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

*   *   *

And, finally, there was Atiba. He didn’t care who bought him. He just didn’t want to remain in the stall alone. Not by himself. Not with Death. A night in that place would kill him for sure. He’d lived among his people, the Fon, back in his village. He’d dwelled and suffered on the ship with kinsmen he’d learned to love. He’d sat with survivors in the wooden stable and decided to live. And now he couldn’t imagine life on his own. Without someone to touch. Someone’s breathing to listen to. Someone’s words to settle his rage. Anyone. Just not Death. Death was a poor companion. He didn’t talk much. He loved to taunt and mock the weak of heart. He had a way of shifting and moving that left others unsettled. Sometimes, without permission, he’d evoke laughter at the absurdity of life and, suddenly, take one’s breath away. Just like that. No, he couldn’t dwell with Death. And who else was there? In the darkness of the night, he could feel ancestors and speak to them, but they wouldn’t come. Death came easily. He came whenever summoned. He even came unsummoned. And he hated leaving alone. So Atiba begged God to send him somewhere. Anywhere. Just not back to the stall.

When the bidding began, he looked among the crowd. They were hungry for obedient black flesh. So he gave it to them. They had scowled at him before, but not this time. He knew what to do. He’d learned what they rejected, what they hated most. So, unlike before, he wore the look of sympathy. That was the submission they had wanted, the surrender they’d been after. An expression of joy would’ve been disingenuous. Happiness would’ve looked unbelievable. Bliss, inconceivable. Love, unthinkable. Contentment, unsustainable. These realities didn’t move them. All they sought was his compliance, his acquiescence. So Atiba yielded. In exchange for the loneliness of the stall and the provoking of Death in the midnight hour. He conceded, in exchange for death without libation or life without elation. He assumed the mask of passivity and pale people pitied him. That was the only expression of love they knew.

Among his people, he’d been the trickster. The time bender, the reality shifter, the mind regulator. At every ritual he’d been called upon to illustrate the depths and dimensions of the Fon. He’d acted out people and situations, causing even chiefs and governors to laugh at themselves. He’d mimicked voices and behaviors so precisely others marveled in awe. He’d worn costumes and recreated war battles that resulted in solutions elders could not find. His talent was becoming everyone else in order that the community might see itself. Now, here, in another place and time, in a much more desperate hour, his skill would save again. But this time it would save himself.