Two others were sold after Hassan. One was Afia, the once-pretty young woman who scarred her face that she might go unwanted. Her tactic did not save her. Instead, it made them want her more. They understood the act as a demonstration of unfailing resolve, and they wanted to own the source of her strength. Confusion wrinkled her blemished face. She’d been sure pale eyes would turn from her altogether in abject rejection; yet, somehow, her deed made them desire her anew. They touched her scars gently, curiously, searching for something within that lent strength to withstand. They turned and twisted their heads, marveling at the pain she must’ve sustained. Instead of destroying her beauty, wounds were taken as something exotic, something primitive, something ancient, and pale people burst with fascination. Bids rang out in chaotic uproar. Afia looked about, bewildered. We studied her and grimaced. This made no sense. We’d believed they preferred the beautiful among us—those with smooth, flawless complexions and tight, muscular forms. This should not be. No one was supposed to want her. She carried no beauty. She should’ve been left in the stall to die alone, unbought and unneeded. That’s what she’d accepted for herself. She’d settled into this plan like one with a terminal disease. There was no need for ancestral intervention. It was simply her way out. Now, however, she stood on the block with voices shouting from every direction. It was not Jaha’s beauty for which they’d paid so dearly. She understood that now. It was their own features on Jaha’s face for which they’d rewarded her. She bore qualities more like their own—small, narrow eyes, thin lips, rounded nose—and for that they were willing to pay. In celebrating her, they were loving themselves. They could coexist with her because she was kind to their eyes. Afia’s features made them scowl. Yet her ability to desecrate herself—and live—made them believe she’d be the perfect workhorse, able to endure life’s hardships without complaint. There was no way to win.

Every bid was topped by another. Raised hands seemed never to tire. Pale men inched forward slowly, without restraint, hoping to win the prize. Afia covered her face and screamed. They didn’t hear her. Their own voices muted her cry. Her mutilation had been for naught. She would still be someone’s property, and they would expect her to suffer in silence. A large, round pale man made the final bid and joined her on the block. He looked her over as she wailed, unconcerned for her heart, but excited about the strength she exposed. Thinking to test her, he slapped her so hard she stumbled. Afia’s hands braced her fall. The crowd cheered. She was not broken. She was not fragile like their women. She was something different, something more than mere womanhood. That’s why he’d bought her. He’d already imagined the children she’d bear and the cotton she’d pick and the house she’d clean every day of her life. Now he was relieved not to worry about overworking her. Strength was in her blood. It was who she was. It was why she’d been born. And he would never, ever think of selling her again. Even to herself.