How Oshogbo Became Dedicated to Oshún

If paradise were said to exist on Earth, its name would have been Oshogbo.

For the city was built safely away from the wars and plagues that affected the rest of the Yoruba nation; it was bordered by a sweet river that never ran dry, and it sat on land so fertile that the crops sprang from the soil overnight and ripened in half a season. The forests were filled with fruit trees and wild berries, and never was a predator to be found in its deepest heart. So plentiful were its animals that hunting was a pleasurable and profitable pastime, and fresh meat graced every table nightly. The roads that ran through it connected the most vital trade routes of the vast empire, and money and goods flowed freely through its borders. People lived long, happy lives, untouched by sickness; and when old age came, they died peaceful deaths.

Still, no one was happy. In spite of their wealth, health, and abundance, no one who lived in Oshogbo could conceive a child. And that made all the married couples feel as poor as paupers.

The king, too, felt the unhappiness of his people; for he had multiple wives, and each remained barren. With no child, the blood of Odúduwa would perish in his own veins; and with no child, he had no heir to his kingdom. He sat in his chambers one night, lamenting his own inability to father children, and thought, “In spite of all our abundant blessings, we are cursed. I must speak to the diviners about this.”

The next morning, he did just that.

It was Elegguá himself whom the king consulted that day; he found the orisha sitting in his hut, happily singing to himself. For quite some time, Elegguá ignored the king's approach, and when the monarch finally cleared his throat in annoyance, the orisha looked up and feigned surprise. “My King!” the orisha said, smiling so big his face seemed stretched out of proportion. “What brings you to my humble home?”

“Elegguá,” the king said, “everyone in my kingdom is unhappy. I need you to divine for me.”

The orisha smiled even wider; it was an impossible grin for such a small face. “Unhappy? But Oshogbo is one of the most prosperous towns in the Yoruba Empire! Why would anyone who lives here be unhappy?”

“Because they think we are cursed. No matter how hard anyone tries, none of the women conceive. Everyone is unhappy because no one can have children.” The king was silent for a moment, and when Elegguá continued to stand there and smile, he continued, “And I, too, think we are cursed. We need help.”

Elegguá sat on a thick mat, scratching his chin. For what seemed an eternity he sat there silently, while the king waited. And when the king grew impatient and began to speak, Elegguá held up his hand to silence him, and thought some more. Finally, when half the day was gone, he said, “That is a problem, indeed. The only way to solve that problem is to go to the orisha who controls conception itself.”

“And who might that be?”

“Oshún,” said Elegguá, “you need to petition Oshún. You and everyone in the town. Make ebó to her, and I'm sure she will help all of you.”

That evening, all the people of Oshogbo gathered at the riverbank; with them, they brought all the foods they knew Oshún loved: honey, ochinchin (a dish made with eggs and shrimp), sweets, and candy. The priests stood at the river's edge, ready to make sacrifice with all her favorite animals—castrated goat, five yellow hens, five pigeons, and a guinea hen—when the king himself kneeled by the river to petition Oshún.

She rose from the river when he called her name; at first, she was a wet, watery creature, but she stepped on a single dry stone that jutted from the fresh water, and slowly her flesh took form. She was lovely.

“Why have you all gathered here?” she asked. “And what is this? Did you bring me offerings and sacrifices?”

The king put his head to the ground in reverence, as did the priests, and all the people who gathered. Carefully, Oshún walked among them all, blessed them, and bid them to rise.

“Yes, Oshún,” said the king. “We brought you offerings and sacrifices. Elegguá sent us, and we need your help.”

“What could you need my help with?” asked Oshún. “You are the people of Oshogbo, and your kingdom is among the most prosperous in the empire! What more do you need?”

“Children,” said the king. “All the wealth in the world is nothing if one does not have children. Our wives cannot conceive.”

Oshún smiled. “That is true,” she said. “All the wealth in the world is as nothing if one does not have children. Bring me your gifts and sacrifices, and I will bless all the women in Oshogbo with children. But . . . there is more that you must do.”

“We will do anything,” promised the king.

“You must all worship me, and never forget me. This is my town now, and I am to be treated as your queen. Your favorite, most loved, most adored, and most desired queen.”

The king promised that it would be so—Oshogbo would belong to the orisha Oshún. The priests made their sacrifices, and soon, all the women became heavy with children. The town of Oshogbo became a happy place.

At first, it was easy to remember Oshún; as women's bellies ripened with life, everyone marveled at the miracle of conception, and when labor pains came, women cried to Oshún for relief and safe delivery. Hundreds of healthy babies were born in Oshogbo within the year, and as women suckled their children at their breasts, from time to time they remembered to take offerings to the river. “Just as your river never runs dry of water, never let out breasts run dry of milk,” they pleaded. Oshún blessed the breasts of each mother, and no child went hungry or thirsty.

