“This child’s Alusi has no respect!” her father always told her mother. But when he was in his usual good mood, her father praised this part of Najeeba, often saying, “Let your Alusi travel, daughter. See what you can see!”

Now her Alusi, that ethereal part of her with the ability to silence pain and observe, came forward. Her mind recorded events like the man’s device. Every detail. Her mind observed that when the man sang, despite the song’s words, his voice was beautiful.

It lasted about two hours, though to Najeeba it felt like a day and a half. In her memory, she saw the sun move across the sky, set, and come up again. It was a long time, that’s what matters. The Nurus sang, laughed, raped, and, a few times, killed. Then they left. Najeeba lay there on her back, her garments open, her pummeled and bruised midsection exposed to the sun. She listened for breathing, moaning, crying and for a while, she heard nothing. She was glad.

Then she heard Amaka shout, “Stand up!” Amaka was twenty years Najeeba’s senior. She was strong and often a voice for the women of her village. “Stand up, all of you!” Amaka said, stumbling. “Get up!” She went to each woman and kicked her. “We’re dead but we won’t die out here, those of us still breathing.”

Najeeba listened without moving as Amaka kicked at thighs and pulled at women’s arms. She hoped she could play dead well enough to trick Amaka. She knew her husband was dead and, even if he weren’t, he’d never touch her again.

The Nuru men, and their women, had done what they did for more than torture and shame. They wanted to create Ewu children. Such children are not children of the forbidden love between a Nuru and an Okeke, nor are they Noahs, Okekes born without color. The Ewu are children of violence.