You are learning to be a fool.
O ko ko ogbon
You do not learn wisdom.
She laughed to herself as she watched the startled faces of the Yoruba men emerging from the thatched hut. After a moment, she saw Atiba move out onto the pathway to stare in her direction. She set the drum onto the grass and stared back.
He was approaching now, and the grace of his powerful stride again stirred something, a desire she had first felt those nights in the boiling house. What would it be like, she wondered again, to receive a part of his power for her own?
Though his face declared his outrage, she met his gaze with Defiance—a mulata need never be intimidated by a preto. She continued to watch calmly as he moved directly up the path to where she stood.
Without a word he seized the drum, held it skyward for a moment, then dashed it against a tree stump. Several of the partly healed lash marks on his back opened from the violence of the swing. He watched in satisfaction as the wood shattered, leaving a clutter of splinters, cords, and skin. Then he revolved toward her.
"A branco woman does not touch a Yoruba drum."
Branco. She had never heard herself referred to before as "white." But she had always wanted to. Always. Yet now . . . now he spat it out, almost as though it meant "unclean."
"A branco woman may do as she pleases." She glared back at him. "That's one of the first things you will have to learn on this island."