Osía's Affliction: Arayé

Pataki 1 Odí

“What can I do?” Érínlè asked Orúnmila as he sat across the table of Ifá from him.

“Every night it is the same. I come home from work. I want sex with my wife. And every night my wife, Oba, turns away from me.” He frowned. Orúnmila listened but offered no advice. “She tells me she is tired. She tells me that her head hurts her. She tells me that her body aches, or that I ask too much of her all the time.”

Still Orúnmila sat silent. His silence was unnerving.

“Not so much as a kiss!” Érínlè said, his voice coming back at him from Orúnmila’s walls. “I’m a man. I have needs.”

“Do you love her?” Orúnmila asked.

“You’re the diviner. You tell me.”

“Do you love her?” Orúnmila asked again. “It’s a simple question, and you’re sitting right here. I do not need to divine what stares me in the face.”

“I came to you for advice, Orúnmila. Impartial advice—which is what you say you give. What can I do about my wife? Is there some medicine I can give her to make her better?”

Poor Oba, thought Orúnmila. All she wants is love. All Érínlè wants is sex. A simple question—‘Do you love her?’ Still, he cannot answer.

“If this is how things are,” said Orúnmila, “there is no medicine to make Oba want to have sex with you. If Oba does not want to make love to you it is because she is not happy. You must find out what troubles her and make her happy. And if you are not capable of making your wife happy, then you should leave her. The way you live with her and your daughter does all of you more harm than good. Perhaps then she will have the freedom to find someone who will make her happy.”

Érínlè heard Orúnmila’s words but did not understand them; he heard only what he wanted to hear. What he heard the diviner say was “You should leave her.” On his way home, he twisted Orúnmila’s words to “You should get rid of her.” When he got home, what he wanted those words to mean was “You should throw her out tonight.”

Without a word, Oba packed a bag, and then she packed a bag for their daughter, Osía.

Barely five years old, Oba thought, and already she is homeless, as am I. Then again, the two of them, Érínlè and Oba, were barely making it in the world.

They were both young when they had wed, and Érínlè, being but a poor fisherman, took Oba away to his one-room shack where the river met the sea. “You live here?” Oba had asked.

“I am a fisherman,” said Érínlè proudly, “and I must live where I work.”

“But it is so small,” said Oba as he carried her inside. It was one room, no more.

“But our view—have you ever seen anything like it?” he asked. Oba looked out the one great window that opened onto both the river and the sea. One half showed her the infinite waters of the ocean, rolling out before her until the horizon stole it from view. The other half showed the river and the mysterious forest that stood on its other side.

A gentle breeze blew in; it smelled fresh and salty and was both warm and cool. She shivered. “It’s beautiful,” she agreed. Oba had been sheltered all her life; she had seen little beyond Obatalá’s walls.

“One day we will build a great house,” Érínlè promised. “But for now, we have each other.”

Soon they had Osía, yet still they lived in that one-room house. That was the reason Oba no longer wanted to have sex with her husband, Érínlè. Osía was too old to see such things and too young to understand them. Érínlè cared not, he simply wanted sex.

“Where are we going, Mother?” asked Osía.

Memories and regrets—it was all Oba had, all except the young girl who tagged along at her heels. Oba peered down at her daughter.

“The only place we can. Someplace wonderful—we’re going to my father’s house.”

Osía frowned. She didn’t know her mother had a man she called Father; she only knew her own father, Érínlè, the man her mother called Husband. And she knew what husbands did to their wives.

It was a confusing time to be a child, and it was an even worse time to be a young girl out wandering the world. Osía knew this, but she didn’t know how she knew. It was a feeling, like fear.

She didn’t want to see her mother around another man.

Far behind them, Arayé tracked their path in the world. She slipped through trees and in shadows, Osía’s fear drawing her close. Oba had grown up in Obatalá’s palace, and unbeknownst to him Érínlè came to see her every afternoon when he took his morning’s catch to the marketplace.

She always knew when he was coming for her—the smell of fish caught in the afternoon breeze would find its way to the palace. He would stop, they would talk, and then Érínlè would go off into the town to sell his day’s catch. On the way home again he would stop to visit, but briefly, his pockets either bulging with cowries or his hands filled with his evening purchases.

Oba always thought Érínlè a rich man, when in truth he spent every bit he earned.

