“to Shangó, lord of fire and tempest, essence of courage and of justice;
“and to his wives;
“to Oshun, river goddess of Oshogbo,
“goddess of love,
“who sustained us during the terrible journey across the great sea
“and brought us safely to these shores; and
“to Oya, mistress of lightning and the tornado and of sudden death.
“Take our words to Oshumare, serpent of the rainbow, messenger of Shangó;
“to Ogún, his brother, fearless god of iron and war;
“to Obaluaye, who with his broom can sweep the sesame seeds of pestilence
“over the face of the earth;
“to Orunmila, leopard, messenger of the gods, who knows all things,
“to whom there is no secret;
“Orunmila, who sat watching Olodumare as he made the universe;
“and knows the secrets of his laws.”
He paused to finger the beads of Orunmila’s necklace of divination which hung at his neck.
“Let our words fly to Yemoja, most fruitful of goddesses, mistress of the seas;
“and of chaste love between men and women.
“Yemoja, giver of children,
“we tie this ribbon about the trunk of this tree to ask you to bind us to you,
“as a mother straps her child upon her back.”
“We pour the blood of this black cockerel,
“to honour the spirits of our ancestors.”
Josef handed the squawking cockerel to him. He held it over the altar while Josef drew a sharp knife across its throat. The blood spurted onto the altar. Josef held up a bowl to catch the last drops.
The sheep which they had stolen for the sacrifice had been scrubbed clean and its hair combed. It had a broad sash about its waist, the knotted end tied into a bow. Olukoya gripped its body between his knees, held its mouth shut and pulled its head back towards him, stretching its neck.
The drums fell quiet. All knelt and prayed. The clear tones of a struck bell rippled across the clearing. A calabash rattle joined. The sheep struggled. Ama wondered whether a sheep could foresee its own end as humans can.
The knife did its work and the sheep’s blood spurted into the bowl. The drums rolled, celebrating the sacrifice. Olukoya raised the bowl and poured some of the blood upon the clay altar.
Then Jacinta stepped forward. She spoke for the BaKongo; and for the others who had been brought to Bahia from the barracoons of Luanda and Loango and Benguela in Angola. Their ancestors from the ancient states of Tio and Loango and Ndongo had been crossing the Atlantic to Bahia, though not by choice, for the past two hundred and fifty years. The Angolans asked Jacinta to speak for them because they knew that since she had lost her hands, Tempu had frequently entered her body and taken possession of her spirit.
She pulled Ama forward with her right stump. Kneeling before an open bowl she drew Ama down after her. She pressed her stump into the bowl, charging it with powdery dry white clay. She tried to draw on the ground but failed. She signed to Ama to help her. Ama took a handful of the powder, watching Jacinta’s eyes. Jacinta mimed to her to sprinkle the powder on the ground in a circle and then to draw a cross within the circle in the same way. She nodded her approval and then showed Ama that she should draw two circles on her face, one around each eye.
Ama stood up and stepped back. Jacinta slowly lowered her head towards the circle on the ground.
“Oh Tempu,” she chanted,
“let this circle become a mirror.
“In it show us the faces of the pretos velhos,
“of the spirits of all who have come this way before us.
“Invest the power of our ancestors in us.
“Let it shine forth from us with a blinding radiance.
“Here at this cross roads,
“where this great tree sinks its roots into the ground,
“where the clearing meets the forest,
“where the darkness of night meet the dawn of a new day,
“give us the vision to see into your world.”
“In the evening the sun descends into the underworld of darkness.
“Yet every day it rises again,
“in a new dawn.
“The cycle is without end.
“So it is with our lives.
“When we die we too enter the world of night,
“Where the sparks of departed souls light up the sky.
“And yet we too are reborn.
“So it is with all living things:
“birth, maturity, death and rebirth.”
A breath of wind lifted the ribbon of white cloth which hung from the tree and it fluttered, rising and falling. Ama followed the eyes of the crippled woman. Jacinta’s shoulders were trembling as if the force which had lifted the bunting, had taken possession of her too.
