We were now fourteen. We feared who would be last. Who would sleep in the stall alone, with no soul to comfort? Who would stare into the dark and have the last memory of this filthy, stinking place? There was no way to know. We didn’t wish it upon anyone, but we all hoped to avoid it.

As day surrendered to dusk, sounds of celebration filled the air. Pale people’s voices stirred loudly and strange music blared in the background. We pressed our eyes against cracks in the wall and watched the commotion unfold. There were hundreds of them, it seemed, stomping and stumbling on the cobblestoned path. Many of the men were clearly drunk. They leaned upon women and each other to keep from toppling. They all wore the same clothing as the day we met them: women with cloth up to their necks, tightly bound at the waist, billowing outward and downward to the earth. Men with pants that stopped just below the knee and white shirts with extra-thin, flimsy cloth down the chest. They appeared strange, but in our state we held our tongues.

None of the women smiled. It was men who enjoyed the moment, men who reveled in the occasion. Pale women stood with them, but said very little. Most looked rather somber, we noted, offering fake grins and nods as if wanting only to be left alone. Or to go home. Pale men seemed to treat their women as children, we thought. No wonder they looked so sad.

Soon we smelled food cooking over an open fire. We could not identify it, but it was some kind of meat. We licked our lips and savored the aroma. It carried the scent of heavy spices. Our stomachs growled. We yearned to indulge. In our ceremonies we, too, ate in great abundance. Hunters killed enough game for the entire village. Elder women prepared meat until it was tender and tasty. A league of drummers pounded djembes and djun djuns throughout the day and night. Festivities never ended. Men shared palm wine and other drinks while women danced or socialized. All ceremonies—weddings, funerals, initiations, harvests, comissioning of a chief, success at war—required such display. We were people who believed in celebrations. We gave thanks, every chance we got, for good fortune and ancestral blessings. Pale people obviously did the same. We wondered now if, like them, our celebrations came at our enemy’s expense.

When the commotion died, we retreated into the circle. It felt hollow and unstable, but it was all we had. Some trembled. Time was running out. We would all be sold soon. It could be a day or three, but it would be soon. We’d watched the others sold away—some for more than others, a few for great riches—and now our turn had arrived. We peered deeply into each other’s eyes, trying desperately to record images of faces we’d never see again. We tried not to cry. Tears only blurred our vision. We hugged so tightly bones cracked. Some couldn’t breathe. Teeth rattled. Our nerves were on end. We wondered what they wanted with us, and now we were about to find out.