thickets he had heard the grunts and squeals of the wild hogs, fat sows
foraging nuts, leading their litters. Along the shore he had seen
flocks of feeding egrets in the dawn light, ready to be snared and
roasted, and at his feet there had been hundreds of land crabs, night
prowlers as big as two hands, ripe for boiling as they scurried back to
their sand burrows along the shore.
He could not understand why the _branco _slaves who worked alongside
the Yoruba allowed themselves to be fed on boiled corn mush. A natural
bounty lay within arm's reach.
The Orisa, those forces in nature that work closest with man, were
still present on the island. He could sense them, waiting in the wood
of the trees. This ravished place had once been a great forest, like
the one north of Ife, and it could be again. If the hand of the Ingles
was taken from it, and the spirit of the Orisa, its rightful
protectors, freed once more.
The first cooing of the wood dove sounded through the thatched hut,
above the chorus of whistling frogs from the pond, signaling the
approach of day. Atiba sat motionless in the graying light,
crosslegged, at the edge of the mud seat nearest the door, and studied
the sixteen cowrie shells as they spun across the reed tray that lay
before him. As he watched, eight of the small ovals came to rest mouth
up, in a wide crescent, the remainder facing down.
The tiny room was crowded with the men of the Yoruba, their cotton
loincloths already drenched with sweat from the early heat. Now all
eyes narrowed in apprehension, waiting for this _babalawo_, the priest
of the Yoruba, to speak and interpret the verses that revealed the
message in the cowries.
_Bi a ko jiya ti o kun agbon
_If we do not bear suffering that will fill a basket,
_A ko le jore to kun inu aha
_We will not receive kindness that will fill a cup.
He paused and signaled the tall, bearded drummer waiting by the door.
The man's name was Obewole, and he had once been, many rains ago, the
strongest drummer in the entire city of Ife. He nodded and shifted the
large drum--the Yoruba _iya ilu_--that hung at his waist, suspended
from a wide shoulder strap. Abruptly the small wooden mallet he held
began to dance across the taut goatskin. The verses Atiba had just
spoken were repeated exactly, the drum's tone changing in pitch and
timbre as Obewole squeezed the cords down its hourglass waist between
his arm and his side. Moments later there came the sound of more drums
along the length of the southern coast, transmitting his verses inland.
In less than a minute all the Yoruba on Barbados had heard their
_babalawo's _exact words.
Then he said something more and shook the tray again. This time five
cowries lay open, set as a star. Again he spoke, his eyes far away.
_A se'gi oko ma we oko
_The tree that swims like a canoe,
_A s'agada ja'ri erin
_The sword that will cut iron.
Once more the drum sent the words over the morning quiet of the island.
Atiba waited a few moments longer, then slowly looked up and surveyed
the expectant faces around him. The shells had spoken, true enough, but
the message of the gods was perplexing. Seemingly Shango had counseled
endurance, while Ogun foretold war.
He alone was priest, and he alone could interpret this contradictory
reading. He knew in his heart what the gods wanted, what they surely
must want. Still, the realization brought painful memories. He knew too
well what war would mean. He had seen it many times--the flash of
mirrored steel in the sunlight, the blood of other men on your hands,
the deaths of wise fathers and strong sons.
The worst had been when he and his warriors had stood shoulder to
shoulder defending the ancient royal compound at Ife with their lives,
when the Fulani from the north had breached the high walls of the city
and approached the very entrance of the ruling Oba's palace, those huge
sculptured doors guarded by the two sacred bronze leopards. That day he
and his men had lost more strong warriors than there were women to
mourn them, but by nightfall they had driven out the worshippers of
other gods who would take their lands, pillage their compounds, carry
away their seed-yams and their youngest wives.
He also knew there could be betrayal. He had seen it during the last
season of rains, when the drums had brought news of strangers in the
southeastern quarter of the world that was Yorubaland. He and his men
had left their compounds and marched all day through the rain. That
night, among the trees, they had been fallen upon by Benin slavers, men
of black skin who served the _branco _as a woman serves the payer of
her bride-price.
