There were different compartments, or so it seemed. We heard voices outside of our area. Mostly names being shouted in hopes of a response. There was usually no response. Once, though, a man’s heavy, quivering voice bellowed through the air, “Shamba! Shamba! Shamba!” We waited, prepared to weep along when no answer came. But within seconds, a young, strong, male voice returned, “Baba! Baba Shamba!” and we wept still, but for the grace of the gods. This was not usual. It would not happen again.

We were days in those holding pens, waiting for our future to unfold. Captors sat a bucket of lukewarm water in the center of the floor each day, and within seconds of their leave, it was gone. Most never tasted it. There were more than a hundred of us packed together in that small room, and there was never enough water to go around. For food, they threw us half-rotten fruit and discarded portions of whatever they’d eaten. It was always minimal. Only a few tasted that, too. Even children were neglected.

Some days, they took hundreds away while the rest of us continued waiting. Suffering. Longing. Hoping captors would have a change of heart and set us free. They never did. Instead, we sat in those cells for weeks and months at a time. Rancid diseases claimed many lives. Others died from pain deep in the soul. A few wept until tears ran dry. We could scarcely sigh without our breath tickling the neck of a kinsman, so most of us bowed our heads and held our breath. We called for warriors who never came. We were naked and ashamed.

We cannot recall their names, the departed. We can only hear, ringing in our memories, the wailing of a people too broken to heal. A woman whose language we could not discern tried to encourage us. We felt the upsurge in her tone, and for a time her power prevailed, yet after days and nights in the sweltering heat, pleading continuously, she collapsed, exasperated. She simply could not bear our burdens alone. Her voice went silent. She left us altogether—left her body right in our midst, and walked proudly into the next realm. We heard her in our sleep, reminding us who we were and telling us to never lose hope. Someone later said her name was Elewechi, which means, “Do nothing unless God decides.”

There were men, too, in those cells, fighting for our survival, intent to prove themselves men. They tried to escape, but they could not. They screamed and flailed their arms, like children with the fits, and slung their bodies onto the earth, kicking and shouting all the while. Most of us turned away. Our eyes avoided their eyes, that we might not see the depth of their agony. That was the only way we knew to love them.

This was The Coming.

* * *

We saw the ships before they saw us. Narrow cracks in stonewalls allowed us to breathe and watch big vessels approach. Leaning neither to the right nor the left, they glided along the water’s surface with remarkable balance and quiet ease. We were astonished that such big boats did not sink. Tall poles stood in the middle of them, with large blocks of white cloth waving at the top, guiding them into what would become familiar waters. We would later learn the names of these vessels: The Hope, The Lord Ligonier, The Mary, The Brookes, The Henry of London, The Hannibal of London, The Good Ship Jesus, The Henrietta Marie, The Charleston, The Arabella, The Katherine, The Green Dragon and so many others. They could not come ashore. They were too big. So our riverboats took us to them.