How the Pigeon Was First Sacrificed

Evil souls are filled with remorse.

How the Pigeon Was First Sacrificed

From the Odu Ofún Ogundá (10-3)

Evil souls are filled with remorse.

odu - Ogunda

It was still early when Ará Onú went into the forest. A light morning mist rose from the earth, but thin rays of sunlight sliced through the woods’ thick canopy, melting it before it could become fog. Dew dampened the ground, muffling each footstep save for the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. Ará Onú struggled with a cage slung across his back. It was heavy, with dozens of white birds inside—chickens, roosters, and guinea hens. His muscles popped and strained with the weight. He walked deeper through the trees, past babbling brooks and through thorny brush, until he stood before an ancient Iroko tree. At its roots he set down the cage with a thud; the animals inside bristled and squawked at the sudden drop. Then, once again, there was silence.

Ará Onú sang songs as ancient as the earth, if not older, his voice a soft baritone that rose in both volume and pitch. One by one, he tore off the heads of the animals with a quick flick of his wrists and let the blood pour on the sacred tree’s gnarled roots. He followed the offering of blood with honey, and the honey with feathers; then he gathered the bodies back into the cage to carry home for his family’s evening meal. This was Ará Onú’s daily ritual; at the feet of the Iroko, he came to feed all the spirits of heaven and even God himself. He did this before he himself would eat that day.

He barely noticed the hundreds of gentle orbs that came down from the sky like rain, descending on the blood and the honey and the feathers. The orbs always came, gentle lights that were the spirits of heaven; but this time there was something different.

Within the orbs the figure of an old black man took shape, a man dressed in robes so white they shimmered with the brilliance of a thousand stars. The air in the forest seemed thicker; it pulsed and pushed against Ará Onú, so filled with ashé it was.

The old man stood there in the lights, smiling, and Ará Onú knew, for the first time, that he stood face-to-face with Olofin.

Quickly he threw himself on the earth in reverence, face down in the mud with the blood and the honey and the feathers. So great was the power in the forest that morning that he barely noticed the mess that stained his clothes.

Gentle but strong hands touched his shoulders, “You are blessed, son. Arise.”

The two embraced, and for a moment Ará Onú felt a surge of love like warm water washing over him and into him. When Olofin broke the embrace, he realized the old man’s robes were unstained although his were a mess.

Olofin smiled with his arms held out as if to display the clean, crisp whiteness of his robes as heaven’s greatest miracle.

Then Olofin spoke gently: “For years you have served heaven faithfully. You have fed us again and again, remembering our names and our rituals, and never once have you asked for anything in return, Ará Onú.”

Ará Onú blushed and stammered, “Father, I have my health and my family and my farm. What more could I want?”

“Life is good, is it not?” Olofin said; it was more a statement than a question, and Ará Onú stood with tears in his eyes, not answering. “It is good to be thankful for what one has, for there are always those worse off. Thankfulness for a good, decent life is the best ebó there is. But service such as yours deserves recognition. I have come to bless you with ashé.”

Ará Onú was about to throw himself down in reverence again when Olofin reached out to stop him.

“Your humility touches me, Ará Onú, so to you I give a gift. You are a farmer, the caretaker of the earth and the animals that walk its face. From now on, you will understand their speech. From the smallest worm to the greatest elephant, and of all animals great and small, you will understand the things they say.”

Gently, Olofin touched Ará Onú’s ears, and suddenly the animal sounds in the forest sounded like words and speech; and he heard what they said as naturally as the language of any human.

“And what can I give you, Olofin? What can I do to honor you for this gift?" Tears spilled from his eyes as his ears drifted away from Olofin and toward the speech of the animals that he heard, speech that spoke of secret things to which no mortal man had ever been privy.

Olofin smiled. “You are a wonderful man, Ará Onú. There are two things you can do. First, never tell anyone you can understand the speech of animals. What you hear is for your knowledge only. Second, I want you to raise a coop of white pigeons and doves in my honor. They are my favorite birds. They are humble birds, without an evil bone in them. They deserve your sweetness and your gentleness. That, son, will make me happy.”

The sunlight in the forest brightened gently, and the heat rose as the sun climbed and bore down on the forest; Olofin stood back in a ray of sunlight, and gently his form melted. For what seemed hours, Ará Onú sat there listening to the sounds of the forest. And then he gathered up his cage and walked home.

For years Ará Onú kept his secret: that he knew the speech of animals. He never told anyone what he heard them say—stories of the sun and the moon, the sky and the earth, even the secrets of his neighbors and those of kings and queens in far away towns—all these things he learned by listening to the animals speak.

In honor of Olofin, the farmer kept a coop of white pigeons and doves, animals he raised in honor of the mighty one. And although he kept up his morning ritual of feeding Olofin and all of heaven’s spirits at the roots of the sacred Iroko tree, never once did he touch the pigeons or offer them in sacrifice. He did this so that Olofin would never be offended or take back his gift.

