Others died in the stall, too, and we treated them likewise. Back home, earth that held our ancestors was sacred ground. Children did not play there. Farmers did not plant there. Warriors did not train there. It was divine space and we honored it as such. There was no known reprimand for one who would desecrate our sacred ground for, in our lifetime, no one ever did so. Fear of ancestors was very real and no one is his right mind would’ve welcomed their wrath. And, anyway, we loved our ancestors with a reverence hard to explain. They were our guides, our spiritual coverage, our invisible warriors, fighting for us in realms unseen. We could not live without them. Crops could not prosper without them. Healing could not occur without them. Wars could not be won without them. They were the cornerstones of our community. They sent signs of things and messages through our seers. They sang our praises before God, we believed, and thus garnered good fortune and health for us all. They were with us now. We knew that. They were simply unwilling to release us from a lesson we’d obviously failed at home. Whether we liked it or not, they were committed to our wisdom and spiritual insight—not our comfort.

We sighed heavily. It would take generations for this infraction to heal, for this breach of human trust to be reconciled. Would there come a day when African children, born here, would have no notion of home? No knowledge of the universe? No respect for elders? No desire for initiation? No concern for burial grounds? No commitment to rituals? No gatekeepers? No warrior tradition? No weavers of sacred cloth? No healers of the spirit? No belief in ancestors? Would there come a day? How would they survive? We prayed never to see that day. Yes, we’d been displaced, but we knew who we were. We were cast down, but not destroyed. We were angry and sullen, but we did not question God’s existence. The ability to question is proof enough.