Ikú, Ano, And A Mother’s Child

Ikú, Ano, And A Mother’s Child

It was late morning when the young mother woke up. Such a deep sleep, she thought. The baby has not slept this well in months. She stood beside his crib, looking down; his face was flushed. Lifting the baby carefully, she felt how his clothing was damp, his body limp. The baby barely moved. She put her moist lips to his brow and felt fever. She rubbed one hand over his chest and belly; a wet cry escaped his lips. “Husband!” she screamed. The tiny boy was barely moving. “Husband! I need you!” Instead, her teenage son came into the room. “Where’s your father?” she asked. “The baby’s sick. We need a doctor.”

“He left early to work in the fields,” he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

The panic made her voice shake; it made her body shake, with the baby barely moving in her arms. “The baby is sick. We need the doctor. Run into town and bring him.”

He dressed and ran off toward the village. He had never seen his mother looking so worried.

It was early evening when Mofá arrived at the young mother’s house with her teenage son at his side. The door was ajar; they let themselves in. The woman’s son found her standing over the baby’s crib, her hands folded just below her chin and her eyes closed as if praying. Her face was ashen; tears like crystals dried on her dark cheeks. The young man stood in the doorway and cleared his throat softly. Her eyes snapped open; they were red.

“You brought him?”

“He’s in the front room,” he said.

“Watch the baby.” She all but ran to the front room, and when she saw the wise old physician standing there patiently, she all but fell into his arms, embracing him. “My baby son is dying,” she whispered. “He barely breathes. He barely moves.”

She led Mofá by the hands to the infant’s crib. Mofá looked down on the child. His breath was all but still in his belly. He put his head against his chest, careful not to disturb him. “He is all but at death’s door,” he said, his brow furrowed deeply. “I think he is beyond any medicine I can prepare. Maybe we should divine instead. There might be ebó . . .”

It was dark when the diviner spread his mat on the hardwood floor, and the young mother lit a lamp against the darkness. Together they sat facing each other, he on the mat and she on a low stool. Mofá prayed while rubbing the shells on the mat, his deep voice and his clicking cowries keeping time with one another. When he rolled the shells out on the mat twice, he frowned. “Ejila Meji,” he told the young woman.

It meant nothing to her, of course, and Mofá kept chanting and casting. Finally he looked up and told her, “Elegguá says Ano, sickness, is with your child, and even now she is calling for Ikú, for your baby is strong and fighting her and she cannot hold on to him for long. But Ikú is coming for your child tonight. She is close. We have to make ebó if we are to fight off Ikú before she can get into this house. Have you any okra?”

“I do,” she said, her voice soft.

“I need it. And two buckets. Olófin willing, Ikú will not be feasting tonight. And Ano is losing her strength. Your baby is too strong. If we can keep Ikú away, he will make it through the night and live.”

He had the young woman kiss the mat before rising, and he did the same. She gave the diviner the two buckets and the okra he had asked for. Mofá put half of the okra in each, breaking each bean into two parts as he did. To the very rim, he filled each bucket with water.

“Go to bed. Get some rest,” he said, straining to carry one bucket to the front door. “You need to keep up your strength for your son. The rest is up to me.” He set the bucket down by the front door with a groan and went to take the other to the baby’s bedroom door. He set that bucket down with a grunt.

The young mother kissed Mofá on the cheek, the same kiss she usually reserved for her child. Then instead of going to her own room she walked into his. There is no rest for a worried, weary mother, thought Mofá. But soon he knew she was asleep; he heard the deep breathing of mother and son in the small, silent house.

Beside the front door, with his first bucket of okra and water, Mofá waited, fighting against sleep. It’s going to be a long night, waiting. He looked down; a thick slime was forming in the water.

Ikú came that night for the little boy. She entered the front door where Mofá stood watch, and as she took her first few steps toward the child, Mofá cast the first pan of slime on the floor. In shock, Ikú took a step back; she slipped, fell down, and broke her leg.

“Wicked man!” she hissed, standing on her one good leg.

Mofá ran to the baby’s room where the second bucket stood outside the door, and with a great grunt he dashed the water from the second pan at Ikú’s feet. Again she slipped, breaking her other leg.

In pain, Ikú howled, “I have not the strength to take the little boy tonight, but death cannot be thwarted forever. One night, I will return.” She shrank into the shadows and left the house that night.

By morning, Ano had lost her strength, and she too fled the house. The mother was relieved when she woke to the cries of her baby. Gently, she held the little one to her chest so it could suckle. The baby ate hungrily.

As powerful as Ikú was and still is, it was the humble okra that saved the little boy’s life that night. And the mother rewarded Mofá greatly for his help.