In the midnight hour, we could not see our hands before our eyes. There was no moon, no stars, no celestial light at all. Only thick, heavy blackness, like an aura of anguish. We felt it, this mood of desolation, and we tried not to succumb, but it sat upon us until we surrendered. A few drifted off, but most twisted and turned the night long, wanting only the image of Aminata to fade. We did not want to forget her; we wanted to forget what they had done to her. Yet our memory was too fresh; it would not be relinquished so easily. Or quickly. So we learned to remember only parts of things—the parts that let us believe we would win. We had learned, on the ship, to forget. But this was different. It was a trick of the mind, surely, but had we swallowed even half the truths we knew, we would’ve choked and died in the stall. Or on the block. Or on the boat. Or in the slave pen. Or during the march. No human mind could’ve carried the weight of our total experience and lived. So we divided what we knew—and saved some parts for a later recollection.

At the sun’s rising, sorrow retreated. We sighed and spoke, finally, in soft, hushed tones. No one mentioned Aminata. We could not. There was more devastation to endure, more suffering for which to prepare. A pale man came and tossed scraps onto the ground before us. We wanted to defy him, to leave the crumbs where they lay, but hunger would not be denied. Slowly, we took the morsels and shared them evenly among us. No one refused. In the silence of the night, we’d sent Death back to its underground dwelling. We knew where to find him if we needed him, but, for now, we didn’t need him. We would honor Aminata—and the Wolof man and all the others—with our living.

No one else came that day. We sat, hour after agonizing hour, waiting to be marched to the block, but it never happened. The anticipation was worse than the act. The slightest noise made us jump and tremble. We were frazzled and anxious like a grasshopper in a field of birds. After a time, we relaxed slightly, though only for a spell. With every sound, we stared into each other’s droopy eyes and breathed deeply. Too exhausted to cry, we simply blinked and nodded. By mid-afternoon, we were holding hands. Distant voices lingered in the air. No one said it, but we all wondered who would be next. It’s a bad way to live, awaiting your own or your brother’s demise. Yet we had no choice. It had become our fate.