They returned the cloth and she covered herself once again. We never learned the final price. They simply pushed her to his side and she followed him away. Jaha, our sister, our living beauty, gone. We would name future daughters after her. We would call her name each night until all of us were gone. We would never forget her. Yet some prayed their daughters looked nothing like her. They hoped, deep in their hearts, that Jaha’s beauty never came again. Not if it solicited pale men’s filthy lust. Not it if made them give their entire inheritance to own it. Not if it turned daughters into receptacles of pale men’s unwanted seeds. Not if it meant girls never owned themselves again. Beauty became a curse we sought to avoid. Back in the stall, Afia took a small twig and began to mar her face. We screamed and cried, “No! Don’t!” but she continued. Rivers of blood dripped from her chin onto her breasts. Before she finished, a pool of burgundy rested between her thighs. We shook our heads. We hated it, but we understood. We did not want this for her, but she’d seen what becomes of dark beauty in the land of bondage. We’d seen, too. She’d be blemished for life. But, hopefully, prayerfully, unwanted.

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

*   *   *

There were thirty-five now. The most preferred had been bought. We struggled between being unwanted and not caring that we were unwanted. They didn’t even look at us. They simply frowned at our deep blackness and shook their heads and went away. Most often, we were returned to the stall in silence.