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.