The Calabash of Ashé

Wisdom was scattered; ashé was spread; and no one head holds it all.

Unle was on earth when he heard the call from the sky; it seemed to thunder over the earth, but in truth it only sounded inside his own head. “Return to us,” it commanded. For a moment, he hesitated. “Return? How am I to return? The only way back home . . . is to die . . .” he thought. Before Unle could answer himself, he was home, in heaven, standing before Olódumare. The sudden change in the world around him left him dizzy, almost weak.

“Do not worry,” said Olódumare. “The feeling will pass. I brought you here.” Unle prostrated on the floor of God’s great palace, a spacious room with walls awash in white light. Aged but strong, black hands tapped him on his shoulders, bidding him to rise. They embraced: Unle shuddered. God’s ashé touched his skin lightly, but coursed through his body like a great thunderclap. When the embrace broke, it left him shaking.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a great calabash sitting on a stone pillar. Standing over it with hands raised was a strong, black man; from him issued streams of light, flowing into the porcelain container. “That is me, Unle.”

The furrowed brow and puzzled expression betrayed Unle’s sudden confusion. “Rather, that is me as Olorún, filling a great calabash with all the ashé the earth needs to survive.” A lid appeared above the container, hovering, and the flowing lights were sucked into it as the lid slammed down on the calabash, sealing tight. The sound echoed, and for a moment, it felt as if all the air in the room was sucked into the sealed bowl as well.

The man was gone.

Olódumare walked to the stone pillar, his movement graceful and effortless. One moment, he was before Unle, and the next, he was simply standing beside the calabash. As if lifting a blade of grass, he carried the calabash to Unle.

“This cannot travel as easily as I summoned you, Unle,” said Olódumare. “You must carry this back to the world with your own two hands; and, you must store it in a secret place until I tell you what to do with it. It is ashé, pure ashé, and the world will need it, if it is to survive what is to come.”

Olódumare stretched out his hands, bidding Unle to take the calabash into his own. Unle put his hands on the container; it was warm and alive beneath his fingers. It sent shivers down his spine. Making sure Unle had a firm grasp, God removed his own hands, and suddenly the calabash became heavy, a burden for Unle to bear.

“I cannot hold it,” he protested, and he bent at the knees, carefully lowering it to the floor.

“Stop. Do not set it down. You must carry it. Ashé is a heavy burden, but you must bear it and not set it down. And you must hide it safely on earth for me.”

Unle left Olódumare’s palace that day with a burden no man was strong enough to bear alone: all the ashé in the world. Each step from heaven to earth found that burden more cumbersome to carry. When, finally, Unle stepped foot on earth, the weight was unbearable, and the calabash fell from his hands.

As it fell, time seemed to slow, and horror crept over Unle’s face. It hit the bare earth, and cracked; it shattered and the light that was within fled into the world. A great cry escaped Unle’s lips; dread descended like night on his soul.

All the ashé was gone.

That day, everything on earth acquired ashé—wisdom, knowledge, and spiritual power—but because Unle let the calabash break, its acquisition was uneven and random. Even now, because no one man knows how much ashé was set free into the world, or how much ashé anything possesses, there is nothing in this world that should ever be underestimated, or considered inconsequential.

For that day, ashé was scattered, and no one person can hold it all. But if ashé is to ever consolidate again and save this world, all must learn how to share.