But the men of the Yoruba would never be made to serve. Their gods were
too powerful, their ancestors too proud. The Yoruba were destined to
rule. Just as they had governed Yorubaland for a thousand years. Theirs
was an ancient and noble people, nothing like the half-civilized Ingles
on this island. In the great metropolis of Ife, surrounded by miles of
massive concentric walls, the Yoruba had lived for generations in wide
family compounds built of white clay, their courtyards open to light
and air, walking streets paved with brick and stone, wearing
embroidered robes woven of finest cotton, sculpting lost-wax bronzes
whose artistry no Ingles could even imagine. They did not swelter in
patched-together log huts like the Ingles planters here, or in thatched
hovels like the Ingles planters' servants. And they paid reverence to
gods whose power was far greater than any _branco_ had ever seen.
"The sky has no shadow. It reaches out in all directions to the edge of
the world. In it are the sun, the moon, all that is." He paused,
waiting for the drums, then continued. "I have gone out into the dark,
the void that is night, and I have returned unharmed. I say the Orisa
are here, strong. We must make war on the branco to free them once
more." He paused again. "No man's day of death can be postponed. It is
already known to all the gods. There is nothing we need fear."
After the drums had sent his words across the island, the hut fell
quiet. Then there came a voice from a small, wizened man sitting on
Atiba's left, a Yoruba older than the rest, with sweat pouring down the
wrinkles of his long dark face.
"You are of royal blood, Atiba. Your father Balogun was one of the
sixteen royal _babalawo _of the Oba of Ife, one of the great Awoni. It
was he who taught you his skills." He cleared his throat, signifying
his importance. "Yet I say you now speak as one who has drunk too many
horns of palm wine. We are only men. Ogun will not come forth to carry
our shields."
"Old Tahajo, you who are the oldest and wisest here tonight, you know
full well I am but a man." Atiba paused, to demonstrate deference. He
was chagrined that this elder who now honored his hut had to sit
directly on the mud seat, that there was no buffalo skin to take down
off the wall for him as there would have been in a compound at Ife.
"Though the gods allow me to read their words in the cowries, I still
eat the food a woman cooks."
"I know you are a man, son of Balogun, and the finest ever sired in
Ife. I knew you even before you grew of age, before you were old enough
to tie a cloth between your legs. I was there the day your clan marks
were cut in your cheek, those three proud lines that mark you the son
of your father. Be his son now, but speak to us today as a man, not as
_babalawo_. Let us hear your own voice."
Atiba nodded and set aside the tray. Then he turned back to the drummer
and reached for his gleaming machete. "Since Tahajo wishes it, we will
wait for another time to consult more with Ogun and Shango. Now I will
hold a sword and speak simply, as a man."
Obewole nodded and picked up the mallet.
"This island was once ruled by the Orisa of the forest. But now there
is only cane. Its sweetness is bitter in the mouths of the gods, for it
has stolen their home. I say we must destroy it. To do this we will
call down the fire of lightning that Shango guards in the sky."
"How can we call down Shango's fire?" The old man spoke again. None of
the others in the cramped hut dared question Atiba so boldly. "No man
here is consecrated to Shango. We are all warriors, men of Ogun. His
power is only over the earth, not the skies."
"I believe there is one on this island whose lineage is Shango. A
woman. Perhaps she no longer even knows it. But through her we will
reach him." He turned and signaled Obewole to ready the drum. "Now I
will speak. Hear me. Shango's spirit is here, on this island. He will
help us take away the strength of the Ingles." He paused for the drums,
then continued, "I learned on the ship that before the next new moon
there will be many more of us here. The other warriors who were
betrayed by the Benin traitors will be with us again. Then we will take
out the fire of Shango that the Ingles hold prisoner in the boiling
house and release it in the night, among the fields of cane. We will
burn the compounds of the Ingles and take their muskets. Then we will
free the white slaves. They are too craven to free themselves, but they
will not stand with their _branco _masters."