When the Clouds Answer

'Liar! Ojoro ni yeh! 419!'

The culmination of words outside my hut felt like stones. One of the voices was from a young boy no older than twelve. That hurt the most.

'Give me back my yam!'

The yelling and shouting continued until they were tired and stopped. The silence arrived with a sense of comfort – temporary but welcome. I stared at the masquerade costume passed down by my father and before then my grandfather, and considered throwing it into the river. This costume held beautiful memories in each thread but had become heavier over the years. It lay in my hands. The indigo-dyed linen with red and orange tassels across it. There were small eye and nose areas cut out so I could see and breathe. Without wearing the garment, it looked alive, a bestial and majestic creature. I sat alone on the dusty floor of my family hut, I remembered the first time I saw my grandfather wear the masquerade garment.

I must have been four years old and the sun had scorched the earth. The village people were desperate for rain, especially the farmers. The seeds had been buried in the earth with manure laid on top silently beckoning for rain. In Yoruba culture, nothing was inevitable—not rain nor sunshine nor death nor marriage nor war. If it rained, it was the will of our supreme deity, Olodumare. Therefore Yoruba people were always in communion with Him. More than a man, more than a woman—indefinable. Always with us at dawn till dusk. Defining our existence, therefore reverence was not holy, it was essential.

'As long as you keep your soul pure, the ancestors will listen to you,' my mother whispered to me as we stood in the village square.

The first part of the display was the anticipation — the waiting. Our village folk had assembled. The young. The old. Men. Women. We all needed this rain to know Olodumare still favoured us. The rain would bring forth harvest and prosperity. Our bodies gathered, touching one another. The energy was both subdued and electric. Some ten minutes later, the circle of villagers opened and my grandfather emerged. He walked to the centre of the village square, crouched and turned 360 degrees. All we could hear were the birds chirping and the rustling of the wind against the tree leaves. This was my grandfather, but not at all. Once he wore the costume, my grandfather morphed into a choir of ancestral spirits.

Suddenly he stood up from his crouched position, looked towards the furious sun and began vibrating. His body shook and the attached tassels also vibrated. There was no music but I heard an inaudible rhythm. The ancestors caused my grandfather to start jumping in the air and before we knew it his dance became more chaotic, but expansive. With his staff, he took giant steps and leaps forwards and backwards. He pushed his staff into the air, then swung it from his right hand to his left and back again. A woman’s child began crying and she picked up her baby and covered its mouth. We dared not speak in the presence of our ancestors without permission—even a child. Some of the villagers were gently mimicking the dance in their stationary position, others knelt in reverence. The rest of us stood in awe, drinking the spectacle in with our wide open eyes.

Into the Forest

An hour or two may have passed. When my grandfather finished dancing, he held his staff, screamed and ran into the dense forest. I began to run after him, but my mother grabbed my shoulder.

'Olodo,' she said mockingly. 'Now we must wait.'

'Will grandpa be okay?' I asked.

'Of course.'

My mother pulled my right cheek and we returned to our hut. On our way back, others had also chosen to return to their huts, but there were still some villagers on their knees staring at the raised red dust that hung in the air from my grandpa’s dance. Later, we ate our last meal of the day and went to sleep. I couldn’t sleep for some time. All I could think of was my grandfather alone in the forest, but also his dance—hoping and praying that one day, Olodumare, would bless me with the same gift.

Three days passed and life went on as normal, but deep down everyone was waiting for the rains. It was unsaid but felt. A notion in the air. On the fourth day since my grandfather’s temporary exile, the first rains arrived ever so gently. After five minutes, the air boasted a scent that was dusty but fragrant. Shortly after, my grandfather returned without his masquerade costume. There were dark circles under his eyes and his cheekbones and clavicle were more pronounced, but there was a proud beaming smile across his face. The villagers received him with a hero’s welcome.

Day after day, the rains entered the ground filling the topsoil then the next layer till it touched the dry roots. From April to October, the rains fell on our sacred earth. From November to March, my grandfather’s compound would receive: kola nuts, palm fruit, chickens, guinea fowl, jars of fresh palm wine, yams, cassava and fresh soup. Even our King, the Olowo of Owo, paid an annual visit to my grandfather.

Fifty years have passed and Olodumare has taken my grandfather and mother to meet their ancestors. My brothers and sisters have their own families and it is my duty to continue the family legacy. The village elders demanded this and it was my honour. At least, in the beginning.

A Grandchild’s Calling

The first time I wore the costume, I could feel my ancestors, particularly my grandfather. They were in the room with me telling me what to do. If I was afraid, they took away fear. If I was shaky, they steadied my gait. Like my grandfather, when I walked out to the village square, I never faltered or lowered my gaze. Why would I? My ancestors and Olodumare guided my steps. In my first dance, I did what was expected of me and more. I danced, leapt, jumped till I could touch the very clouds in a bid to bring the rain down. I heard the villagers gasp at my movements. When I had exhausted every muscle in my body, when I could barely breathe from the exhaustion and exhilaration, I ran deep into the forest and sat under a mango tree for some time then I removed my costume, folded it neatly, laid my head down and thought to myself, the rain would arrive soon.

The truth was I was in the forest for a month. The cruel rains were delayed not by days, weeks but a full month. My wife instructed my son to deliver food for me in the dark of night. The first time he came, I chastised him. I told him that it was an abomination and Olodumare would provide, but my wife was stubborn. The next time she came herself and I was in no state to refuse the food.

The rains eventually arrived with a fury. They felt like small stones against my body. I returned to my village and was welcomed with stares. My grandfather was met with joy, I on the other hand was met with thinned and questioning eyes. I didn’t blame them. The rains arrived differently. Why wouldn’t they blame me?

When It Rains, It Pours

Weeks later, the rains stopped falling. The farmers had to set out on foot to neighbouring villages and towns to save their parched crops. Yet when the rains arrived, they were ferocious. Instead of nourishing the soil, they were suffocating it. Farmers lost some of their harvest and blamed me. And that was why they were at my door.

I had to send my wife and son to live with my sister in the neighbouring town. If the villagers no longer believed in me, it may lead to my death. If Olodumare wills a stronger sun for longer periods and erratic rains, then I accept our fate. If the villagers no longer want me as the rainmaker, I will know it is from Olodumare.

It is almost time to go to the village square and dance for rain. I wear my costume and still feel my ancestors by my side. When I close my eyes, I sense the ones I never met, but also my grandfather, father and mother. They tell me to keep doing what I was born to do. They tell me it is Olodumare’s will and so I walk to the village square and perform the will of my supreme being.