“Oh, Tempu,
“I see your spirit moving in your flag.
“I know that you have heard me.
“Move us, as you, too, move.
“Take us with you on your road.
“Intercede for us with Nzambi Mpungu,
“Lord of all Creation.
“Heal the shattered edges of our souls; restore our injured bodies;
“Make our spirits round as the sun is round.
“Help us to stand tall and straight and whole as this tree which guards your spirit.”
She rose and signing to Ama to follow with the bowl, went to one corner of the clearing. With the stump of her right arm she drew a circle in the soft topsoil, and divided it into four quadrants. In each she drew a different symbol. Ama took a handful of the white powder and dribbled it into the shallow grooves. Jacinta stepped back, then dropped to her knees again and bowed before the symbol.
“Oh, Tempu
“With this sacred white clay,
“I make the sign of the dawn
“And the seal of your world.”
Then they repeated the performance three more times, defining the corners of the clearing. Josef stepped forward and dribbled blood on Tempu’s altar.
Gregório, he who had run away from the engenho and been recaptured, spoke for the Ewe, neighbours of the Akan and the Yoruba, known in Bahia as Gêge. Gregório had fought for the Anlo in a war against the Ge. He had been captured and sold. Now, too late, he brooded on the futility of Ewe fighting Ewe, African fighting African. Only the white men benefited from those wars.
Josef spoke for the Akan, the Fanti of the coast and the Asante of the hinterland, known in Bahia as Minas. He poured libation with rum, invoking the spirits of the ancestors. Then three times he lifted the bowl from the tree of god and placed it on Ama’s head.
Ignacio Gomes, the leather worker, a free man, half Tupi, half Kongo, was next.
Ignacio was a man of few words. To both the slaves and their masters he was an enigma.
The Senhor recognised and valued his consummate skill as a craftsman. He feared that a misplaced word might drive the man from his employment; and so he ordered Vasconcellos and his white and mulatto minions to treat Ignacio with the greatest circumspection.
The slaves found it difficult to understand why he stayed on at the engenho, poorly paid and poorly housed as he was. After all he was a free man. He could leave at any time. In Salvador, with his skills, he would surely prosper as an independent artisan.
The answer to the riddle lay in the roots which bound Ignacio to the soil. His father’s ancestors had worshipped at a forest shrine at the very site where the Christian chapel now stood. Through him flowed the ancient spirits of this land, the caboclos; and in him they merged with the spirits which his mother had brought from Africa. He was the curator, the custodian, of these lands.
Portuguese rule, he knew, was no more than a brief episode. In time the ancient spirits of the place would reassert their power and swallow up the white man and his religion.
Ignacio wore only a loin cloth. He had painted patterns on hi
s body with the dark blue dye of the jenipapo fruit. He spoke quietly. Though the drums were silent, the others had to strain their ears to hear him.
“Great Tupi gods,
“spirits of the forest,
“spirits of Ai the sloth and Tatu the armadillo;
“of Capibara the water hog and Tamanduá the anteater of the night;
“of spotted Paca;
“of Macahuba the macaw, Seriema the crane and Tucano the toucan.
“Great Tupi gods,
“Welcome the gods of Africa who have come to live amongst us;
“Welcome Oxóssi, armed with his bow and arrow, protector of the hunter;
“Welcome Tempu the tempest, the storm which plants its seed in woman.
“Tustáo and Flecha Negro, Pai Joaquin and Mãe Maria.
“ancient caboclos,
“in your honour we dress the neck of this pot in feathers.
“Free of our bodies.
“Lend us the power of birds to soar above the earth.
“Make us invincible.
“Return our land to us.”
He made obeisance before the tree and withdrew quietly.
