Money Is Trouble, and Trouble Is Death

Money is an evil mistress, and those who lust for her find death as their reward.

She lay lifeless in the road, a black ragdoll dressed in the finest silk robes. Her limbs hung at unnatural angles to her body and her eyes were open full-stare, the white clouds and sunlight reflected in her inky black pupils. When Obatalá and his three brothers stumbled upon her they thought she might be alive; the younger brother thought he saw the rising and falling of her chest. It was only the afternoon breeze skirting across the forest floor, rippling the fabric hanging loosely across her breasts. Obatalá kept walking while the three brothers encircled her, staring at her hair. It was almost as long as she was tall, and it was strung with thousands upon thousands of cowries. Cowries were wealth, and it was all wasted in the hair of a corpse.

There on the road between Obatalá’s two kingdoms, Iranje Ilé and Iranje Oko, they found a corpse, and she was beautiful.

Obatalá slowed his pace. Without looking over his shoulder he called out to his brothers, “That is Ajé, Olokun’s daughter. Let her be and keep walking.”

The oldest brother looked up and called out to Obatalá, “But she’s dead. We have to do something.”

The other two brothers kept staring at her hair.

“Neither wait on her nor watch her. Ajé is the beginning of trouble.” He kept walking, and soon was out of sight.

“Why won’t Obatalá wait for us? Why isn’t he concerned about this woman?” He gazed at her face. “This beautiful woman,” he added.

“How long do you think she has been here?” asked the middle brother.

“Not long,” said the oldest. “She still looks . . . alive.”

They stared at her hair. Finally the oldest said, “There must be thousands of cowries woven in her hair.”

“More,” said the youngest. “Each strand is as tall as she, and there are hundreds upon hundreds of tiny braids in her hair. She was a rich woman.”

The middle brother knelt beside her and caressed her face. Her skin was still warm, not cold; it was as if she was still alive with blood pumping in her veins. He trembled. Her beauty was overwhelming, and the riches she had in her hair were obscene. Taking a knife from his shoulder bag, carefully and with shaking hands, he cut off a single braid. The two brothers, still standing, gasped.

He slipped the cowries off the tiny braid; there were hundreds on that one strand. “Take this, brother,” he said giving them to the youngest. “Go back to town and buy us food. We will move the body from the road. And we will figure out what to do with her.”

It was only a quarter day’s walk back to Iranje Ilé, but it was already afternoon. “I won’t be back until well after sunset.”

“We’ll be fine,” said the middle brother. Quickly, the youngest ran back to town. Already there was treason in his heart.

When the youngest disappeared past a bend in the road, the eldest turned to the middle brother. “He has always been a burden, a drain on our resources.”

“Yes,” said the middle brother. “But now the three of us are rich. Obatalá is gone and there is no one to see us take the cowries from her hair.”

“True. The three of us will be rich. But if the riches were split two ways, we’d be very comfortable for a long, long time.” The oldest brother’s eyes were glazed; they looked feverish, and the other brother watched as the whites slowly reddened. Again the eldest knelt and touched Ajé’s face. He caressed her and looked at her hair. “All that wealth.”

“Brother, what is wrong with you? You touch the corpse like a man touches his wife.”

He didn’t answer; instead, he ran his fingers through her braids. The cowries clicked gently as he disturbed them. “Her skin is so soft, so warm; and her hair so thick. Isn’t she beautiful?” There was madness in his voice when he said again, “Touch her. Just touch her.”

Trembling, the middle brother did the same. He felt the warmth of her skin, and the same fever that burned in his brother was stoked in him. “I feel it. And all this wealth.” His voice trailed off; it was soft and dreamy when he said, “We can kill our younger brother and have all this for ourselves. Why should we share such a beautiful woman with him?”

They spent the rest of the afternoon and evening stroking Ajé’s lifeless body, speaking in hushed whispers of how they planned to murder their brother. And secretly, they plotted how to kill each other.

They forgot about Obatalá.

In town the youngest bought food; but there was fire in his heart and beneath his skin when he thought of the lifeless woman lying in the road. “Ajé,” he whispered to himself again and again, almost a chant. His heart settled on her name and it became his mantra, his focus. “Ajé,” he said a bit louder.

