Èṣù

Iya Agba always said I was the embodiment of Èṣù and tonight, as I watch the flames dance beneath my husband’s body, I finally accept it.

Image Credit - Sara Golish

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This morning, I rest my head between Iya Agba’s firm thighs and let her part my thick black hair with an ‘ilari’. She sections my hair into maps as she explains that like Èṣù, I hold mystery within me. She says it’s the way my dark eyes command attention without even trying, how I dismiss people with the slightest tilt of my head and the gentle way I walk, swinging my hips to batá drums no one could hear. 

From the broken mirror before me, I watch her wrinkled fingers massage warm shea butter into my scalp as she fills my ear with tales of how my father remained in his shrine for five years, sacrificing goats and cows to Èṣù before I was born. Her small body vibrates with laughter as she narrates how my father only left the shrine to pump his seed into my mother and his other wives in hopes of a son, yet Èṣù gave him a daughter.

With my hair thoroughly soaked in shea butter, Iya Agba rubs her oily hands across my shoulder and collarbone until my dark skin gleams in the morning sun. Through the mirror, my slender eyes catch her eyes twinkle at the cruel trick Èṣù played on my father.

Her smile begins to fade when she speaks of Uncle Aresa. Her tender grip is replaced by a firmer one and she expertly weaves her fingers through my hair, transforming them from a dense mass of coils into dark fat cornrows that travel from different angles of my head to meet at the centre. Her voice loses its humour and her eyes go flat as she retells the tale of how her first male child was stolen.

I hear our wooden gate slam against the mud fence and I know my father has heard the news. He comes raging into the compound like a mindless bull, his ileke swinging about his neck and cane barely touching the ground. None of his wives or children dares to intercept him as he angrily makes for the cashew tree opposite Iya Agba’s hut, where we sit. He screams my name in a voice laced with anger and I, slowly and gracefully, lift my buttocks from the ‘àpótí’ and let my knees touch the ground.

He points his cane at me and snarls, “Aremu said you refused his marriage proposal!” he stops to breathe fire and resumes, “that’s the fourth man you have refused this season!”. He points four fingers at me as though I was too dumb to understand his words.

“Yes, father”, I respond with my eyes remaining lowered.

“How many men must you turn away? Yet, you sit there, every week, making hairstyles that bring you no husband”, directing his cane at my hair that shone and fanned out.

I meet his bloodshot eyes but remain silent.

“And I have become so small that my own son does not see me sitting here”, Iya Agba exhales in one breath.

It was my father’s turn to go down and let his chest touch the ground. “Mother, I greet you”, he mumbles into the earth before he raises himself back up.

“She will bring you a man this market day. Will you not, Adufe?”, Iya Agba asks as she gently pulls me back to my position on the apoti. I nod and I see a wide smile spread across my father's pudgy face to reveal his tobacco-stained teeth. My father and I are alike in that regard, we both have a fierce temper but while my fathers’ disappears as quickly as it comes, mine festers.

“Put cowries in her hair! So that she can attract a brave hunter! Everybody must know she comes from a place of wealth!”, my father boasts as he makes his way to his private hut.

With his anger dissipated, my stepmother, Iya Kolade, comes out of hiding and runs after him with a bowl of freshly-turned amala and ila soup. Sensing her behind him, he knowingly quickens his step, leaving her to chase after him with his lunch.

My eyes leave this infuriating dance I know too well and travel back to the mirror. I tilt my head and let the sun hit my cheekbones as Iya Agba starts to weave white cowries into my hair. Some cowries are hidden deep beneath the fat rows while others are left exposed. Iya Agba explains that sometimes, a woman should be shy and demure and at other times, she must reveal who she truly is. I chose the latter.

When she starts to twist my cornrows into a bun in the center of my head, I know that she is finished but I leave my head between her thighs and close my eyes until she taps my shoulder and says “Oya, come and be going to the market”.

I kneel to thank her before I stand and let her admire her work of art. She hands me a neatly woven basket and a cushion for my head, and I place the basket between my side and arm. As I slowly walk away, the beads around my ankles rattle slightly and I feel her stare burning into my back, reminding me not to disappoint father.

“Adufe!”, she suddenly calls out sharply and I stop but I don’t turn.

“Don’t forget to bring back firewood from the market.”

I nod and resume my walk. They will become the firewood I use to roast the plantains I ate as my husband’s body burned.

To be continued next week… Please subscribe to my newsletter for more.