In time Olofin blessed Ará Onú with yet another gift; as the number of pigeons in his care grew, so did his riches, and if their numbers ever dwindled, so did his blessings.

Of all the animals on his farm, the pigeons and doves became the most pampered, a fact that was not lost on them.

He was tending to his chickens one morning, throwing grain on the muddy earth, when he overheard the birds gloating, “We are Ará Onú’s favored birds! See how he scatters grains on the earth for the common chickens and roosters, but for us, we eat from clean bowls! We never need put our beaks to the mud.”

One of the hens stopped pecking at the earth and looked up at the coop. It was lined with clean straw. She looked back at her own hen house and saw that her dung was slung throughout.

“That’s right,” said another pigeon. “We sleep on clean straw. You sleep in your own excrement. We are loved and pampered, and no one bothers us.”

“No one at all!” said another white dove.

“All of Ará Onú’s house feasts on your flesh. You chickens are stupid, really. You see him carry off your mothers and your fathers and your children, yet you never question why they never come back. It is because he eats you.”

“Yes, he eats you!” cried the pigeon, who flapped her wings and laughed an evil laugh while all the roosters and hens stopped eating.

They gathered in a tight group and shook with fright as they watched the farmer spread their grain.

“He’s fattening you up!” mocked the pigeon.

“And when you are fat, you will feed him.”

“But why?” cackled a cowering hen. “Why would he eat us and not you?”

The oldest pigeon flew down from the coop and landed on its master’s shoulders. Ará Onú smiled, not betraying that he understood every word the wicked bird said.

“It is because Olofin himself has blessed us! We are his favorite birds. But Olofin is an old man and a lazy man at that, so he makes this stupid man care for us in his place. Ará Onú is nothing but Olofin’s pawn, and he is more a slave to us than we are to him.”

Gently the bird nuzzled the farmer’s hair, and the farmer lifted his hand, on which the dove jumped. Carefully, the farmer put the dove back in the cage.

“See? He handles us with kid gloves,” said the bird. “He is afraid to hurt us!”

Late that night, Ará Onú walked empty handed to the ancient Iroko tree. He knelt at its roots and put his head to the earth. The only light was that of a pale crescent moon; the forest seemed filled with shadows.

The animals whispered in darkness, but so faint was their speech that Ará Onú understood not a word of it. He cared not for the secrets of animals—he only wanted to pray to Olofin and he hoped he was heard.

“Father,” he whispered against the roots of the tree, his voice a faint echo in the forest.

“Once you told me that the white pigeons and doves were among the most humble creatures. But they aren’t so humble anymore.” He looked up at the tree towering above him; he saw the crescent moon faintly through its branches.

“They torment the other birds on the farm. I try to be humane when I make sacrifice. I bring the birds away, to you and all of heaven, and never do I let any see the demise of their kind. But now they know. They know because the pigeons torment them.”

A hand so gentle it felt like the brush of a branch on Ará Onú’s back made him stiffen; and when the hand tightened its grip on his shoulder, he cried out. Quickly he turned, falling back against the tree. He saw Olofin’s figure standing above him.

“Surprised? I walk the earth all hours of the day and night. The night is so peaceful.”

Ará Onú scrambled first to his feet, and then, remembering his manners, he prostrated to Olofin. The orisha blessed him and bid him rise. They embraced.

“Then you know why I came. You heard?”

“Yes, Ará Onú, I knew before you told me. I know everything that happens in this world.” Olofin made a deep sigh.

“It is because of my love for them that they lived such pampered lives. And it was for their purity and humility that I loved them. But their purity has become vanity, and their humility pride. Now I feel no love for them. And you were neither their slave nor mine. I think that accusation is what bothers me the most. So now, treat them equal to the other beasts on your farm. Make them a part of your daily sacrifices to the dead in heaven, and to me. Let the sacred Iroko feed on their lifeblood.”

Ará Onú agreed, and watched Olofin walk sadly through the woods. The next morning, Ará Onú came to the barn with his cage to select the animals for that day’s sacrifices. All the roosters and chickens saw him coming, and instead of walking around him fearlessly they cowered at the back of the barn. Ará Onú smiled, and with that smile on his face he walked outside to the pigeons’ coop instead.

When they saw Ará Onú approach, they had no fear. Instead, when he put his hands inside the cage they jumped on his arms willingly, and when he put them inside the smaller cage they had no fear.

As Ará Onú walked away from the coop and the hens started to fan out, the pigeons taunted, “Don’t worry. He’ll be back for you soon!” When the pigeons realized their fate, it was too late. In the most solemn of ceremonies, Ará Onú offered them one-by-one to Olofin, and he let their brothers and sisters watch in horror.

For their vanity and pride, they became a sacrificial bird; and because Ará Onú was faithful to heaven, Olofin continued to make him prosperous on Earth despite the pigeon’s dwindling numbers.

Never again were the pigeons and doves safe from sacrifice, and in time they became the favored food of most of the orishas.