Oyá Brings Death to the World

There was no death in the world, and because of this everyone suffered.

Great cries rose to heaven from the mouths of the elderly who lay weak and untended in their beds. The voices of those younger rose to heaven as well, their own bellies swollen and bursting from hunger. Mothers suckled their emaciated children with dry, hanging breasts, and toddlers no longer toddled, instead lying exhausted under the shade of trees. Silence hung over village streets once filled with the playful screams of children and the sounds of merchants hawking their wares. Priests and priestesses no longer made ebó to the orishas; instead, they offered only prayers and incense, and soon even the orishas in heaven felt hunger pangs.

It was Oyá who first felt the world’s need; her priesthood was small on earth and she was the first to feel hunger. With pain in her belly, she went to complain to Olofin. Her stomach hurt all the way to his home.

Once Olofin’s guards let her inside the front doors, she weakly walked to his chambers and found him sitting on his great throne, thinking.

She took a deep breath and made a sigh; he looked up and she walked to him.

“Father,” she said, putting her head to the floor in obeisance, “the world suffers. Humans outnumber the world’s ability to feed them, yet more babies are born into it every day. The oldest of all the people lie weak and helpless in their beds, and no one has the strength to help them. We ourselves are suffering, for our priests and priestesses no longer offer us ebó. What can we do?”

Olofin looked down on Oyá as she spoke; she lay on her right side, one fist tucked against her head while the other arm was perched on her left waist. He saw that she looked frail from hunger.

Gently he bent over to touch her shoulders, blessing her as he bid her to rise. “I’ve known this day would come,” said Olofin. “For when the world was born, it was not meant to be like this.”

“Like what?” Oyá asked. “How was the world supposed to be?”

Olofin sat back in his great chair, and Oyá, gently, sat before him on the floor, her legs tucked beside her gracefully. Even in her suffering, thought Olofin, my daughter looks like a queen.

“When the world began, Oyá, it was not meant to hold an infinite number of people. Oh no, it was meant to hold only a limited number of people. And when their time was up they were to cross back into heaven while a new group of humans came down to take their place.”

“I remember how the world once was,” said Oyá, her voice soft as she remembered. “There was a gate that humans could cross at will. They were perfect then, spiritual beings born in heaven before traveling to earth.”

“Yes,” said Olofin. “But the day came that one couple noticed the animals copulating. It was the olodu Odí who taught them that trick. But the animals were supposed to multiply. On earth, material beings had material appetites. They needed to eat meat, roots, vegetables, and fruits to survive, at least while down there. It is how their bodies obtain their energy, the ashé to live. But up here ashé is exchanged freely among everyone and there is no need to eat. So animals were given the power of procreation to make sure that not only could they eat, but that humans could eat as well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And this couple changed things, I assume?”

“Oh yes, they did. There was a time when the gates between the worlds were open wide and we crossed as easily as passing from room to room in our own homes. When the earth was new and the first generation walked on her face, no great chasm divided heaven and earth. The first creations lived in both worlds freely, and the path between the two was unguarded. Heaven was home and the earth was the marketplace, and those with time to travel could walk between the two freely.”

“But,” continued Olofin, “this young couple, they thought, How powerful are the plants and animals, they can create life from their bodies and we cannot. They wanted to be powerful like the animals, so they came and petitioned me for this ashé.”

“And of course you refused it?”

“On the contrary, I accepted it. I allowed them the power to conceive and have one child on the earth. I told them this child would be born weak and illiterate, and as it grew, it would need to learn things, including its culture and religion. The parents agreed to be its teacher, for there were no teachers in those days. Everyone knew everything. There was one catch to it all, and to this they agreed: since it was a child of flesh born from flesh in the material world, I told them it was not perfect as were they. This one child would not have the ashé to cross the gate and walk into heaven of his own free will. He would be forever bound in flesh and bound to the material world.”

Olofin was silent. Oyá stared at him, her eyes narrowed. “And they agreed?”

He only nodded his head yes.

"And you trusted them? They were humans."

“But they, because of how they were made, were perfect humans. I had no reason to not trust them. And conceive a child they did. A child who grew into a man that disbelieved in the orishas and heaven but was open to the possibility of their existence. He set out to find this gate on his own. And it wasn’t hard, since he grew up with all the old tales, as he called them. For truly he thought they were tales and not truths. It took many days and many nights, but finally he did find the gate to heaven. And he took a single, fleeting step on the path.”

