature was theirs. Not to own, but to coexist with. In the stall, we heard no children. We knew they existed—we recalled the pale boy on the ship—but we didn’t understand their calm. Didn’t they play games and dance beneath the sun? Didn’t they run about, meandering between trees? Where were they?

And what of their women? Back home, ours could be heard, any time of day, laughing around cooking pots or weaving looms. Their high-pitched cackling reminded men that they were not to be dismissed or ignored. Their voices dominated public gatherings and incited fervor in ritual places. Whenever men attempted to silence them, they were never successful. Most regretted the effort. In collective unity, women’s power was impenetrable. Their voices echoed like hunting hyena. When children sought their mothers, they did not go home; instead, they paused and listened for her, among the chorus of women, and, without fail, found her. Certainly some were more vocal than others, but all understood that their strength and influence rested on their tongues. In the stall, we hardly heard their women. Sometimes a small, chirping voice would invade our listening and we’d assume it to belong to a pale woman, but even then we weren’t sure. What we knew for sure was that pale men ruled this place. Others fell silent.

It rained again the day they returned. Some of us, dripping wet and shivering, assumed the block as our teeth chattered. We thought such conditions would hurry our sell, but they did not. Shielded beneath contraptions that kept them dry, pale men took their time, once again, examining our flesh. One of us, Ayodele, stood on the raised platform for more than an hour. Her breasts shimmied as she shivered. She tried to cover herself, but they would not allow it. They wanted to see her. They watched her with intrigue. Some even pointed and gawked. Rain hid her tears, but not her sobbing. She hated the way they looked at her without looking at her. She hated the frowns of pale women, as if this were her desire. She hated that obviously they deserved to be dry while she was wet. She hated their lust for black flesh. She hated that her men could not help her. She hated that her women could not hold her. She hated that her name meant “Joy has returned” yet she couldn’t find any. And slowly, unintentionally, she began to hate herself for being what pale men desired.