Others patted the pale man’s back as he dragged Afia away. She wasn’t loaded on a wagon like the others. She was tied to its side and made to walk as the wagon rolled. We dropped our heads and begged our gods to grant her the strength they assumed she had.

Aminata was the other one sold that day. She’d been a quiet, mild spirit during most of the journey, but fire simmered in her soul. Her breathing, even when she slept, sounded like heavy panting. We glanced at her often, unsure why she always appeared breathless. Air rushed through her wide, flat nostrils like bursts of sudden wind. Her lips never closed. The few words she spoke were in praise of the Wolof man. She’d heard stories of his valor. She, too, was Wolof, although not of the same village, so she didn’t know his name. All she knew was his reputation. Her words were hard to understand, but with the help of her hands, we discerned the general meaning. He’d killed beasts with his bare hands. He’d fought multiple warriors and won. He’d leveled trees with one blow. He’d sired twenty sons. He’d carried barrels—not buckets—of water from the river to the center of the village. He’d run full speed, chasing antelope across open plains, and they’d barely gotten away. He was more mystery than man. No one ever challenged him. That’s why she was so hurt to see him chained and bound on the ship. He was the pride of his people, and now that pride had been stolen away. But it was not wasted. Aminata sang his praises the day he died. She sang them in the stall. She sang them again when she took the block. Her tongue moved like a flame of fire, and every word she spoke sent an arrow to pierce pale men’s hearts. They didn’t know her tongue, but they knew her sentiment. One man rushed to the block and clasped his hand over her mouth. Seconds later, he screamed when she bit him. Blood spewed down his arm. Pale faces frowned and turned away. Aminata’s rage would not be contained. We’d sensed it, in the depth of her breath, but now we heard it, we saw it, and we knew it would cost her everything. With his unbitten hand, the man punched Aminata’s right cheek. She grunted, but did not falter. She paused a brief moment, then resumed her praise song. Dribbles of blood crept from the corners of her mouth, but she would not be silenced. The Wolof man was her only countryman in this strange land, and she meant for someone to know his courage, her courage, their courage before her dying hour. The wounded pale man opened a pouch and lay paper tender on the floor of the auction block. No one bid against him. He balled his fist and rammed it, once again, into Aminata’s mouth. She fell to the ground. Blood poured through her teeth and onto the wooden platform. But she was not destroyed. She rose again and continued speaking. We begged her to stop. We knew what would happen if she didn’t. She knew as well. But her mind was fixed. There was no life for her here. Her only mission, her last vow, was to make sure someone knew the power of her people. She’d be remembered for what she’d said, she believed, even if she were not understood. They saw her stance. They felt her venom. They saw the shared warrior marks. If nothing else, they would know that no Wolof would serve them. Ever. Not a single day. This included Aminata.