The Farmer and His Ebó

Akinsa leaned against his plow under the hot, broiling sun; he coughed, choking on the dust its blade kicked up. “No rain in days,” he said to his oxen. They, too, were sneezing and snorting in the dusty air. He looked up at the sky. “Doesn't look like there will be rain for days.” The drought was wilting his crops, and with them, his hopes wilted as well.

He gave the beasts a whip with the bridle. Grudgingly they walked, pulling the plow behind them. Dust like powder floated in the air. Akinsa sighed. “Why do I even try?” he asked himself.

Later that night when he was washed and rested, Akinsa knew that if something didn't change with his luck, he would starve. His pantries were empty. His crops were dying, almost desiccated in the fields. As a last resort, he decided to see the diviners and make ebó.

Akinsa knew his neighbors went to the diviners frequently; and as a child, his own parents saw the priests infrequently to improve their luck. He, however, did not have his parents' faith in them. For every problem they solved, there seemed to be yet another waiting for them the next day. It was never-ending. It was Elegguá himself who divined for the farmer that day, and although he listened to the orisha, in his own head he argued every word uttered. When Elegguá told him, “The drought is ruining all you have,” he was perturbed.

Akinsa told Elegguá, “The drought is ruining everything for all the farmers. Tell me something I don't know.”

“You came here to improve your luck and the orishas are offering you an ebó.”

“What might that ebó be?” Akinsa asked.

“All they want is a plate of cooked food. They will improve your luck if you do that, and have faith.”

Akinsa promised to make ebó, and he left.

At home, Akinsa cooked. All he had were a few small steaks, and he broiled these gently. He prepared beans and rice, the last he owned. Savory aromas filled his kitchen. Akinsa was hungry, and he knew that after this food was served, it might be days before he had more to eat.

Then Akinsa looked out his window, at the glaring sun and the dusty fields. He saw the crops lying flat against the earth, dead, and looked at his oxen fenced in by the barn, with no grain. “Even if I make ebó,” he thought, “there is no relief for my problems. My crops will still be dead. Even if the rains come tonight, they won't be reborn. My oxen need food, and without my crops, there is nothing to feed them.”

He went outside, screaming to the heavens. “All your diviners are liars!” So still was the air that there was no echo. He waved an angry fist at whatever gods might be listening. “Liars, all of them! And you yourselves are no more powerful than mortals! Ebó does no good. How will you bring my crops back to life? How will you feed my animals? How will you feed me?”

Akinsa stormed back indoors; he was enraged and hungry. He grabbed a fork and knife and started to eat the steaks. “This is ebó!” he said with his mouth full. “I am feeding myself as ebó!”

Still shaking with anger, he took a deep breath as he swallowed. A piece of meat lodged in his throat; he couldn't swallow; he couldn't cough.

That day, Akinsa choked with anger and despair in his heart. As he fell to the floor, through his window he caught one last glimpse of the sky outside. It was darkening, as if to rain.