When the short, fat, pale man led Ayodele away, Monifa declared, “My baby shall bear your name! And you shall live forever!” We wept as the self-declared sisters waved good-bye. In the stall, before her sale, Ayodele had spoken to the child and begged its forgiveness. She lay her lips upon Monifa’s belly and asked the baby who she was and why she had chosen to survive. Each day, Ayodele never failed to acknowledge the child with some sort of gesture, whether speaking to it directly or asking ancestors about it. It would be a girl, she’d said. She’d seen her in a dream. She was the color of sand, but bore her mother’s features. She would be Mandinka like her people. The day Ayodele was sold away, she kicked and squirmed in the womb. It was not yet the child’s time, but Monifa feared she would come. And she did. By nightfall, Monifa lay upon her back, moaning and screaming in labor. When the child came, a girl as Ayodele had predicted, she was white as clouds. Her eyes, however, were deep, dark brown, the color of rich, fertilized soil. She belonged to us. She bore pale people’s color, but our features. She bore our spirit, too. She’d come weeks too soon, but she was not weak. She looked around as if recognizing the place. We’d prepared for her to be fragile and frail, but she was neither. She was small though, barely the weight of a coconut. Still, we knew she’d survive. Even amidst deplorable conditions, she’d come to stay. As promised, Monifa named her Ayodele, and each day we watched her grow.

A week later they were sold away. A pale woman stood before Monifa, marveling, it seemed, that mother and child had survived such unspeakable circumstances. She petted the baby’s head and scowled as if it were something nasty. Then she studied Monifa’s eyes. When Monifa turned away, the woman grabbed her chin and forced their staring. She saw something in Monifa and wanted to own it. She wanted the baby, too. Whatever was in the mother was bound to be in the child, she assumed. So, with her husband’s permission, she made the first bid. Others challenged immediately. She topped their offers. They bid again. She offered more. Her husband frowned. The bidding escalated. No one would yield. But the pale woman meant to have Monifa and little Ayo if it cost her everything. Her last offer went uncontested, and she clapped with a toddler’s joy. Monifa looked at the rest of us and nodded. We nodded in return. We would never see each other again, but we would remember delivering her daughter, our daughter, on the floor of that stall and watching her fight to live. That fight became our fight. That fight became our courage. That fight became our silent mantra to live and not die.

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

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