The Song

The name whispered through the narrow alleyways of the favela. Like an invisible butterfly it flittered from lip to lip, never said out loud, never forgotten. Whenever protection money was handed over to the gangs - or to the policia - the name was muttered underbreath like a curse. When children were whisked off the street by their parents to avoid the bullets that filled the air, the name was offered up in prayer. When a junky broke through a bathroom window to steal for the next hit, the name rained down in anger.

The poor, the hungry, the weak, the exploited; they lit their candles for one name. For one man.

Barros, son of Garros.

The saviour of the favela crouched beneath the overhanging roof to stay out of the rain. Fishing amongst his rags he took out a crumpled cigarette and a lighter. After a few strikes the flint caught, its spark flaring brightly against the darkening evening. He drew deep on the fire he had created. Exhaling, he looked through the cool blue smoke at Magdalena, sitting on her front step.

‘So, grandmother,’ said Barros. ‘I have come to say farewell.’

‘Fare me no wells, Barros son of Garros,’ said Magdalena. ‘I know where you are going. To see Vorpales.’

Barros spat on the ground at the mention of the name. ‘Aye, grandmother. I am. You know it is time.’

Magdalena reached her hand into a small brown bag she held in her lap and pulled out a plantain.

‘You see this plantain Barros? They always remind me of your father. He had stuffed plantain between his ears and would not listen to wise words when he heard them. This plantain, I think it is reminding me of you now. Who knows where Vorpales’ secret cash room is? Is it wise old Magdalena, or is it stupid plantain head Barros? Well?’

‘It is wise Magdalena,’ said Barros, smiling.

‘And who knows when Vorpales will be in his secret cash room, without any guards? Is it wise old Magdalena, or Mr Stupid Plantain Head?’

‘You know all, grandmother. But I cannot ask you.’

‘Nobody asked anything, who has a stupid head full of plantain and will do what I say?’

‘Grandmother.’

‘Plantain?’

Barros sighed. ‘When will I live to best you in an argument?’

‘Your father asked me the same question. For a stupid plantain, he should have known better. Now come on.’

The two figures moved out into the rain that was still falling, the water draining away into shallow ditches that just overflowed again, pouring water back onto the streets. As they made their way uphill, the detritus of poverty; broken chairs, empty bottles and fallen souls, swept past them and behind them and into history. The water began to rise, covering their feet, then their ankles, then up to their shins. Magdalena grabbed Barros’ arm and stopped, leaning into the shadow of a building and out of the current.

‘Hold Barros. Hold. I need to rest.’

‘Wait here grandmother. Just tell me the way and you can stay here.’

‘No Barros. I said no. I just need. I just need some strength.’

The song began a hundred years before in the slave fields, its tune shaped by hatred and misery, its rhythm formed by beatings and punishment. But it was a song that drew strength from oppression, and gave strength to the oppressed. A song that was passed down from generation to generation, kept secret but kept alive as new oppressions, and new masters came to power. It was the song of hope that Barros began to sing to Magdalena, sodden and wet, in the back corner of the favela.

Although Barros would never know it, these were his last moments that would immortalise him forever, as together they stumbled forward in the rain, singing softly at first, and then louder and louder until the song of hope echoed through the narrow alleyways of the favela. Like an invisible trumpet, it was shouted from mouth to mouth, never to be forgotten. Whenever protection money was refused to be paid to the gangs - or to the policia - the song was sung like a talisman. When children played on the streets that had been taken back by the people, they sung the song with joy and laughter. Whenever a family came together again at the end of a long day, the song was sung with quiet thanks.

The song of hope. The song of Barros, son of Garros.