One night when Érínlè was returning home very late, his breath smelled of liquor and stale tobacco. He gave Oba her first kiss, and the young girl’s heart melted. She ran away with him that night.

Obatalá had been insane with worry until Olofin himself told the Orisha, “Your ward, Oba, has run off with Érínlè.”

“But they aren’t meant for each other,” said Obatalá. “She was meant to be with Shangó!”

“Fate has a strange way of working out, Obatalá. Be patient.”

Patience was all he had.

By the time Oba came home to Obatalá with a child in tow, his patience had worn thin, but when he saw his daughter with her own daughter, his heart softened. “And who is this?” Obatalá asked.

“This, Father, is my daughter, Osía.” Obatalá’s eyes narrowed when he saw a hint of fear in the young girl’s eyes, and for a moment he thought he saw something there, some trauma and a hint of madness. But it was gone as quickly as it came, and Osía was no longer fearful. She was only shy.

“Hello,” she said from behind her mother’s legs. She wrapped both arms around them; little did she know she was trying to keep them closed. Her movements were protective, but instinctive.

“It is good to meet you, young lady,” said Obatalá as he made a futile attempt to bend over. Osía peered from around the side.

“My back,” he said to Oba, looking at her. “My back is not what it used to be.”

He straightened. “Young lady, make yourself at home, but be good. Your mother and I have much to speak about.”

As Obatalá and Oba retired to the next room, Osía stood in the great entryway and trembled, her eyes closed; she was afraid to open them, or to even move.

She knew something was coming for her.

And Arayé sniffed out the child’s fear—she knew not where she was, but she knew where in the world the child had been, and like a bloodhound she tracked that scent.

When the door was closed, Obatalá stifled his urge to yell. “What has happened to that child, Oba?”

She was nervous in front of Obatalá. Five, almost six years apart, and instead of embracing her, he was angry with her. “What do you mean?” Her voice was weak, wispy.

“Osía is afraid of men, or haven’t you noticed?”

“Osía has never been around any man.”

“Not even your husband?”

Silence; it was so thick Oba could not move. When she found her voice, shaken, she said, “Of course she has been around my husband.”

“And you?”

“Of course she has been around my husband and me. And she has been around us together. Why would you ask such a question? It’s ridiculous!”

“Because something has traumatized that child!” His voice rose in anger and the walls shook. Obatalá remembered that Osía was in the next room and lowered his voice. “Her eyes show me pain. Her eyes show me fear. And as quickly as they show me that pain and fear, it is gone, hidden. What has she seen you and your husband do?”

Oba sank to her knees; she clutched Obatalá’s feet in her hands and wept into them.

“We lived in a one-room house. I didn’t know, Father. I didn’t know.” Obatalá looked away from her; he looked up and wished his room had no ceiling so he could cry into the clouds and scream to Olofin.

But the child was in the next room.

“As soon as I knew she was too old to be around such things and too young to understand them, I put a stop to it. I swear—when I saw her look at us with fear in her eyes, I pushed my husband away from me and I haven’t let him touch me since.”

Never had a heart ached as Obatalá’s did then. Obatalá knew that Arayé was close to the child, but until she was in the grip of Arayé there was nothing he could do. He was powerless to stop her from tracking Osía in the world.

“What can I do?” Obatalá asked Olofin. It was night and he was dreaming. He often dreamt of heaven and what he had left behind to come live in the world.

“What is done is done,” said Olofin. “But unless Oba has a stable place to live where the child can feel safe again, she will never heal from the trauma.”

He paused and let the words sink into Obatalá’s brain. “Already the seeds of madness are in that child’s mind, and Arayé, she follows those in whose souls madness grows, and she feeds off the wickedness growing in their hearts. Fear—it has a scent all its own, and Arayé tracks that smell. Still, Osía is young. If no more damage is done, eventually she will forget. And she will heal.”

“I cannot bear it, Olofin,” said Obatalá. “I raised Oba to be good, to be thoughtful in deed and action. How could I let this happen?”

“Life just unfolds,” said Olofin, his hand on Obatalá’s back. “Let it unfold. All you can do is guide them to the right place. And remember—Érínlè himself has a sister who is a powerful sorceress, Abata. The time will come when you will need her help if that child is to heal. Remember that.”

When Obatalá awoke, he had but one thought in his head: it was not of Abata but of Shangó. Shangó was a noble man—he could provide a stable home for Oba to raise her child. His son, Shangó, was her destiny. How easily we miss what orí has chosen for us, he thought. Perhaps I can still make things right for her.

