Èṣù XI - Baba Ifa

Baba Ifa looked up from his Opon Ifa stared at me through those milky coloured eyes that scared all the village children. He knew.

There was a deathly quiet in the air. 

I lay alone on my raffia mat and let it brand patterns into my skin while the cold floor numbed my back. I kept my eyes shut and listened for sounds to rival the stillness in the air. Anything to drown out the images in my head.

I kept an ear out for the slow footsteps of the wine tapper that came each morning. For the clashing of the grouds that dangled from his neck. For the incessant cough of the pepper seller who went past our Agboole every morning. For anything.

Nothing came back but the face of the man I had killed the night before. The shock on his face that was quickly replaced by a fatal realisation, how quickly his blood spread, soiling his aso oke, my calm as I watched a butterfly flap its wings over his roasting flesh and finally, the scream.

I opened my eyes. 

My ceiling came into view. The rough uneven bamboo sticks that lined the ceiling reminded me of maami. Growing up, my Iya Agba filled my ears with stories of my mother while she rubbed adi agbon all over my small body until it shone.

She told me about her cornrows that went past her shoulders, how she twisted her rotund body at village dances, how she lost herself in laughter each time my father said something. Iya Agba told me of my mother’s fingers, working delicately to weave raffia mats into intricate patterns. She understood colours and paired them perfectly with each other until she birthed perfection. 

Father, on the other hand, did not fail to remind me that I had nothing in common with my mother. Where she was patient, I was headstrong and where I was stoic, she was bursting with emotions. The only thing we had in common was the ceiling.

She was staring at this ceiling when I took her life and forced my way into the world.

Iya Agba said I was an easy child to carry. And that was true. Until four nights before my birth when my mother woke up drenched in sweat, screaming into the night. The midwives arrived and for days, bloodied towels, bowls of herbs and soaked clothes left the hut. Except for a child.

Days passed and the midwives started to lose hope until Baba Ifa walked into this very room reciting incantations. My mother’s screams were replaced by my wails, and he came out with me trashing in his hands. It was a short celebration until father walked out of the hut with his wife’s lifeless body. 

I turned to my side and faced the wall. Carefully arranged on the floor were my adire wrappers, my water pot and a small dagger. Streaks of light shone through the holes in the mat that covered the window, creating art on my skin.

I sat up and my wrapper fell from my chest, revealing my breasts. I picked the dagger and carved a line on the wall, joining the other lines.

I mouthed, “Aremo”.

In minutes, I had dressed and placed my water pot in the crook of my left arm. In the yard, Baba ifa was waiting for me. He sat with his legs wide open and his Opon Ifa placed between them. He looked up from his Opon Ifa stared at me through those milky coloured eyes that scared all the village children.

He knew.

Next to him, my father sat on a bench and stared at the Opon Ifa, trying to decipher what the oracle was saying. He had called Baba Ifa to tell him who killed the prince.

“Ekaaro, Baba Ifa”, I curtsied. I told him I was rushing to the stream to fetch some bathwater for my father and walked past them.

My father wondered why bathwater was important at a time like this and Baba Ifa searched his gullible face wondering if he knew the meat he ate last night was the body of the Prince.

As I walked to the stream, I thought of the many times my father taught me to hold my breath under water. But could Baba Ifa?

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

Agboole - Compound

Maami - My Mother

Iya Agba - Grandmother

Adi Agbon - Coconut Oil

Baba Ifa - Herbalist

Opon Ifa - Oracle Slate

Ekaaro Baba Ifa - Good Morning Baba Ifa