Now it was Ama’s turn. She had been considering nervously what contribution she might make. Back home it was the Owner of the Earth who poured to the earth and the oldest man, the senior elder, who held the people, held the earth. Their prayers were always concerned with the fertility of the soil, good rains, freedom from destructive winds; the fertility of women; or the success of the hunt. She would certainly not pray for the success of the sugar harvest and it seemed trivial, after the powerful invocations she had heard, to petition the ancestors for blessings on their tiny allotments. As to praying for the fertility of women, it would be nonsensical: they would only be making more slaves for the Senhor. Moreover, the animals which were the totems of the clans, leopard, crocodile, cobra, hyena, did not live in this country. She could speak to Itsho, but her relationship with his spirit was too private, too personal, too intense to display amongst these strangers.
Olukoya looked at her. She shook her head. He nodded. It seemed that he understood.
* * *
When they returned to the other clearing the pots were already simmering.
The sheep was gutted, skinned and butchered. Luis dos Santos the wag, who was here too, praised the Senhor for what he called his “gifts.” While the food was cooking, the men busied themselves with weeding the clearings.
“Josef, Ama, please come,” Bernardo called. “Bring a bowl of garapa.”
He led them some way into the bush. He put down the axe he was carrying and indicated a tree.
“What do you think?” he asked, “This part at the bottom I will hollow out for a great war drum. From the part above I will be able to make five or six atabaques or batás.”
They approved his choice.
“Be my witnesses,” he told them.
He raised the bowl.
“Hear my voice, spirit of this noble tree. I bring you this drink. I water your roots.”
He poured some liquor from the bowl.
“I beg your forgiveness for destroying your abode. Enter, I beg you, into the drums which I will carve from the wood of your tree. Teach the hands of the drummer. Let no harm come from anything I do today.”
He put the bowl down and slowly lifted the axe. Josef and Ama retired to a safe distance to watch.
* * *
Olukoya led the procession. The drummers beat out a quiet slow rhythm with their hands.
At the entrance to the shrine they halted. Olukoya genuflected briefly. Then he went forward and laid a plate of chicken stew before the altar. Speaking Portuguese, he invoked the spirit of Eshù and gave notice of his offering. One by one the others followed. Each man removed the cloth from his shoulder and wrapped it round his waist; the women removed their head-ties. Each bore a gift; for Obatálá a plate of white rice or the fermented corn called ekó, wrapped in plantain leaves; for Oshun, chicken and honey; for Yemoja, wild orchids; for Tempu, a pair of cow horns; and fresh greens and coconut for the other gods. Shangó’s plate, with a hot red peppered mutton stew, was made of wood, for his spirit is too hot for fragile pottery.
Instead of food some laid personal gifts which they had brought: a precious cowrie, smuggled from Africa; a ball of soap; for Oshun the treasured feather of a parrot, a brass trinket or smooth stones from the bed of the tumbling stream which ran behind the clearing.
Finally, when all had delivered their offerings, Olukoya stepped forward again.
“Eshù,
“great god of vengeance, intercessor for mankind,
“we come again in peace, to greet you.
“We cool your brows with this fresh water from the river.”
“Great gods of Africa and Brazil, and all our ancestors,” he called, “we greet you again. May your spirits descend upon us.”
He gave a signal and in an sudden explosion of violent rhythm three drummers struck the taut skin of their drums with short baquetas, making them speak now with a voice so loud that it would heard back at the engenho; agôgô was beaten with its iron rod; xaque-xaque and chocalho shook; and in the background the sweet tones of the marimba rose and fell. At this signal, the worshippers began to dance. Counter-clockwise they shuffled round before the spirit-laden fig tree, rotating their hips, slapping thighs and chest, circling, snapping fingers in a miscellany of dancing styles.
Olukoya led a dance in honour of each Yoruba orisha in turn. As always, the virile Eshù, keeper of the gate, was first. The rhythm was new to Ama. She was shy at first, watching the movements of the others for a clue. Some mimicked Olukoya, learning; others, immersing themselves in the spirit of the drums, improvised, some gracefully, some with furious gyrations and stamping. For was there one of them who had not learned to dance, strapped to his mother’s back, before he could walk? This was the first time Ama had danced since landing on the soil of Bahia. She relaxed and lost herself in the music. Beneath the soles of her feet she felt the crushed dry leaves of the forest floor.