Every year it was just like this, but when women had many children running after their skirts and suckling at their breasts, and when fathers were busy providing food for their ever-growing families, the promises they made to Oshún were forgotten. If a mother poured honey into her water once a year, it was a terrible burden for her. Oshún noticed this, and in time grew sour. When the women's wombs went dry, no one cared; each mother had more than enough children for which to care, and if their bellies were flat, it pleased them.

Elegguá found Oshún sitting on her riverbank early one afternoon; she looked bitter and angry. “What is wrong, Oshún?” he asked her. “It is not like you to have such a bitter face.”

She heaved a deep sigh; it lifted and dropped her ample breasts sharply. Pursing her lips, she turned her head away from the orisha, and then looked at him again to stammer, “I gave the men and women of Oshogbo everything they asked for. Everything!” Her voice echoed against the trees. “And now that they have what they want, they forget where the blessing came from.” Her bitter face twisted up, and a single tear slid from her eye. She wiped it away, and laughed wickedly. “Oh, those ungrateful humans!”

“People are like that,” said Elegguá. “In time, they'll come back to you for help again. It is always the nature of mortals to want more.”

“And do you really think I will help them, Elegguá?”

“You won't want to help them. But you will. It is the nature of the orishas to help mortal beings.”

“Oh, I'll help them,” she seethed. “But I'll help them on my terms, and not theirs.”

“Of course,” said Elegguá. “Your ashé is your own, and is a gift to you from Olódumare. Whenever you help mortals, you always help them on your own terms.” Elegguá sat beside Oshún and laid his head on her shoulder lovingly. “But don't let them make you bitter. Humans are still evolving. One day they'll learn. There is hope for them yet.”

“You have too much faith in them, Elegguá.”

“It's not that I have faith in them, Oshún. I can see everything: past, present, future. I know their potential. Maybe one day, they will surprise us.”

Oshún smiled sweetly. She started to speak, but Elegguá interrupted. “Besides,” he said, “something terrible is coming to Oshogbo. A terrible plague that will sicken all the children almost overnight. When it comes, Oshún, only your ashé can cure them. And that's when you can make them remember exactly who you are.”

They spent that evening together, watching the river flow off to the ocean, until well after even the moon set over the horizon.

A few weeks later, the plague came. One by one, the children fell ill, their skin hot with pox and fever. “It will pass,” thought the worried parents. As their children lay ill in bed, soiling the sheets with sweat, they became worried; and when the first child died, there was panic.

The king went to see Elegguá that day. As always, he was alone, singing happily to himself. This time, however, the king did not wait for Elegguá to take notice of him. “Elegguá!” he said, his voice strong and commanding. “There is an emergency, and we need your help.”

Elegguá wasn't smiling when he turned to the king. “I know. There is a plague, and all your children are dying.” His voice was dry, as if reciting items from a shopping list.

“You know? Why haven't you helped us?”

“Until now, you haven't asked for my help. And now that you have asked, I can't help you.”

“If not you, then who?” wailed the king. “Even my own children are sick, and they are dying!” Desperation and sadness made him sound like a whining child.

Elegguá dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “The only orisha who can help you now is Oshún. You remember her? The orisha you forgot when you got what you wanted.”

The king was stunned, and he thought, “When was the last time I visited Oshún to make ebó? When was the last time I thanked her for her blessings?” He counted the years, and his jaw went slack. “Olófin forgive us. We have all forgotten her.”

“Yes, and you must remember her, and quickly, before all your children die.”

It was early evening when the king and his priests assembled all the villagers at the riverbank. In their arms, parents held their children; and sadly, the priests began the chants and sacrifices to propitiate the orisha. As honey and blood dripped into the river, Oshún arose; her gaze was stern but loving. “This is all I wanted from you,” she said. “This is all I ever wanted. Your love.”

Slowly she walked among the mortals; they lay on the earth in reverence, the limp bodies of their children beside them. She blessed them and cleansed the children. As her ashé flowed into them, the fevers subsided, and the pox healed. “From now on, this will be my sacred day in Oshogbo. Every year, everyone is to assemble and worship me, for I am the one true Queen of Oshogbo. And when the time comes that Oshogbo forgets me again, I swear with Olófin as my witness that my river will flood your city, and you will lose forever what all of you have worked so hard to build.”

And since that day, Oshogbo has never forgotten Oshún; and every year on that same day, they gather at the river's edge to worship her and thank her for all the blessings she gives.