How the Rosary Bead Plant Got Its Ashé

From the Odu Obara Odí (6-7)

The peony seed could not decide whether it was red or whether it was black, but it was still just a single seed all the same.

Obara Pataki 2

Obara Odi

The earth stood still the day Olofin walked on its face.

Eshu walked with him. The old man had not come to visit; he came to create, and he called Eshu to witness the work he was about to do.

From the folds of his robe he pulled two beads, one red and one black. They rested on his left palm, and he held them close to his eyes.

Olofin looked at them and whispered, “Things in this world are not always as they seem. Would it not be nice to have a plant that held that truth?”

Eshu stood beside him; he watched Olofin as he stared at the two tiny beads.

“Sometimes, Father, when I walk, people on one side of me see red while those on the other see only black.”

Olofin looked up and smiled at Eshu. “Entire kingdoms have fallen from just that.”

“Yes,” said Olofin, “you are a very tricky orishas, Eshu. Perhaps you should consider letting your colors mingle into a pattern. Half red on one side and half black on the other can be . . . confusing. It causes too much trouble.”

“Is that not what I’m meant to do?” Eshu smiled, and Olofin smiled back. It was exactly what he was meant to do.

Olofin’s gaze returned to the two beads and he sighed, his breath rolling the beads around in his palm until they stuck together and became one. “Something so insignificant, the color of your dress, can cause so much heartache.”

“Look at your bead, Olofin. It cannot decide whether it is red or whether it is black. It is like me!”

“It holds both in potential, Eshu, and that, as with you, is what will make this new plant so powerful.”

Stiffly he bent to the earth and pushed the red and black bead in the soil. He whispered a few words to the earth. Eshu strained to hear but Olofin’s voice was too soft. Some words were meant only for the ears of God.

As if by magic a vine sprouted from the earth; and this grew into a bush. Thousands of red and black seeds hung in its branches.

“This, Eshu, is my special plant ‘Iwereyeye’ is its name. Of all the plants in the world, only this was made by my hands. It will be elder to all the other plants in the world, and its ashé is great.”

Eshu smiled; each bead was dressed as well as he, black on one side and red on the other.

“This,” mumbled Eshu, “is sure to bring trouble to the world.”

“Or great evolution.” Olofin smiled. His ears were old, but no sound escaped them, not even Eshu’s whispers.

In those days Obatalá was establishing himself on earth as a great king; and wanting to keep his head straight and focused, he called for Olofin and asked him to bless his orí.

Olofin came; he came with handfuls of Iwereyeye to bless Obatalá’s head.

“I cannot use that plant to make ebó,” said Obatalá, incredulous that Olofin would recommend such a thing.

“I am an Orisha of but a single word, and that plant is like Eshu—wild and indecisive. The seeds cannot decide if they want to be red, or if they want to be black.”

“But I made that plant with Eshu as my witness. It embodies the nature of this world—that it is, indeed, indecisive and wild. If you want your head to rise above all others you must make ebó with it. Wash your head with its leaves, and nothing can ever sway your mind.”

“Nothing sways me now. Certainly, I won’t be swayed to use this on my head!” He lifted his cane and pointed it at the plant. “It has no ashé for me.”

Olofin sighed.

Obatalá might be an Orisha of great wisdom, but he was also an Orisha of great stubbornness.

“So be it,” said Olofin. “Serve your own head as you wish.”

With those words he melted from Obatalá’s sight.

Obatalá called his priests to serve his head with white, cool things. “This,” he thought, “is how one must sustain orí.”

The days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, and the months rolled out into years; Obatalá ruled with a heavy but fair hand as the world laid its problems at his feet. One day he sat idly in his chambers staring out the window, watching white clouds roll by in an azure sky. When a richly dressed man entered his room he jumped, startled. As his heart pounded in his chest he stared at the young man; his clothes were red and white, and cowries were sewn into its hems.

“This is a rich man," Obatalá thought.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Father,” said the young man as he stretched out in obeisance on the floor.

He waited for Obatalá to bless him; instead, Obatalá stood there staring. “Father? You called me Father. Who are you?”

“Are you kidding me?” Shangó looked up from where he lay.

“No. Who are you?”