Of course, when Obatalá told Shangó that his daughter Oba, and her daughter, Osía, were coming to live with him, Shangó agreed. He was the new king of Oyó, and his own palace needed a woman’s hand.

Oba’s heart did not belong to Shangó; even now, she yearned for Érínlè and the freedom of both the river and the sea. Free from the one-room shack, however, Osía seemed lighter and happier, and with her own room and the many rooms of the compound to explore, she was no longer fearful. Osía even seemed brave.

And Arayé had all but lost her scent.

It took months, but Oba, too, became brave. Without her daughter clinging at her heels, watching her every move, her old desires returned. The warmth she once felt in her loins for the delicate man Érínlè burned now for Shangó, and one night, in silence she crept to his chambers and knocked on his door lightly.

For the first time in years Oba felt free to ride a man like an animal, and ride Shangó she did. With such passion and vigor did she cry out that Shangó, too, realized that Oba was the woman he needed. Night after night, long after Osía had gone to bed in her own room, Oba crept down the hallway to Shangó’s chambers, and he, in turn, taught her how to make love recklessly.

One night, while there was a storm brewing on the horizon, he taught her the forbidden arts of sodomy and oral sex. For Shangó, nothing pleased him more, and Oba, wanting to please him, took his lessons gladly.

Fear—the coming storm brought fear to Osía’s heart. Its scent was strong, intoxicating, and Arayé picked up on it easily. She followed that smell to Shangó’s palace. Inside the palace walls, Osía was easy to find. Arayé sniffed at the air until the scent of innocence and fear reached her nose; she stood outside the child’s door, and like water flows through the reeds of a basket, she slipped under her door.

Osía woke up when the first crack of lightning lit her dark room, and when thunder rolled through the skies, she shivered. Arayé was all around her, but children understand not the spirit of misfortune, that it surrounds us but cannot hurt us unless we give in to it. She felt fear, and like the frightened child she was, she threw off the covers and ran down the hallway to her mother’s room.

Her fear doubled when she saw Oba was not there. She reached for her covers and pulled them back; she was about to climb into her bed and wait. Mommy has only gone to the bathroom, or to get a glass of water, she thought. But as she threw her leg over the mattress and tried to pull herself up, another roll of thunder shook the walls, and Arayé pushed her out of her mother’s room and toward Shangó’s.

It was then that she heard her mother’s moans and cries. It came from behind Shangó’s doors, the one room in the entire palace that she was forbidden to enter. Why is she in there? Osía thought.

Find out, Arayé whispered. It felt like a breeze against Osía’s neck; the baby hairs there stood up. Then came the man’s voice, Shangó’s voice. It sounded mean, guttural; it was a grunt that was anger and pleasure and violence and need, just like her father’s, and without knocking, Osía threw the great door open.

Arayé pushed her into the room just as lightning flashed through the open windows.

The windows blew the white curtains in; they billowed like spirits, boiling in the night. And she saw her mother’s head between Shangó’s legs, Shangó pushing her head down every time she tried to get up. She heard her mother gag; she heard her mother choke; and still, Shangó pushed her head down further and further.

Osía screamed; her mind snapped, and Arayé slipped inside her. Oba screamed as she saw, even in darkness, her daughter’s body slump on the floor.

In fear, Oba forgot her own nakedness and clutched her daughter to her breasts. Osía’s eyes were vacant, devoid of rational thought. Instead, the fires of madness burned inside, and Oba knew she was looking into the eyes of a lunatic.

Wrapped in his own white sheets, Shangó stood behind her. He cursed.

Back in his own palace, Obatalá was dreaming of heaven as the great storm rocked Oyó. Again, he was with Olofin. “It is time,” the old man said.

“Time for what?” Obatalá asked, confused. He thought he heard thunder, but storms rarely raged through the spiritual world unless something was amiss in the physical. And then he heard the thunder again. Something was wrong on the earth.

“It is time to call Abata,” said Olofin. “Osía—she has suffered a great fright. Even now she is locked in a nightmarish world, unable to sleep but unable to awaken, and there, between life and death, she hangs because of what Oba and Shangó have done.” Obatalá’s wrinkles deepened on his black face. They looked like great canyons across his forehead.

“What have my children done?” he asked.

“They forgot that Osía is but a child. And now her mind has snapped.”

