Our love for each other sustained us. We felt it, invisible yet tangible, wounded but living, hurt but not despairing. We stared it into each other’s eyes as a tribute to the battered yet steadfast survivors who would one day heal the nations. That was our new mission. That was why we’d been scattered to every corner of the earth. And, of course, the healer must be wounded to know the depth of pain. For out of pain comes restoration. We didn’t know that then. Most don’t know it now. But the trees will say it. The wind will send reminders. The rocks will proclaim it. Clouds will shift in the heavens and announce it. Waves will dash against shores of this new land and declare it: “These are they! These are they!” until the dark, beautiful souls of Africa rise and say, “Yes! We are they! We are here!”

Like broken branches of a tree, we parted ways. If the aim had been to destroy us, they had failed. If the aim had been to bruise our pride, they were victorious. Still, we knew who we were. The secret of our drums continued to reverberate in our souls. The magic of our weaving was still in our hands. The knowledge of God and the heavens was still in our spirits. We would dance our own dances again. We would sing songs of our ancestors until our children knew from whom they had come. We would call God by a different name, but OUR God would come in due time. We had endured. We were a changed people, but we were roots of the same tree.