Sometimes, in the dark, he sang softly the childhood song they and other children once sang:

Kye Kye Kule

Kye Kye Kule

Kye Kye Kofinsa

Kye Kye Kofinsa

Kye Kye Kofisa Langa

Kofisa Langa

Kye Kye Kaka Shilanga

Kaka Shilanga

Kye Kye Kum Aden Nde

Kum Aden Nde

Kum Aden Nde

Kum Aden Nde, HEY!

It was interactive in that the leader would sing the first line, “Hands on your head” and children would repeat it and do it. The leader would then say, “Hands on your shoulders” and children would repeat it and do that, too, until touching their waists, knees, and ankles. The last move was performed on the ground. The first child to leap to his or her feet afterward became the next leader. It was most often Ata. He was small and quick, like a leopard cub. Few children could beat him. Hassan remembered that they sometimes played for hours. They seemed never to tire. Elders watched, taking note of physical attributes and vocal skills. If only the twins had known they were in paradise then.

When Hassan finished singing, he saw Ata, again, floating in a sea of blue. He bowed his head and cried while his shoulders jerked lightly.

In the morning, we were herded to the block at dawn. Some had hardly awakened when pale men came and dragged us away. We blinked blurry eyes and stumbled with stiff legs. Pale people were there when we arrived. They stepped aside as we passed, frowning and covering their noses. One pale woman screeched as if in the presence of something dangerous and frightening. We formed a half circle on the earth before the block. We were unchained, one by one, and shown to potential buyers. If no bid was offered, we were snatched off the block, rechained, and reconnected to the others. Sometimes we were beaten for being unwanted. Yet, given only morsels of scraps and hardly any water, what else could we be? We were lean and unkempt, all of us, like fragile young saplings. But we were not weak. A few saw strength in our eyes. Our eyes could not lie. They told of our power, our resolve, our commitment to survive. So, often, with those of us left, they bid on us not by our countenance, but by what our eyes said. We tried to close them, to bow our heads and hide them away, but some pale men jerked our chins upward and forced our gazes. Our eyes said we were resilient. They said we were survivors. They said we had overcome Death. They said there was nothing we could not endure. Pale people heard and were mesmerized. They murmured and pointed at us as if we were creatures from another world. We told our eyes to lie, to say we were nothing, to say we were conquered people, but they would not. They were truth tellers. That’s all they would ever be. So each time we blinked, pale people saw strength and vitality where they’d assumed only weakness dwelled.