A great crack of thunder woke Obatalá from his dream. For a brief moment, his room lit up as if on fire, and then thunder rolled across the sky again. Oba, he thought, how could you do this . . . to your child . . . again?

When the storm broke and the sun rose the next morning, he sent his messengers out into the world. They had to find Abata, Érínlè’s sister. They had to find her quickly.

And they had to send her to Shangó’s palace, where he knew Osía lay near death.

For the first time in centuries, Obatalá prayed. He hoped Olódumare heard him.

It took days for Obatalá’s messengers to find Abata. She often wandered the world but was always near brackish waters, and while there were few places where the river met the sea, they were far apart. “I have a niece?” she asked them. How many years has it been since I have seen my brother? she thought. I didn’t even know he had a wife. And what mischief has he created now?

“Obatalá says your niece is in danger. She is in the grip of Arayé. He says you will understand when you see her, when you see Oba, when you see Shangó. But under no circumstances are you to leave that child there. You must take her away to someplace safe. And safety means far, far away from both her mother and her father, Érínlè.”

Abata gathered her things that afternoon, and with a horse given to her by one of Obatalá’s messengers, she made her first trip to the kingdom of Oyó.

Abata arrived in Oyó during a great celebration. To all his people Shangó announced his impending wedding to Oba, and although the kingdom rejoiced, Abata felt something evil simmering within the palace walls.

She arrived in her royal blue gown with a shimmering blue veil that seemed diaphanous, almost made of air and swirling about her like a gentle breeze. Approached by such ashé, the guards stood back and let Abata walk unchallenged into the courtyard. She found Oba well protected, but weeping.

Before the future queen the guards insisted she put her head to the earth in obeisance, but Abata stood proud and unmoving before Oba. “You do not know who I am, sister-in-law?” she asked.

Oba’s mouth fell open; it was shame and rage. “I am a single woman. I have no sister-in-law. Guards, seize her!”

Abata held both hands up and to her sides. With a quick flick of her wrists, the guards went flying off into all directions. They hit the ground hard and were unable to move.

“Do not play with me, Oba. You are already a married woman. You are married to my brother, Érínlè.” Oba fell to her knees, her mouth still open. “And you have a child by him no one in the kingdom knows about, Osía.” Oba’s body trembled. “With another man, Shangó, you were adulterous; your marriage to Érínlè has not yet been dissolved. And your child, Osía, has gone insane. She saw you and Shangó having sex.”

Broken, Oba fell to the earth, her head at Abata’s feet. “I did not mean . . .” she stammered. “I did not know she was there. It was the storm that broke her. It was the storm!”

Abata offered no blessing as she pulled Oba to her feet and held her at arm’s length.

“It was not the storm, Oba. It was you and Érínlè, and then it was you and Shangó.

And now she lies locked in a nightmare from which she cannot escape. Arayé has her.

Obatalá sent me to take her away from you, away from Shangó, away from Érínlè. He has sent me to take her far away where she will no longer be traumatized, and where I can heal her.”

Oba was limp in Abata’s arms. “Do you not hear me, Oba? I am here to remove your child from this cursed place. She will not live another day inside these palace walls.”

Dazed and confused, Oba moved slowly as Abata followed. Afraid of Abata’s ashé and thinking it sorcery, the guards ran to find Shangó and told him, “A witch is here to steal Oba’s daughter.” No one in the kingdom outside Shangó’s compound knew that his future wife had a daughter, and Shangó, convinced that it must be a witch, ran to Osía’s room with his sword brandished.

He found Oba in Osía’s room, lying in a fetal position by the door and crying. He saw a regal black woman sitting on Osía’s bed, her great blue veil wrapped around them both. He raised his sword when he saw a great black shadow rising from the bed; it screamed, and the walls of the compound shook. “Arayé,” Shangó whispered.

He put down his sword. The young child wrapped herself around Abata, crying. His face flushed with shame when he heard the child tell the woman what she had seen. Abata’s eyes burned; she focused on Shangó as Osía whimpered. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, both of you,” said Abata as she walked away with Osía held tightly against her breast. She walked away unchallenged.

Shangó’s sword fell from his hand as he knelt beside Oba. Her eyes were red with something that seemed like madness, and she said over and over, almost a chant, “Osía . . .my child . . . Osía . . . my child . . .”

Another great storm fell over the kingdom of Oyó that day.