Each morning, sunrise left us disappointed. As children, we’d sat at the edge of the village, with gatekeepers and farmers, anticipating the moment bold light dashed across the sky. It thrilled us to watch night escape at the threat of day. When the sun eased onto its throne, we marveled that this ball of fire could scatter light all over the world without consuming any of us. Most days its rays were so bright we’d have to squint to observe it. We played a game called “chase the light” where we’d hide behind small trees and run as streaks of light moved with the sun’s rising. After many years, we could predict moves so meticulously we’d jump to the exact spot where light landed. We knew even that it moved differently depending on the season. Nature was our playground. It teased our senses and taught us the essence of God. We rarely wasted time with objects. Instead, we bounded around trees and across open plains as our minds tried, though ultimately failed, to understand the mind of God.

In the stall, when the sun rose, our spirits diminished. Another day meant another loss. Rays of light broke through cracked walls and warned us to get ready. Someone would be gone by sundown. It seemed that the sun was weaker here—not nearly as bold and brilliant as ours had been—or perhaps it was our joy that had weakened. Either way, the sun’s rising brought dread instead of ecstasy, and we longed for the day when, once again, light brought delight instead of dismay.

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

*   *   *

Babatunde died in the stall. Something he ate disagreed with him. For days, he vomited an orange-and-brown liquid substance, and the whites of his eyes turned yellow. Healers, the few young ones among us, did not know this malady and therefore could not cure it. They spoke to it, urging it to loose its destructive hold, since Babatunde had been good to us, but it would not relent. We’d spoken to illnesses back home and they had obeyed, but they knew us. They knew our tongue, our remedies. This disease belonged to another people and obviously obeyed only their tongue. It gripped Babatunde’s stomach and would not let go. We saw his spirit ascend in a cloudy ball just above his head and, within seconds, he took his final breath. We lay him aside, with hands folded over his heart, and we kneeled in a circle around him and clapped and prayed until that hazy, gray ball burst and disappeared into the air. When pale men found him, they tied his feet to the rear of a horse and dragged him away. We do not know where they buried him. Or if they buried him at all.