Obatálá was next. Olukoya put on a brilliant white cloth to honour the god of spotless repute. Obatálá’s dance was gentle and graceful. As he danced, Olukoya sang a poem of praise to the transparent honesty of the incorruptible judge and prayed for the perfect peace and tranquillity which only this paragon of gods can grant. He called Jacinta into the circle to dance with him for Obatálá is the protector of the handicapped. And he made her laugh; he made them all laugh with joy.
Shangó’s dance, by contrast, was violent in the extreme. Olukoya swung Bernardo’s axes in wild arcs which threatened the lives and limbs of the circle of dancers, who fled in terror. In the dance he seemed to take on the god’s identity, to become Lord Shangó himself, Shangó the dangerous, Shangó the leopard who leaps down to earth like a bolt of lightning. (The drummers made a drum speak in the voice of a leopard.) Shangó, father of twins. Shangó, who rewards moral courage in the face of great danger and temptation. Olukoya’s eyes bulged. Shangó, who sends thunder from a cloudless sky. (The drums thundered.) Shangó, who made the first batá drums, and taught them to play with the flash and roar of the squall which turns into a tempest. Shangó who breathes out fire and smoke, the flash of whose lightning is like a sharp knife drawn across the eye of the liar; Shangó, whose fire consumes those who dare to transgress custom and morality. Shangó who throws us his thunder stones from heaven. Shangó: fire and water in the heavens. Shangó on his horse Erinla.
Olukoya was exhausted. He went and lay down on the cool earth. His wife, Ayodele, danced for Shangó’s wife Oshun, beautiful goddess of sweet water and love, a gentle, graceful dance. She mimed the stalking female leopard, she danced the dance of Oshun the coquette and epicure, carrying the narrow-necked pot with smooth river stones and cool river water in it, like the water from the river at Oshogbo which bears her name. She danced with a flash of fire in her eyes. She was transformed into the river Oshun. She mimed sexual e
cstasy in a way that made it chaste and pure.
Olukoya joined her. Together they placed two horns upon the altar in tribute to Oya, wife of Ogún and mother of Shangó’s twins. Then they danced. The swirling river Niger, Oya’s home, was in their dance; the whirlwind; the zigzag of lightning; sudden conflagration; night; and sudden death, for Oya is mistress of the shades, mother of the faceless, of the masked Egúngún.
Olukoya struck the horns together.
“Oya, I summon your presence,” he sang. “Destroyer of worlds. You alone amongst the gods can still the charging buffalo, seizing its horns and conquering its fierce anger. Mother of nine children, mother of nine colours. Oya spare us. Oya guide us. Oya protect us.”
Ayodele joined him again. Separately and intertwined, they danced for Oshumare, an undulating, flowing dance, sinuous, spiralling, looping, serpentine, ambiguous, at once both male and female.
Olukoya danced alone for Ogún, supergod amongst the gods, immune to swords, immune to bullets. He placed two knives upon the altar and Ayodele poured oil on them to invoke the spirit of the god. Ogún, master of iron and steel, red-handed, fierce and unshrinking, Ogún, god of war, who fears only defeat.
This was a dance full of savage energy, extravagant flourishes, terrifying war cries. Ama thought she saw Olukoya miming a struggle for freedom, a war against their masters.
“Ogún, sustain us in the battles to come,” he called out as if to confirm her instinct.
“Ogún, sustain us in the battles to come,” the others chorused.
When he had finished dancing for Ogún, Olukoya sank to his knees before the altar. Then he stretched out, face down, upon the ground, arms extended. The drums were silent. No one spoke. The only sounds were those of the water on the stones and the wind rustling the branches of the trees. After an immeasurable time he rose and washed his hands and face. Then he called those who danced with him closer and in a low voice, explained.
“I was praying to the most dangerous of all orishas,” he told them, “he whose name must not be spoken aloud. I was captured and sent into slavery before I was able to master the secret of his dance. I know only that a single wrong step can arouse his anger and bring his wrath down upon the whole community.”
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