Terrorised, I shook as I fought the terrible urge

to slash my wrists and float face-down in the river.

Instead I ripped my flesh with clawed fingernails,

howled under the moon or huddled under like a crab.

I stayed in the jungle until I could contain myself.

When I returned I was a changed and lonesome man.

I badgered Paulo, the mulatto son of a coffee merchant

to teach me writing and reading. I taught what I learnt

at midnight in a candlelit cave while Salvador slept.

One of my pupils, Arsenio, introduced me to Capoeira

the ancient fighting dance from the old country.

At last I could let Rage out. I whirled, dodged, leapt,

did back-flips, headstands, handless cartwheels,

sweat sprayed out of my body like jets in a fountain,

I became a running stream as the berimbau’s pounding

beat sent shock waves through my thrashing limbs.

You should have seen me then, Taiwo. So lithe, so graceful,

filled with the passion of one who is blessed with life.

Salvador, city of loss, had become my place of hope.

‘CANDOMBLE has always been in my blood.’

Agostinho spoke in a thin, high-pitched voice, bald head

stooped so that his back nearly formed a half-moon;

so tiny he merged into a corner of his workshop,

stacked ceiling-high with dark bolts of material.

‘I have coffee, want some?’ I sat down, mesmerised.

Was he expecting me? He was expecting me.

I needed trousers. Agostinho, the tailor, was cheapest.

‘In Bahia Candomblé has been a secret for centuries.

You are ready to know it.’ / ‘But I am Católico,’

I said, feeling my strength drain away as I spoke.

‘Of course. They captured our bodies and our spirits also.

On the fazendas it was washed out very early on

but I am a babalao. I will teach you about Oxala,

Osumare, Ogun, Eleggua, Egun, Xango – Cabo Sile!

Yemanja, Goddess of the Sea – she is your special orixa.’

Then his voice dropped, a broken, croaking sound,

‘You knew your mother but not for long. She sends word

that she watches over you. Light a candle, pray to her.

Do not worry, your father and brother are at peace.’

‘But where does it all come from?’ I asked.

‘From the orixas, from the ancestors. Your trousers

will be a perfect fit. Come in two weeks. Now go.’

MY SON SWAM into this world, cooked in Joana’s juices,

roped to his mother, a chord I knew I would cut.

A flock of migrating birds swarmed overhead

as I cherished the gurgling innocent in awkward arms

and my ache for distant Yorubaland began to haunt.

Joana wanted the fruits of love: sliced, scooped, mashed,

but I dared not know my hunger for fear I’d starve forever.

I needed a boy child. Her swollen womb bore me one.

I let Joana have him for twelve good years. In the thirteenth

a ship was loading in the bay to take emancipados to Africa.