“What was that?” asked the street vendor. He saw madness in the young man’s eyes. Watching him carefully he wrapped the food in corn-husks and watched as he put them in his travel bag.

“Nothing,” he said handing him the cowries. He was about to walk away when he stopped; he turned, and looked at the street vendor. The vendor shivered under his gaze. “We have rats at home. I need to kill them. Where can I buy poison?”

Trembling, wanting to be rid of the young man, he pointed at a shop across the street. “There!” It was a command—he wanted to be rid of the stranger.

“Thank you.” He smiled, but it was a wicked grin. As he disappeared into the shop the street vendor sighed and closed his eyes. He was afraid—he had seen the mask of evil, a mask worn on the face of that young man.

He hoped to never see him again.

The youngest returned to the road as quickly as he could; night fell, but the cold, pale moonlight lit the path well. He found his older brothers sitting beside the woman’s corpse; they had built a small fire. He was glad, for the fever that burned his skin brought chill and he sat by the fire to warm himself.

“You’re late,” said the oldest.

“Very late,” said the middle brother.

“Not too late,” said the youngest. “It was a long journey.”

“Where is our food?” asked the oldest.

“And our change,” said the middle brother. “It’s not all yours. It is meant to be split three ways.”

As the youngest brother set the cornhusk-wrapped food by the fire and the cowries beside that, the older brother picked up a branch from the fire. One end was red-hot and the other still cool. “What are you doing?” the youngest asked.

“We can use that to warm the food,” said the middle brother.

The eldest laughed; and his laughter was warped, pained. It was the laughter of a thousand maniacs, and both brothers shivered. “Or, we can use it to kill you!”

“Yeah, right,” the youngest said, getting to his feet.

Both brothers jumped on him then; they beat him with the red-hot stick and their fists. They smashed his head in the rocks encircling the fire, and kicked him in his ribs. When they were done there was blood and gore; the youngest brother’s eyes went gray and his face ashen. In death, his corpse looked like a corpse, a stark contrast to Ajé, whose body was lifeless but beautiful.

The middle brother picked up a cornhusk and unwrapped the tamale inside; he took a bite, and handed another to his brother. “Delicious,” he said.

With his own mouth full, the eldest mumbled, “You know when I’m done with this tamale I’m going to kill you, too.”

“You won’t,” said the middle brother. “Because I’m going to kill you first.”

They ate in silence, each watching the other warily. The poison took hold slowly; it was like falling asleep, and each fought it as long as they could. On either side of Ajé they collapsed, and when their eyes were gray and their bodies silent, Ajé stood up.

She walked away into the forest, leaving the three bodies by the fire.

Obatalá was in Iranje Oko for eight days; when his business was done there, he returned to Iranje Ilé. On his journey between the two towns he came upon the bodies of the three brothers; they lay beside a fire that had long ago grown cold. Ajé was nowhere to be seen.

“Money is such an evil mistress,” he whispered.

He touched each corpse with his staff; slowly, the sores and rot that ate their flesh healed, and color returned to their skin. “Arise!” he ordered, and one by one the bodies rose from the earth stiffly. Their eyes lost their gray, and with a great gasp each corpse took a breath. Their movements were stiff, but move they did; they stretched, and reached, and stood.

“What happened here?” It was a command, not a question; and each brother told their story.

When they were done Obatalá said, “Did I not warn you to leave Ajé alone? Lust for money leads to death; and death is an evil creature. She cares not who she kills—she only wants to kill. Like you three, all who love money will not live long. They will always want more; they will never be satisfied, and their lust for riches will lead to trouble and death. One must have patience and wisdom in the pursuit of money.”

“We have learned our lesson,” said the eldest brother. “Never again will we be greedy; we will always seek wisdom before we seek wealth that we do not deserve.”

“You have learned well, but you have learned too late.” Obatalá walked away from the three brothers sadly; they remained standing by the cold fire pit. When Obatalá was gone, the coldness of death returned, and one by one each brother fell down, dead.

Since then the lust for wealth has been an evil thing, and those who succumb to their lust find death as their reward. Wealth is an evil mistress with no loyalty; and she remains in this world while those who love her too fiercely move on to the next.