After the fields, he doesn’t get soap; the music’s what cleanses him, revealing his roots. 

When the moon says, “My turn,” to the sun, his fingers, numb from pickin’ cotton, find their feelings. His toes start tappin’. And others come a-running to hear him play the banjo. 

He sings spiritual songs from his homeland—reminders of hope. Black feet remember their steps from long ago on African soil. Dancing shakes loose the dirt on their skin.

You see, property doesn’t smile, but he’s human tonight, laughing while he plucks the strings.

And the cargo, renamed Marcus, becomes Jobah once more.