“I can’t imagine you eating anybody,” joked Kilian.
“It would surprise you to know what I’m capable of!”
Kilian finally smiled. “And what did you live on before us? As far as I know, even the plots you tend come from our seeds.”
“This land is so rich that you can live with little. The gods have blessed it with fertility. The wild fruit trees produce oranges, lemons, guavas, mangoes, tamarinds, bananas, and pineapples. Cotton grows wild. And what about the bread tree, with fruit bigger than coconuts? With some livestock, and growing our yams, we had more than enough.”
“It’s obvious, ?sé,” said Kilian, drying the sweat with his sleeve. “You don’t need us for anything!”
“Ah! And the palm trees! Do you know any other tree where everything can be used? From the palms we get topé or wine; oil for stews, condiments, and for lighting the home; we use the leaves to roof our houses; from the canes we make houses and hats; and the young shoots we eat as a vegetable. Tell me, has Pasolobino any tree like the sacred palm?”
He paused for breath.
“Have you noticed how they rise up to the sky?” José looked up, his voice ceremonious once again. “They look like columns holding up the world, crowned with the plumes of a warrior. The palms, Kilian, were here before us, and they will be here when we are gone. They are our symbol of resilience. Come what may.”
Kilian looked to the sky, suddenly moved by José’s words. The tops of the joined palms appeared to form a celestial vault where the fruit bunches twinkled like stars and constellations. In the tops, a soft breeze rocked the branches toward the sky, as if making a leafy gesture toward eternity.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be drowned in the moment. Everything distant seemed near. Time and space, history and countries, heavens and earth melded together in an instant of tranquility.
“We are now in the b?habba!”
With that, José broke the heavenly spell. A few paces away, the path opened out, and Kilian glimpsed the plain that Bissappoo villagers had allocated for growing yams. To the right, he saw the shed where they made the traditional red palm oil. On a previous trip, José had shown him how it was meticulously produced. Women pulled out the heart of the petals and made a pile that others covered with palm leaves to get it to ferment; others milled them with a big stone in a hole shaped like a mortar dug in the ground and with stones covering the bottom; and others picked out the fruit pips and put the macerated pulp to boil in a pot over a fire to extract the oil.
“You’ll see what a great celebration it is!” said José, happy among his own. “For special celebrations, the women always prepare plenty of food and drink.”
Kilian nodded. He was as nervous as if it were his own family’s wedding. He had spent more time with José over the last two years than he had with many from his own village. He worked, talked, and shared his worries with him. In turn, José had invited him to learn about his home outside the borders of Sampaka. He was in direct contrast with most of his neighbors in Bissappoo, a place that Father Rafael described as backward and reactionary. José was able to get along with whites and blacks equally, adapting to civilization without forgetting his traditions, and allowing a foreigner like Kilian to share in such family occasions as a daughter’s wedding.
Kilian scratched his head. He was embarrassed to say how he felt, but he thought that José deserved it. He had never found the right opportunity to thank him.
“Listen, ?sé,” he said, looking him straight in the eye. “I didn’t tell you before, but I know what you did for me that night with Umaru. Thank you very much, my friend.”
José nodded.
“Tell me one thing, ?sé. What I did wasn’t right. But you helped me. Did you do it for my father?”
José shook his head. “I did it for you. That night I listened. You were a grown man and you cried like a child.” He shrugged and raised the palms of his hands. “You were sorry because your heart is good.” He gave the young man a couple of light thumps on the arm and in a whisper confided, “The spirits know that we all make mistakes sometimes.”
Kilian sincerely thanked him for his words. “I also want you to know that although I’m white and you’re black, when I look at you, I don’t see a black man. Rather, I see José . . . I mean, ?sé.” Kilian lowered his eyes, a little embarrassed by his outburst of sincerity, and scratched his arm. “You know what I mean.”
José became emotional, shaking his head as if he did not believe what he had just heard. “If I hadn’t walked all the way here with you,” he said, “I would think you had drunk too much topé. We’ll see if you still feel the same way the day after tomorrow, when you’ve suffered the consequences of a Bubi wedding celebration.” He raised a finger in friendly caution. “Ah! And I’m warning you! If you put a hand on any of my daughters or nieces, I’ll release the savage inside me!”
Kilian laughed. “Wouldn’t you like me for a son-in-law?”
José did not answer the question. He looked at the women making palm oil, let out a long whistle, and began walking toward them.
When they passed the jars of water from the perennial springs, with which the Bubis from Bissappoo prayed for the growth of the village, and crossed through the wooden arch, on whose sides stood two Ikos, or sacred trees to keep away evil spirits, Kilian remembered the first afternoon he had come to the village with José. Warned by the whistles that a white man was approaching, men, women, and children came out to see with a certain mistrust. He had observed them in turn, and in some cases, he had to admit, with revulsion, especially the older men. Some of them sported huge hernias and ulcers, and others had pockmarked faces from smallpox or deep scarification. Under José’s instruction, these men greeted him with respect and formality and invited him to enter their world.