Before the end, she raised chained fists and spewed blood as she said, in her native Wolof, “We are warriors! We cannot be defeated!” The buyer stood before her and lifted his hand once more to strike, but she threw herself at him, and they collapsed together onto the platform. The crowd gasped with disbelief. Aminata kicked and flailed with all her might. She pounded the buyer with chained hands and spread blood across his shoulders. He groaned loudly. Other pale men wrestled him free and kicked Aminata with fury. In unmeasured rage and humiliation, the buyer pulled a gun and pointed it between Aminata’s brows. In her last breath, she mumbled, “We are warriors!” Then the blast separated her eyes. We shrieked and trembled. Pale women yelped and hid their faces. The buyer shot her again and again, as if killing any future life she might have. Then, quickly, they tied her chained feet to a horse and dragged her away. A stream of blood followed. We were rushed back to the stall. No one spoke a word. We saw Aminata, standing proudly in our dreams, and we remembered the meaning of her name: “Trustworthy.” We never forgot the bravery of the Wolof.

This was not the end. There would be another day.

*   *   *

We were nine now.

We spent the remainder of the day in trance. No one talked, no one moved, no one wept. We were frozen with trauma. If they could do our sister that way, what wouldn’t they do to us? The sun eased through clouds as we sat and shivered. At times we closed our eyes, but we did not sleep. Our spirits could find no relief. We watched strips of light creep across the floor of the stall as images of Aminata flashed in our heads. Some of us were angry with ourselves for not fighting. If Aminata was strength and courage, we were definitely cowards. But if we all died, wouldn’t they be undisputed victors? How would we redeem ourselves if everyone went with Death? Our options were few and inglorious. We wrestled, on land and sea, with Life and Death, wanting neither completely but needing both inherently. We decided silently, in the stillness of the stall, that both choices carried honor. Both held the integrity of our people. The job of the living was to resurrect the dead; the job of the dead was to invigorate the living. They were complimentary existences. What elders had taught was true—Life and Death are twins of the same mother. Now we understood.

When the sun vanished, we merged into our womb of survival. Still, no one spoke. Some relieved themselves in the faraway corner. Some bowed at the trough for water. Some scavenged the earth for anything edible. But we never said a word. Silence was a memorial to the fallen. It was homage to those who’d decided to pay what we, the living, would pay later. It was defiance, in our minds, of their hope for our submission. It was collective unity among a people displaced and dispossessed. It was healing for our speechless souls. It let us replace something incomprehensible with something palatable, something we could live with. Silence was our only weapon. Without it, we would’ve been devastated. We would’ve had no capacity to survive.