Okana's Seduction of Shangó

It was late afternoon; the sun still hung high in the sky, and even in the oppressive heat, the marketplace was packed with people. Okana was one of many, another face lost in the crowd; there were no taunts of “witch,” and no one seemed to remember that it was she who spread the pox through town. Here, lost among the many colored trinkets and covetous faces, she was merely a woman, and an exhausted one at that. The heat was draining.

A great cry rose through the streets; it started as a distant murmur and spread, creating a cacophonous roar. The crowds parted, and Okana stood and stared. From the distance she could make out a man's body floating above the crowd. In the light of day, his blackness was impressive; his skin sparkled and shimmered like hematite in the afternoon sun. He bobbed slowly, gently, and his body rippled and rocked with each rising and falling. As he came closer and the crowds parted, she saw that he was not floating; he was seated on a white horse, attended by many muscled, armed men on foot. Heat rose in her face; she thought it was the oppressive heat of the dry season, but as she felt that familiar tingle in her loins, she realized it was the heat of desire.

“Who is that man?” she asked to no one.

“That is the new king, Oranmiyan's grandson, Shangó,” said an unfamiliar face.

Okana was in love.

Shangó rode past her; she stood, unmoving, while the crowd continued to part, and Shangó noticed her, briefly. Their eyes locked; and for a moment, Shangó's seemed clouded with desire. He nodded his head toward her, and smiled. Then, as quickly as he noticed her, he turned away. The crowds closed around her again, and she watched as his supple form bobbed away gently until she could see him no more. The crowds quieted down to their normal roar, and everyone continued about their business.

Okana turned to the woman who had answered her. “That is the new king? What was he doing here?”

The woman smiled. “He wants his subjects to know who he is. So every day at the same time, he travels the same road with his guards so we can see his face.” Her eyes grew moist, filled with longing. “Isn't he the most handsome man?”

“Indeed, he is,” agreed Okana. And to herself, she murmured, “I will be his queen!”

Shangó was back in his palace, surrounded by his guards and his priests. “I don't know what happened to me,” he said. “I felt fine, and then I saw her. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I've known many beautiful women in my life, but there was something about her. I almost jumped off my horse; I wanted to take her in my arms and run away with her. But as soon as I turned my head and gathered my thoughts, the desire was gone, and I only wanted to run away. It is not normal for me to want to run from a woman!”

The diviner cast his shells on the mat: One mouth opened. “That woman was a witch,” whispered the diviner. “The eyes of a witch were on you today, and she desired you. You will see her again, because she is plotting to ensnare you. But don't worry, as with all the misfortunes in life, there is ebó.”

Okana was home that night, mixing and mashing herbs; skillfully, she combined them into a philter whose scent would overpower the senses of any man she desired. When her work was done, her home was filled with the exotic scents of magic and love, and she fell into a fitful sleep.

The next day, at the same place, and the same time, Okana stood and awaited Shangó's approach. “My magic is strong,” she told herself. “This time, he will notice me. I will speak. And he will be mine!”

When she saw the king's approach, Okana doused herself with the potion, and she stood in the middle of the street. Shangó stopped his horse in front of her.

The desire he felt the previous day rose in his loins; and for a moment, his eyes were locked to hers. Yet Shangó made ebó before riding that day, and the force of ebó was stronger than the magic surrounding Okana. He took a deep breath, and as quickly as it tried to overpower him, the magic was broken. Still, he smiled as if entranced by her charms. “Good day, beautiful woman,” he said in a low, baritone voice. Okana smiled seductively as Shangó asked her, “What is your name?”

“I am Okana,” she said, throwing her shoulders back so her ample breasts and deep cleavage were in full view of the king. Shangó's eyes, however, were not on her breasts; his thoughts were on the name of the odu that fell from his diviner's hands: Okana.

“Let me tell you a secret, Okana,” Shangó said quietly, bending down from his horse so his face was close to hers. “I am a descendant of Odúduwa; the heavenly, royal blood of my ancestor runs in my veins. The wiles of a witch cannot touch one with the sacred blood of the orishas in his body.”

Shangó rode away, and Okana, in grief, collapsed to the earth, crying in despair. Once again, her obsessive love went unreturned.