Pale people passed our stall each day, peering and pointing at our cursed lot. They saw us. They saw our eyes. They knew our longing. They knew we wanted freedom. But none would help. No one was kind enough even to offer bread or a sympathetic hand. No one gave a nod or a look of respect. They just stood there, staring at us, imagining, surely, how we’d increase the quality of their lives. Our yearnings meant nothing to them. Our pleas of distress went unheard. Even if they had understood our tongues, we believed, they wouldn’t have helped us.

We stopped counting days. There was no need. We were too far from home to return. Some said seasons had passed. It was cooler than it had been at the beginning of our journey. The air, especially at night, was frigid and sharp, puncturing our skin like a thousand needles. Warmth came only from the huddle, so without fail, we bound together as the evening sun disappeared. We twisted and wiggled until our meshed bodies blurred together and ignited enough warmth to keep us throughout the night. Someone’s head lay buried beneath another’s armpit, someone’s feet vanished between another’s legs. We were a matrix of human parts strewn together in survival. Someone, someday, would tell our story. Of that we were sure.

We wondered about Abuto and Chisanganda. Would they find love again? They would certainly not find each other. She was in another land, far across the sea. He was somewhere here, somewhere near, but we didn’t know where. And wherever he was, he was certainly no one’s servant. His only hope had been Chisanganda’s heart, and without that, he would give God’s breath back. We sighed. If he wasn’t dead already, he soon would be.

A pale buyer bought Nyaméama the next day. He stood upon the block like a statue of grief. He was groped without shame. He was lean but muscular, and pale hands seemed unable to resist him. He looked at us, one last time, and this time, his eyes said he would live. They said thank you for the comfort, for the whisperings in the midnight hour, for the reminder of his majesty and power. He’d almost forgotten who he was. Almost let the devastation of the journey erase his past. But now he remembered. And he would never forget.

They draped him in chains. He could hardly walk. His buyer dragged him away as the shackles sang a sad, dark song. We hear that song now, in the depths of our souls, and we think of that young man who looked like our nighttime sky, and we pray he never stopped looking up.

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

*   *   *