For almost a month now, any night he could manage, Atiba had slipped
unseen from the compound and explored the southern coast of the island,
the shore and the upland hills. Now he was sure they could survive
after the island became theirs. The _branco_, the white English, were
savages, who destroyed all they touched, but there were still traces of
what once had been. Between the fields of sterile cane he had found and
tasted the fruits of the sacred earth.
There were groves of wild figs, their dark fruit luscious and
astringent, and plump coconuts, their tender core as rich as any in
Yorubaland. Along the shore were stands of sea-grape trees, with a
sweet purple fruit biting to the tongue. He had also found palm-like
trees clustered with the tender papaya, and farther inland there were
groves of banana and plantain. He had discovered other trees with large
oranges, plump with yellow nectar, as well as pomegranates and tamarind
just like those he had known in Ife, his home city. The soil itself
gave forth moist melons, wild cucumbers, and the red apples of the
prickly cactus. There also were calabash, the hard, round gourds the
Ingles had already learned could be hollowed out for cups and basins.
The only thing wanting was that staple of the Yoruba people, the yam.