She closed her eyes, now, and held on to memories of home, murmuring what she could recall to her unborn child. The energy of the raw clay under her fingers. The tickle of warm dust on her feet. The voice of her child’s father, Mansa. She would give her child his name if they survived this voyage. Mansa, she said, speaking to the center of her body as her baby stretched and turned inside her. Mansa.
