We learned quickly the few names we didn’t know. The men were Babatunde, which means “The spirit of father has returned” and Temitope, which means “Give thanks.” There was Diji, which means “He tills the land” and Nkiraka, which means “The best is still to come.” There was Koofrey, meaning “Don’t forget me” and Hassan, meaning “Handsome and born first of twins.” His identical brother, Ata, had been tossed into the sea. Of the women, there was Monifa, which means “I am lucky” and Kaya, which means “Never go back.” There were two tall, thin women with bulbous eyes named Jaha, meaning “Dignity” and Ayodele, meaning “Joy has returned.” There was Afia, which means “Born on Friday” and Nkechi, which means “Of the spirit of God.” We did not inquire of their tribes. We cared less about that now.

Our preoccupation was with our own failures. We mumbled regret for having ignored so many proverbs. We shook our heads about lessons we’d deemed useless. We wept for having disregarded, that fateful day, the sense of danger lingering in the air. We pleaded for forgiveness for having assumed ourselves invincible. It was the only reason they overtook us. We were simply off guard. And when a community is off guard, it welcomes disaster. We knew this. We’d had warrior traditions for centuries. We’d also had gatekeepers posted at the edges of our villages, intercepting anything or anyone potentially dangerous. They warned of the pale man’s presence, his love for deceit, his willingness to destroy life to get life, but his innocuous introduction betrayed us. We’d been impressed by what he had. Now we wanted none of it.

Our sorrow multiplied. Without movement, hours were long and torturous. Someone mentioned uprising, but it was impossible. There were no weapons, and we had no strength. Also, unlike aboard ship, pale men did not dwell nearby. They came only to take us to the selling block and return us if we remained unsold. We were captive in a stall unfit for the foulest beast. It smelled of manure, feces, urine, and death. We tried hard not to breathe, but of course that was impossible. Occasionally, someone attempted conversation, hoping to keep our spirits revived, but usually their words had no effect. We were not in the mood for talking. Most days, we peered through cracks in the wall at people and things we’d never seen. All we wanted was to go home. We told our gods we understood. We’d learned our lesson. But they didn’t agree.