Food was little better than it had been on the ship. It was still mush, with a bit more substance and taste. We never knew exactly what it was. We ate it all the same. A few gave it back, moments after swallowing, but they weren’t beaten this time. They simply starved. And when, days later, they died, we knew that Death had accompanied us to the stall. He was not as aggressive as he had been at sea, but he would have his due on land nonetheless. Some tried to dismiss him, to send him back to his underground dwelling, but others held him close, refusing to let him go. No one wanted him, but many beckoned him. So Death lingered among us, materializing whenever summoned.

Day after day, we sat in the stall, whispering our fears, then marching to the block to expose ourselves to gray, green, and blue eyes. That was the totality of our lives, the extent of our world. They poured water into a wooden trough at the edge of the stall, and left us to drink like mindless cattle. Most waited till dark that our shame might not be exposed. We wouldn’t have drunk at all except we’d chosen to live—and since water is the sustenance of life, we bowed and sipped until our thirst faded. After drinking, we wiped our mouths, sat in a circle, and spoke in hushed registers of our tongues:

“What will they do with us?”

“Can we get home from here?”

“How do they know what we’re worth?”

“We have to fight! We can never give in!”

“Maybe some of us will be bought together.”

“We’re not animals! They can’t treat us this way!”

And on, until most had spoken something. A few said nothing. One young man had not opened his mouth since leaving home. We did not know the sound of his voice. Tears poured with the rising and setting of the sun. He stared into the sky each day as if seeing what he’d left behind. Sometimes he’d smile and nod, and sometimes he’d gather into a fetal ball and rock as he trembled. We watched, hoping he’d stay among us, praying he wouldn’t summon Death and go with him. He was a slight young man, hardly the weight of a water gourd, with a complexion so dark he melded with the night. Many spoke of his remarkable beauty, his unblemished appearance, and pleaded with him not to surrender. He looked into their eyes, but made no promise. An Asanti man called the boy Nyaméama, which means “What God has given, no man can take away.”