Suddenly thunder rumbled and lightning cracked the sky. We loosed hands and fidgeted nervously. Wind began to blow against the walls of the stall. We thought that perhaps our ancestors had come to set us free and take us home. We were wrong. If they had come at all, it was to tell us we were stronger than our circumstances. We were not convinced. Our hearts were so heavy we could hardly breathe. We did not feel strong. We did not feel mighty. We did not feel protected. We felt weak. Vulnerable. Helpless. Abandoned. Dejected. But we were not willing to give up. Not now. Not after so many had died. We lived to keep their names alive. We lived to remind ourselves of our worth. We lived to see what the end of this lesson would be. We simply had no idea life could be so miserable. We lost someone everyday. We smelled like animals. We lived like animals. We ate like animals. There was no joy in our existence. In our villages, they’d taught that life is only joy—even when it’s unpleasant. Yet our lives were far beyond unpleasant. We’d never imagined such grief. Now it was our daily measure. If we intended to live, we’d have to do so with no joy at all.

Wind began to whistle through small holes in the wall. Rain pummeled the thin rooftop like a drum. We drew closer together. The storm raged. We imagined clouds shifting in the sky, although we did not see them. A clap of thunder cracked so loudly we screeched. We saw lightning bolts dash back and forth across the sky. One young man, Oluwagbotemi, offered that a storm was nothing more than gods in conversation. He said his people called the thunder Shango and the wind Oya. They were lesser gods, governed by the supreme God Olorun. Most of us had never heard of this before. He said there were other gods, too, who ruled other aspects of life. We listened as nature made herself known.

A sudden gush of wind ripped a weak plank from the side of the stall and tossed it like a blade of grass. We winced and watched it tumble through the air. “Oya is angry,” Oluwagbotemi explained. “She ushers souls from life to death. But when they go too soon, she is offended. Pale men have offended her time and again. They will feel her wrath one day. And they will be sorry.” We nodded along. Unlike us, he had no fear of the storm. Instead, his eyes narrowed as he sought to interpret its meaning. He noticed, on the same jutting plank where the butterflies once danced, a small bird standing completely still. He pointed to it. It glared at us. It, too, seemed unaffected by the storm. He said it had come bearing a message. We waited to hear it, but he fell quiet. More lightning flashed, more thunder roared. Strong wind became stronger. We huddled closer together, prepared for the stall to give way. It never did. It swayed and trembled, but it did not fall. In the midst of it all, we wondered what the bird had to say. Oluwagbotemi closed his eyes and rocked, but nothing came. He had not reached that level of initiation, he said. There were those among his people, the Yoruba, who could talk to birds, but they were all seasoned masters. Much as he tried, he couldn’t discern the bird’s message. He shrugged and huffed. The bird continued to stare.