Suddenly, Olufemi, which meant “God loves me,” went to the trough and scooped water with both hands. He returned to the circle, as water dribbled slowly to the earth, and called the names of those who’d been sold away. Each person followed suit, moving counterclockwise until everyone spoke someone’s name. No names were forgotten. They even called those who’d died on the ship—if they knew their names. One young man was cast into the sea because he refused to dance. He simply would not submit. His name would not allow it. He’d told another, the night before, that his name was Uzochi, which means “God’s way is the only way.” They remembered him now. There were others, too. So many others. Like the woman who’d died from the fever. Her whole body trembled for three days. Sweat drenched her from head to toe. Death danced around her, joyously, until she surrendered. But before she went, she repeated something in her tongue we did not understand. She seemed adamant, but we could not discern her meaning. She was the only survivor of her people on the boat. We never figured out what she said, but we named her Ngozi, which meant “She is a blessing.” And she was. Every name we recalled we spoke. We reached further back and called names of those killed in our villages. Each name took us further into trance until a few collapsed into the center of the circle. The rest of us continued calling names, over and over, like a chant of healing, until ancestors joined in and assured we’d survive. So many were gone! It seemed like hours before we exhausted our memory. As quickly as we’d begun, we completed the ritual and someone offered a final prayer. We then lay upon one another, panting heavily, touching and rubbing flesh, hoping never to forget what we felt like, what we smelled like, what we sounded like when our voices melded together in unity.

Within an hour, Hassan alone was awake. Staring into blackness, he saw his twin brother, Ata, drift into deep, dark water. He couldn’t erase the image. He’d tried to remember him, to remember them, as happy playmates, dashing behind trees and huts, chasing each other and being reprimanded for neglecting chores. He’d tried to remember them as excited initiates in manhood training, having secretly decided which girls they would marry if their father approved. He tried to recall tricks they played on elders by pretending to be each other. But nothing replaced the image of Ata being swallowed in the mouth of the Great Waters. Every time Hassan slept he saw it, and he’d wake huffing and shivering. Ata’s face was his own, so the image was of himself drifting, drowning, dying in the cold, black, salty water. He imagined Ata fighting toward the surface, arms flailing wildly, feet kicking against the downward pull, but after several seconds, submitting and floating to a watery grave. Hassan would never sleep a full night again. He apologized to Ata for living without him. Yet, in doing so, he hoped to birth Ata again. There was a legend among their people that when an identical twin died, he came back again in the other twin’s offspring. That was Hassan’s living desire. But he’d need a wife first. And where would he find one here? Who would marry him with no possessions? How could he marry without completion of his rites? Maybe there was a girl, wherever he was going, who had come from his land and would understand. Maybe she would take him simply because he looked like her. Maybe, together, they could build a life of memories and share them with sons and daughters, and maybe then Ata would come again and they could dwell together, even in this strange land. If not, Hassan would be miserable the rest of his days.