settled across the fields of cane. Swallows twittered among the tall palms, and the half-light was spotted with darting bats. The heat of the long day still immersed the hillside. On the far western horizon, where the sea disappeared into the Caribbean mist, three of the great ships of the Ingles fleet had begun preparing their sails. They too seemed to be waiting for the appearance of the new Yoruba moon.
He began with a review of their weapons. There would be difficulties. Since the cane knives had been removed from the slave quarters on most of the plantations and secured in the great house, it would be necessary to break in and take them back, which meant the advantage of surprise would be lost. For spears, they would have to try and seize some of the pikes the branco now had in readiness to protect the island from the fleet. Again that meant bloodshed.
Also, their numbers were still uncertain. All the Yoruba had agreed to rise up, and final preparations had been coordinated across the island using the iya ilu drum. But the other men of Africa? What of them? The Ibo nursed historic hatreds toward the Yoruba, and their response to the plan for rebellion had been to shift on their feet, spit on the ground, and agree to nothing. There were also Ashanti and Mandingo. These he trusted even less than the Ibo. Command would be difficult: there were too many languages, too many loyalties, too many ancient grievances.
The men in the hut finally concluded that only the Yoruba could be relied upon. When the day of war comes, you only trust your own blood, your own gods.
After the moon had disappeared, he’d cast the cowries, praying Ogun would presage the defeat of the branco. The men required an omen.
And an omen there had been. At that exact moment the silence of the night was rent by sounds of gunfire rising up from the western shore, faint staccato pops through the trees. They were as drumbeats that carried no words, yet their message was unmistakable. Ogun, the god of war, had spoken—not through the pattern in the cowries on a tray, but with his own voice.
Fear suddenly gripped the men in the hut. What was Ogun’s purpose in answering the cowries this way? Thus their council of war had dissolved in meaningless talk and confusion. Finally the misgivings of the elders emerged.
There must be, they said, no rising against the branco unless success was assured. The elder Tahajo recalled the famous proverb: Aki ida owo le ohun ti ako le igbe—"A man should not attempt to raise up something he cannot lift." The other men had nodded gravely, taking his mouthing of this commonplace to demonstrate great sagacity.
Then young Derin, in a flagrant breach of etiquette amongst a council of elders, had dared to cite an opposing parable: Bi eya ba di ekun, eran ni ikpa dze— "When the wild cat becomes a leopard, it can devour great beasts." We must become brave like the leopard, he urged. When the branco see our boldness they will quake with fear as we go to war against them.
Tahajo had listened tolerantly, then countered again: Alak- atanpo oju ko le ita eran pa—"He who has only his eyebrow for a crossbow can never kill an animal."