Whispers in the Wind

Whispers in the Wind

By Kateb

Some say that in the deep green folds of Bahia, where the cocoa trees stretch like gossiping old aunties and the air smells like roasted coffee and rebellion, there once lived a man named Vaidoso. Yes, that was his real name or at least the name folks gave him when his head got too big for the straw hat he wore. "Vaidoso" means proud, and not the good kind of proud you feel when your kid finally catches a fish or your beans come out just right. No, Vaidoso had a pride so puffed up it could float away if someone didn’t hold it down with a rock.

Now, our tale starts in the quilombo of Vale Sagrado, a hidden gem nestled between the hills and guarded by stories older than colonizers' maps. In this village, the beat of the atabaques (drums) ruled time better than any clock. Capoeira circles were not just play they were prayers in motion. And when night fell, and the stars blinked like curious eyes, the elders would speak in riddles, truth wrapped in metaphor, wisdom dressed in laughter.

Vaidoso had once walked in step with this rhythm. He had a wife named Esperança her name meaning “hope,” and Lord, she carried more of it than the whole village put together. She cooked with joy, sang with faith, and prayed like her voice tickled the ears of the Creator himself. Together they had two children: Luz, who lit up every room with her questions, and Forte, a boy with quiet strength like his grandfather’s machete sharp, dependable, and never for show.

But temptation, that slippery snake with a honey tongue, came whispering. The old folks always said: “O diabo conta nove verdades para te fazer acreditar em uma mentira.” (The devil tells nine truths to make you believe one lie.)

And Vaidoso? He fell for it.

See, he started getting itchy. His job tending the sacred cocoa fields—planted by his ancestors and blessed by a babalorixá started to feel... beneath him. "You deserve more," whispered the wind, or maybe it was that smooth-talking cousin of his, Ganância (greed, and aptly named). "Why sweat under the sun when there's work in the city? Air-conditioning! Office chairs! Cellphones that don't crack!"

So Vaidoso left. Just like that. He walked away from his wife and children because he thought the grass was greener on the other side. The devil had convinced him he could do much better.

He didn't even wait for a sign from the orixás. Didn't ask Exu to open the way or consult Iemanjá, mother of waters and wisdom. Just packed his pride and caught a bus headed for Salvação City, a place as shiny and soulless as a plastic fruit bowl.

At first, oh, he strutted. Got a job selling "spiritual supplements" that claimed to align chakras, bank accounts, and bad marriages all at once. Bought a suit so tight it looked painted on. Had new "friends" who clapped for his nonsense and laughed at his recycled quotes. But slowly... the shine dulled.

Money came and went. Friends flaked like dried fish skin. He forgot the beat of the drums, the taste of Esperança’s feijão, the scent of home when it rained. Nights grew colder. Lonelier. He stopped hearing that whisper of the Creator in the wind because he’d gone too far, blocked it out with ego and noise.

He walked away from his wife and children because he thought the grass was greener on the other side. The devil had convinced him he could do much better.

And then... the fall.

Vaidoso lost everything. A business scam exposed him. He was broke, mocked, jobless, and invisible. Nobody clapped anymore. Even the mirror seemed to frown at him.

And it was then flat on his back, no noise, no likes, no applause that he finally heard it again. That small whisper: “Volta.” (Come back.)

He wanted to come back home and wanted everyone including the Creator to accept him with open arms. Wow. It took a great fall for him to realize he wasn't self-sufficient, and he had moved so far from the Creator. He hurt and cut off so many people and blessings the Creator had put in his life.

So he walked. No bus fare. Just two feet and the last bits of dignity he had left. Back through the muddy roads and mango groves. Past the gossiping parrots who shouted, “Olha quem voltou!” (Look who’s back!). Back to Vale Sagrado.

Now Esperança bless her stubborn, sacred soul wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. But she didn’t let him off easy, either.

"You think the terreiro is a hotel? That you can check out and check back in when city life bites you?" she said, arms crossed, head wrapped, eyes full of thunder and mercy.

Luz and Forte just looked at him. Not with hate. But with that ancient look children give when they’ve seen more than they should’ve. He knelt. Not for show. But because his legs couldn’t hold the weight of what he’d done.

And the Creator? Oh, the Creator was always there. In the drums. In the wind. In the forgiveness that smelled like cassava bread and wood smoke.

From that day, Vaidoso worked harder than ever. Tending the fields not for profit but to restore what he’d almost lost. He danced Capoeira again slower, humbler. He beat the atabaque at night, the rhythms syncing with his heartbeat, his tears.

And folks say that if you walk past Vale Sagrado on a certain moonlit night, you’ll hear the drums talking. You’ll see children playing under stars. And you might even spot a man with calloused hands and soft eyes, whispering prayers between hoe strokes.

Because sometimes it takes the devil's lie to lead us to the Creator's truth.

And that, my friends, is how pride went to the city and found its way back home feet blistered, heart wide open, and spirit finally still.