Our nerves unraveled. How would we make a life in a place we’d never seen, never been, never heard of? How would we honor those lost along the way? How would we maintain dignity and character among people who despised us? Wouldn’t they continue, even on land, their campaign to destroy our souls?

We were no longer simply the Fon, the Ibo, the Hausa, the Yoruba, the Ewe. We were something other than the Ashanti, the Fante, The Fulani, the Serere, and the Mende. Something new, some combination of them all, some blending of culture and spirit our elders wouldn’t have recognized. We were a different people now, with roots in every place we had trod. We were one tree, with branches reaching in every possible direction and leaves sprouting abundantly. We were one river, flowing together, yet having started as brooks and streams unnamed. In the midst of incomprehensible trauma, our specific identities had merged into a larger collective Self, and thus we survived what should’ve been our demise.

Hours later, they loosed our chains and took us above deck once again. Pale people stood along the coast, waving at crewmen they apparently knew. In this landscape, there were no big floral blossoms or rolling hills in the distance. Just land covered in forest. We sighed and looked around, despondent. We were tired of crying. All our tears were spent. There was no use jumping in the water. Where would we go? We thought of uprising, but there weren’t enough of us left to fight. So we hung our heads and waited.

As the ship neared the coast, more people gathered. Mostly men, it seemed, but a few women lingered among them. Suddenly the ship stopped. Crewmen assembled around us with guns and bayonets. They spoke quickly words we did not understand. Then, in groups of six and eight, we were forced into canoes that took us ashore. There we stood until all of us had been transported. Pale buyers circled, examining us like cattle for sale. A few considered running. We saw flight in their eyes. But there was no point. We were too tired. Standing was difficult enough. We had been on that ship for months. We’d counted days, but they were not exact, as sometimes evenings and mornings blurred. Still we knew many, many weeks had passed. Without sufficient food, we were again becoming shrunken and frail. Some were obviously ill. Some carried in their eyes the look of exhaustion. A few leaned on others to keep from falling. But the Wolof man stood firm and solid, like a soldier prepared for battle. His stance would be costly, we believed, since pale people whispered more about him than any of us. He didn’t care. He would not be bound again.