“No!” Her voice rumbled through heaven like thunder. “Tell me he did not!”

“But he did.” Olofin’s hands hung loosely at his sides. His face was forlorn.

“And . . . how did you fix this, Olofin?”

“There was no fixing it. The natural laws had been broken, and the gate slammed shut. There was no way for humans to descend into the world, nor was there a way for them to leave the world. Trapped there, alone, Odí taught all the humans the mysteries of sex, pleasure, and conception. Soon everyone was doing it.”

“And having babies.” Oyá shook.

“And now look at the mess they’ve created. We all suffer because of their lack of foresight. This must be fixed.” Again, lightning flashed in her eyes and thunder rumbled through the palace. “What must I do to help make this right, Olofin?”

“There is a solution, Oyá. You must take Ikú into the world with you, for life cannot continue unchecked. One human at a time, Ikú will sweep the land, taking the oldest, the weakest, those among them who are suffering the most. Those who are left will be able to recover and rebuild, and with death in the world it will be all but impossible for them to overpopulate again.”

“Me? Take Ikú into the world? Bring death on all the innocents on the earth, even the first race that walked its face? I cannot! They will abhor me! They will see me as something vile! They will turn away from my worship.”

“They will do no such thing,” said Olofin. “In the end, they will still love you, for the balance will be restored.”

“I cannot.” She hung her head low. “I cannot do what you ask.” With her face in her hands, Oyá ran from Olofin’s sight.

Silence, there was only silence as Oyá’s sobs became softer, receding as she put distance between herself and Olofin. He breathed softly, the rising and falling of his chest exaggerated with his pain. There is, he thought, no other way. Unless the earth is destroyed, there must be death in the world. Olofin bit his lip with resolve.

“Babaluaye!” he called out. “Babaluaye, are you still here?” From a side room the old man hobbled in on a crutch. He tried to put his head to the floor in obeisance to Olofin, but Olofin stopped him from going down by reaching out and embracing him instead.

“I am at your service, Father,” was all he said.

“It is time,” said Olofin. “It is time for you to take Aro into the world with you.”

“But Aro is constant torment,” said the old man, wavering on his crutch. “There will be no escape for those on the earth. It is cut off from us. They cannot cross; they cannot come home to be healed, to receive new bodies. Without Ikú in the world, those whom Aro touches will be in eternal torment. Is not the earth burdened enough?”

“There is more to my plan, Babaluaye. There is more to the design of Olódumare than a world of torment. Have faith, at least in him.”

By nightfall, Babaluaye had begun the descent to earth with Aro as his companion. For seven days and seven nights they made their way through the bush that separated the two worlds. When Aro was let loose on the world, she was a hungry, greedy specter; she found the weakest of the humans first, the elderly who already lay in bed unable to stand. Even greater cries rose up from the earth.

From where she hid, Oyá cried. The misery of her people doubled by the day. Oyá could not bear their cries, the misery of the humans afflicted by Aro. Her constant torment made them wish for death, call for death, pray for death, but Ikú was not yet in the world. She was locked up in heaven with no way to cross.

For days Oyá hid, listening to their pleas, and when she could take it no more she walked, cloaked, through the villages and towns that humans had created for themselves. The stench of sickness and decay was everywhere. Even the young wished that the oldest and sickest of their people would die. Finally, when she could no longer bear their pain, Oyá screamed to heaven in a great voice that split the sky with fire and thunder,

“I will do as you ask, Olofin! I will bring Ikú down into the world! These people suffer, and I can bear their suffering no more!”

She heard Olofin’s voice inside her head, a gentle whisper: “There is wisdom in this, Oyá. With Ikú, they will cross back into heaven, but because they know the mysteries of conception and birth, the human womb will be the new gate through which these ancient souls will return. There will again be balance in the world. Things will become what they should have been.”

Oyá cried; her tears fell on the earth like rain as a great storm swept the land. Darkness came, and Ikú came with that darkness, the darkness created by Oyá’s own sorrow. For days the storm lashed the earth, and thousands of souls were ripped away by Ikú’s strength. As the storm weakened and turned to gentle rain, the number of deaths declined. In time, death was balanced by birth, and birth was balanced by death, and everyone saw the wisdom in this. Oyá became the queen who controlled the gate between life and death for material beings.

And instead of being feared or hated, she became revered and worshipped as such. Never again did she question Olofin’s wisdom or Olódumare’s design for the world.