Shangó drew himself into a sitting position on the floor and looked at Obatalá. His eyes were vacant, his head tilted to the side. The old man shook where he stood. “Obatalá—it’s me, Shangó.”

The fog cleared from the Orisha’s eyes, and his mouth fell open with surprise.

“Shangó! My son! When did you get here?”

With narrowed eyes Shangó stretched out on the floor before him; fingers brushed the young one’s shoulders lightly as Obatalá offered his blessing. Shangó stood, and the two men embraced.

“It is good to see you, Shangó. It has been too long.”

“But I was just here this morning,” Shangó thought.

Soon the other orishas noticed something was wrong with Obatalá; at random moments his eyes would go vacant, and he seemed lost. Humans were turned away from his house when the Orisha insisted they had not made appointments with him.

The ancient one was losing his memory, and with it, his ability to rule the world.

Eshu was the first to run to Olofin to tell him, “The world is in trouble. Obatalá has lost his mind.”

Olofin sat before Eshu, his arms crossed on his chest. “It is because he refused to make ebó, Eshu. What can I do?”

“If you don’t do something the world will fall apart. Obatalá’s ashé is what keeps it all glued together.”

“I cannot force him to make ebó. He refused.”

“Obatalá has lost his mind!” Eshu stood there defiantly. “He won’t remember that he refused to make ebó. Just go to him and tell him it’s time to make ebó. He might do it now.”

Olofin thought about that. “It’s not hard to fool a man who’s lost his memory. We’ll go. If it doesn’t work, Obatalá won’t be fit to rule anymore.”

Together, Eshu and Olofin left for Obatalá’s home on earth. On their way they grabbed handfuls of the leaves and seeds from the Iwereyeye. They found Obatalá outside his home, wandering and half dressed. His eyes were vacant, his expression flat.

He stood gazing at the plants and flowers that grew in his garden, looking at them much like a child seeing the world for the first time. Eshu’s heart sank in his chest, and slowly, so as not to startle him, he walked to Obatalá’s side while Olofin stood back and watched.

“Obatalá, how are you this morning?” Eshu extended his arms to embrace the old man, but he just stood there staring.

“Obatalá? You called me Obatalá. Is that my name?”

“It is,” said Eshu.

“That’s right. I am Obatalá. Why am I standing in the garden? I have a kingdom to run.”

“You do,” said Eshu, “but first you must make ebó so you have strength and wisdom to rule.”

“Of course! Let us go make ebó.” He stood unmoving.

“What ebó?”

Olofin walked up to Obatalá holding branches of Iwereyeye.

“We have to make ebó with this, old friend,” he said.

Obatalá stared at the branches with its green leaves and red and black seeds. Obatalá took one of the branches from Olofin’s hands; he held it to his nose and breathed deeply. It smelled of rain and damp earth.

“This is funny,” he said, looking at Eshu. “The seeds are dressed as you. Do you know this plant?”

“I was there when it was created,” said Eshu. “It has great ashé. When Olofin is done you will have the strength to rule the world and everything in it.”

Obatalá smiled a crooked smile; spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were wild.

“Let us make ebó quickly! I have a world to rule!”

Eshu helped Olofin make ebó to Obatalá’s head that day. They washed his head with omiero made from the leaves of Iwereyeye; and then they gave his orí cool, white things—coconut, cocoa butter, efun, and cotton. They pushed the seeds into the pulp on his head and wrapped it with white cloth. When they were done the fog lifted from Obatalá’s eyes, and a single tear slid from the corner of one.

“Oh no,” he said. “What have I done?”

He remembered the past weeks as if they were a dream, a nightmare from which he could not escape, and he fell to the earth at Olofin’s feet.

“I am so sorry! I almost ruined everything.”

Before Olofin could lift him he was crying, spasms rocking his body. Olofin blessed him, lifted him, and the two orishas, Eshu and Olofin, embraced him between them.
The sun went down in the garden that day with the two orishas comforting Obatalá.

“Never again will I doubt your wisdom, Olofin.”

The next day Obatalá had his gardeners plant the seeds of the Iwereyeye in his own garden; and it became the most favored of his plants. For Obatalá discovered that the plant did have ashé; even thought its seeds could not decide if they were red or black, such are things in the mind. They are always rolling and moving; thoughts are always one or the other, and with its ashé he never lost his memory again.