dangling

from a chain

around his neck

who yells out numbers

in the same foreign language

that Mr. Phillip insisted

we learn.

I whisper to Afua

that they are counting us.

The white gaze

of a dozen more men

greets us

as we climb up

and onto

this strange, wooden world.

To myself

I say

what I cannot pretend

is not a final goodbye

to Kwasi

to my family

to my beloved Asante.

To home.

HEAD COUNT

71, gal

72, gal

73, boy

74, boy

75, gal

76, gal

shouts a man

holding a leaflet

with a white hand,

a pipe dangling

from his hairy mouth,

before I am pushed

into a cage

on the deck

of the big boat

with Afua

and the rest.

77, boy.

TO THE WHITE FACES

with their sinister plans

and long guns

holding crooked power

and our destiny

in their thieving white hands,

we are not human.

But we are.

You must remember that,

Afua whispers,

touching my forehead

and the left side

of my chest,

no matter our fate.

DAY ONE

She whispers us

the tale of

why Anansi has eight legs

with so much emotion

that we cannot help

but feel each woe

and wonder.

Each time she introduces

a new food

that Anansi grabs

with his webs—sweet potato,

beans, honey—she licks

her lips

and rubs her belly

and we almost forget

that this big boat is moving

farther and farther away

from the castle,

that our home

is getting smaller

and smaller.

NIGHT TWO

All the bouncing

up and down

from the waves

has her sick,

so there are no stories

to pass the time,

only howls

and hollers

and songs of despair

from the men

down below

to remind us

of this slow passage

over troubled waters.

DAY THREE

Each day

at the same time

with the same scowls

and curses,

our captors

who grow filthier

and filthier

bring up the shackled men

from below

to be doused

with buckets of water,

and force them

to dance

to entertain

and even though

we cannot see their faces

from our side

of the ship,

Afua tells me to listen

very closely

to what they are singing,

that the words

have meaning,

that there is a message

in them

for us.

NIGHT SEVEN

The purple-blue sky

brings with it

a cloud of gloom

over us.

The crying is longer

and louder now.

Nana Mosi says

a purple sky means

ruin and wreckage

approaches.

Afua tries her best

to settle the women

and the boys, by humming

a soft song,

and then like a schoolteacher,

she offers to us

something very familiar:

The sun shines on those who stand up for themselves, before it shines on those who kneel to cowardice.

CONVERSATION WITH AFUA

I have heard that before, from a man, a warrior, who tried to help us.

A decent man then.

He said something similar right before they killed him. How can there be truth to what you both say?