How the Moon Fooled the Sun and Saved the Earth

A star occupies only the place that God commanded.

There are certain truths about our world that we take for granted: Every day the sun rises, dispensing light and warmth over the earth, and by night the moon glows, surrounded softly by thousands of sparkling stars all nestled in space. The day warms us: the night cools us. There is balance.

Things were not always like this.

Before there was light there was only darkness, and Olódumare knew that for life to flourish there must be light. He reached into space with his mighty hands and fashioned the sun to shine by day and the moon to shine by night. Adding to the beauty of the night sky, he created thousands of stars, shiny pinpoints of light suspended in the heavens. But the sun seemed lonely, and the daytime sky seemed barren, so Odúduwa went behind Olódumare, creating stars to accompany the sun.

Odúduwa was pleased. Olódumare watched.

At first, the days were warm, and the nights were cold. As time passed, the days grew hot and the nights cool. As centuries flew by, the sun gained strength, and his children—his stars—grew in size and strength as well. The moon’s children, the nighttime stars, were delicate; and they remained so. Slowly the daytime sky grew brighter and brighter; the days grew hotter and hotter, and the nights were unable to cool the excessive heat suffusing the earth.

The world suffered.

The heat kept the rains away and fresh water grew scarce. Plants were the first to wither and die; and the animals that fed on those suffered from hunger. Animals who ate other animals soon found their prey in short supply, and the humans who depended on both for sustenance panicked. With scant food, people knew fear, hunger, and thirst. A great cry rose to heaven, wails of suffrage that rocked its gates.

Olófin heard their cries. Worried, he descended to earth, followed by the orishas.

Together they walked through the oppressive heat. The sky blazed with a thousand fires burning so fiercely that it hurt their eyes to look toward heaven. Beside a river that was all but dry lay a young woman, and when she saw Olófin and all the orishas walking the earth she pleaded through parched lips, “We are dying. Help us.”

Olófin was silent while he thought; the orishas were silent, waiting for Olófin to speak. Finally he said, “Gather those who remain, and make ebó here at the river. Gather thousands of white stones, and paint them white again so they glow the most brilliant white you have ever seen. After all the stones are painted and dry, leave them here on the riverbank, and sacrifice a white hen and a white rooster. I will save you.”

Because the day was too hot to work, the humans waited until night to make their ebó. The moon looked down from heaven and saw their suffering; and she saw the humans come together at the river to make ebó. Her heart broke because she was no longer able to cool the stifling heat, so she removed herself from the skies and went to Olófin’s palace where she pleaded with him to save the world.

The humans had just finished their ebó when the moon disappeared from the night sky. It was the first lunar eclipse, and they were in awe. “Olófin’s power is great,” muttered the young woman who had begged him for his help. “Surely, we will be saved.”

The moon arrived at Olófin’s palace, and the wise old man smiled as she greeted him by prostrating herself on the floor. Strong hands touched her lightly on her shoulders, and even stronger arms lifted her. They embraced. “Olófin,” she whispered in his ear, almost afraid to speak, “Everyone suffers on earth. My nights are no longer cool, and great waves of heat build stronger each day. Everything is dying, and I am afraid it is my fault.”

Olófin broke the embrace gently, holding the moon at arm’s length. “It is not your fault.” His voice was gentle and reassuring. “The stars in the daytime sky have grown strong like their father. The world can’t sustain such heat. But there is something you can do to help.”

“Anything!” A single tear slid down her face.

“Go to the river and sacrifice a rooster and a hen, both white. Take the biggest gourd you can find. After you make ebó you will know what to do.”

For the remainder of the night, the moon was on the earth, making ebó where she watched the humans make their own ebós. She saw all the beautiful white stones they left on the riverbank; and she noticed that in her subtle glow, they sparkled like her own small children, the stars who lived in the nighttime sky. As she pondered this, Odúduwa came to her.

“Moon, do you know the stars in the daytime sky are destroying the world?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, I know.”

“Many years ago,” he said, “Olódumare created all things. He put the sun in the daytime sky, and the moon and stars in the nighttime sky. I thought things were unbalanced, so I myself created the stars in the day. I thought myself as wise as Olódumare.” Odúduwa’s voice trailed off, and for a moment he was silent. “I was foolish. I should have left well enough alone. The world was beautiful as it was.”

The Moon cried as she listed to Odúduwa’s story. A single tear struck a white stone, and its glow intensified. She studied it. “I came here to make ebó for the world. Olófin told me to sacrifice a white rooster and a white hen to the river, and he told me I would know what to do. But I’ve made my ebó, and I still don’t know how I can help.”

“Olófin wanted you to come see what the humans did for yourself.” He waved his arms over the thousands of white stones, and then pointed at the gourd the moon brought with her. “There is already a plan. Put all these stones in the gourd you carry. Take them back to heaven.”

“I cannot carry all these stones in this gourd. There are thousands of them. My gourd could hold maybe a dozen.”

“Trust me, your gourd will hold all the stones,” Odúduwa said with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

The moon gathered the stones one by one and tossed them into the gourd. Mysteriously, it held them all.

She eyed it wearily. “It held all the stones,” she gasped. “But surely it is too heavy for me to carry back into the sky.”

“Trust me,” said Odúduwa. “It is light enough for you to carry.”

She picked it up; it weighed no more than an empty gourd.

“Now listen carefully, because mortal creatures cannot live another day though this heat. When the sun begins to rise, call out to him. Tell him that the earth is dying because of your children and his. Then you will make a proposal with the sun to save the earth. You will suggest to him that each of you will throw your children into the river, and you will match child-for-child as they fall from the skies. Only you will not destroy your own children, for they give beauty to the night sky and do not destroy life on the earth. Instead, you will throw a single white stone, and the sun will think that it is your child. Tell him to throw his children into the river as you do the same.”

The Moon took the stone-filled gourd and returned to the sky. As the Sun rose that morning, she did as she was told. She cried out across the heavens, “Sun, our children are too hot; they burn too brightly in the skies and are destroying all life on the earth. But we can save it, and the world will love us for it! We can sacrifice our own children; the world will cool, and every living thing will hallow our names!”

The Sun knew it was true; his children were destroying the earth. But he was happy that the Moon thought her children were causing trouble as well. “You are a wise woman, Moon,” the Sun called out. “Let us do as you suggest; let us sacrifice our children to the river and save the world!” One by one, the Sun threw his children into the river; there, the water destroyed the star. And the Moon matched his one to one, only instead of a child, a star, she threw a stone, and it burned in the earth’s atmosphere as it fell into the river and was destroyed.

This marked the birth of the falling stars, balls of fire that fall from the sky and burn up before striking the earth.

It took hours, but before the day was over the Sun had sent all his children to their death while the Moon had sent only stones.

That night as the moon rose, one by one her stars began to shine. The sun realized he had been deceived, and he was angry; but since he was of the day, and she of the night, there was nothing he could do. For the first time in years, the night was cool, not hot. The humidity in the air coalesced; the rains fell. Rivers filled. Crops grew. Thirst and hunger were sated, and life rejoiced.

And Odúduwa never again tried to second-guess Olódumare’s wisdom.