What came next can hardly be described. They grabbed the Wolof man and stood him upon a raised structure. He looked at us, then at them, and back at us again. Pale people spoke all around him. Then, one by one, they explored his flesh. They pried open his mouth with bare hands, searching inside as if he were hiding something. They rubbed his chest and arms, nodding with approval. Then they stripped away his loincloth and gawked—both in awe and embarrassment. The Wolof man frowned and covered himself with his hands. Buyers forced his hands away so that the people might examine him unrestrained. One touched and shifted his privates with a stick, grimacing as if his penis were a nasty, vile, filthy thing. The Wolof man huffed and growled. On they went, lower, exploring his thighs, calves, and feet until they stepped back with obvious admiration.

The Wolof man wept with rage as pale people negotiated the price of his flesh. They waved money and shouted with glee. The Wolof man shuffled in his chains. A pale man stepped forward and grabbed his arm. The Wolof man chopped his throat with the edge of his hand, and the man crashed to the ground, gasping for air. Within seconds, the Wolof man’s body was riddled with bullets, but he did not fall. In homage to him, we dropped to our knees. Someone beckoned the gods to come and carry him away. Only then did he tumble, covered in blood, facedown on the earth. We cried freely. His fingers were balled into permanent fists. We believe they buried him that way.

Then they stood Abuto upon the block. He never lifted his head. Someone paid minimally for him and took him away. It was a waste of money. He wouldn’t last a year.

Each of us had our turn upon the raised platform. We, too, were poked and prodded until disgraced in full view. Unlike the Wolof man, we did not fight. We had seen what they do to those who fight, so we surrendered and lived.