Because of Agony, we could not sing. At sea, our home was just behind us, closer even in our minds. We bemoaned our shortcomings and promised, in our hearts, a victorious end to this tragedy. Our melody, then, was our strength, our sustenance, our battle cry. We believed we’d win. We believed we’d see our people again. We believed pale men would feel, ultimately, the wrath of a mighty people. Yet in the stall, those hopes dissolved. Some believed we’d get home, but most didn’t. Some still boasted of warriors, but most declared them gone. Some said our gods would come, even if it took a lifetime, yet most said that was too long. So when one or two tried to hum, no one joined in. It was sad that so many had lost faith. Or perhaps we were simply despondent. Either way, we refused to hum. Hope hid in the crevices of our being and would not show itself. So all melody went mute. In the midnight hour, we let insects have the air, and we listened to their discordant cries while our own rumbled in the bowels of our empty bellies.

We didn’t sleep much. We never slept all at once. Our fears allowed only intermittent slumber. Plus, bondage taught us never to close both eyes. Someone was awake during every hour of the night. Often, it was so still we heard our hearts beat. And rats rush across our feet. Yet we were too devastated to care. We knew that, at any moment, we could be snatched away so we tried not to be caught off guard—again. We took turns watching over each other. Sometimes, during the night, watchers would whisper in secret:

“Shall we survive this?”

“We will survive. We always have.”

“But never anything like this.”

“True, but we are more than we know.”

“Maybe we aren’t.”

“We are.”

And, just like that, the exchange would end and both faces turn away. When one would give up, the other would provide encouragement enough to dismantle despair. In this way, the nights crept by. We heard voices sometimes, loud, drunken slurring voices, and saw forms stumbling along cobbled paths but, of course, we said nothing. Their merriment, framed by our misery, was always curious, as we wondered how human beings bypassed suffering so easily. Perhaps that had been our error. To ascribe them humanity they’d never proven. The ancestors were right. Our lesson was not over. Yet if they weren’t human beings, what were they? They walked and talked and breathed as we did. Of course, they were humans! They were simply blind ones. They could see only their own people as precious, only their own as worthy of liberty. They, too, were in bondage, but of the spirit. And, sadly, they didn’t seem to care.