We were now five. Our last day approached. We could feel it. We hoped that all of us would be sold together, or at least on the same day, and no one would be left alone. But there was no promise. We agreed to be strong, come what may. We vowed to search for each other if somehow that became possible. Of course, we wouldn’t know where to look. We didn’t know where we were. We swore all the same. We spoke proverbs to ease our discontented hearts: “A determined soul shall be made fat!” “Hope retained is hope rewarded!” “God never forgets!” “The wealthy do not always prosper!” “Poor today, ruler tomorrow!” “Sticks in a bundle are unbreakable!” “When bound together, friends become family!” “Do not take what you did not plant!” “Greed loses what it has gained!” “Beauty is never perfect!” “Love never gets lost!” “However long the night, the dawn will break!” And on until we heard our people’s voices in our heads. Then we sighed and sat in a small circle, wondering what else to say. Nothing came. Hours passed, slow and brutal. Atiba drew circles upon the earth, Akinyemi stared into the air, Binta played with her hands, Zinzele tried to see home in her imagination, and Olufemi watched the sun’s light move around us. There was nothing else we could do. Occasionally we drank water or relieved ourselves in the corner, but always we returned to the circle. It was our last hope. It was the only symbol we shared. It was the only reason we didn’t die. We’d all been taught that, in a circle, there is no beginning, no end. Energy flows without ceasing. One can enter and exit without ever disrupting it. Something magical happens when people gather in a circle. Individual identities swirl into a collective self, which wields far more spiritual force than any one person alone. We knew that. And though small, our circle of five did precisely what elders had said it would do.

As evening came, we merged together for the last time. Somehow we knew this was the end. We lay upon each other’s bosom and wept for what was to come. If only there was something to say. We wanted to take refuge in speech, but it would not come. So touch was our final requiem. Every hand felt another’s flesh. Soon a collaboration of souls ensued and we enjoyed the tranquility of our final night together. We abandoned anxieties of tomorrow long enough to create a memory that got us through the night. We would never forget it. It would be our hope in years to come. Without announcement, we simply moved our hands across each other’s limbs and faces. Our hands spoke so many things. They said Thank you for enduring. They said, I love you for living. They said Bless you for being. They said We shall see each other again. They said Pale men could separate our bodies but not our spirits. They said Do not become the evil that brought us here. They said Ashe for surviving. They said Forgive me for war. They said Yeabo for prayers unspoken. They said Our gods have not forgotten. From dusk to dark, we massaged black bodies until practically every part of everyone’s flesh had been anointed. Some moaned aloud as our souls longing was satisfied. We didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but we didn’t intend to face it fearfully. We were warriors and healers, storytellers and dancers. We were not people who surrendered—even in bondage.