Three hours have passed since sunset. Mr. Smith should be asleep by now. The dirt feels cool on the backs of my legs as the late July humidity beats down on us. My eyes dart around the circle. Tired eyes and weary faces stare back. Something about the energy is different tonight. Mouths move subconsciously as Adanna leads our nightly songs. It is my job to shush them when we get too loud; Mr. Smith can never find out.
The usual golden fire dances spiritedly in the center, but the music never grows loud enough to travel to the main house. The exhaustion we stifle day after day begs for our attention.
I feel a sharp ache in both my feet. It is relieving to us all to finally sit down after another day spent under the oppression of the scorching sun. Efemena grimaces as she rolls her sore shoulders. Itri massages her arms. The field punishes us for taking its crops.
The voices that complete the song sound fragile, as if one more crack of a whip may send them shattering into pieces. Adanna begins our routine prayer, her tone weaker than usual. I am too tired to pray tonight, but I gaze up to the heavens anyway.
A vast canvas of black twinkles with stars and a glittering crescent of white hangs effortlessly in the night sky. I imagine that my mother is also admiring the moon at this moment, wondering if its beauty is still visible to me in this new strange place. I imagine Africa. I long for the familiar warmth of the tribe, the hut I was raised in, and my homeland. I imagine what would have happened if I had not been taken away that day. Mosi and I would be married by now. I wonder, would we have children? 
Instinctively, I place a hand on my stomach. I imagine the life this baby will have, bound to the fields under the whip of a cruel owner. Panic creeps into my chest, laced with the same fear as the night I couldn’t fight off Mr. Smith. Growing inside of me is a child I love, who is half the man I hate.
I take a deep breath. Inhaling, I try to remember the rich smells of my country. Memories of ritual bonfires have become tainted by the musty scent of these Southern crops. Tomorrow will be another day in their fields.
I imagine freedom calling my name. It is the voice of my mother, beckoning me to leave this strange land. I run as fast as I can. I run back to Africa, to Mosi, to the tribe, to my mother. I run to the bonfires and to the chants. I run home. Imagination is my only salvation, my only freedom.