The Marriage of Oshún and Orúnmila

The grass mat was covered with a white sheet, and Orúnmila sat there, facing his client—an elderly man seated on a low stool. Orúnmila's wife, Oshún Ibú Olólodí, sat in the corner on a soft, cushioned chair, waiting for her husband's instructions. As she waited, she listened carefully to everything he said; and she watched, attentively, every manipulation of the sixteen cowrie shells in his hands. Her mind was sharp, her memory almost perfect, and she remembered every word he said in every reading. Years of service to her husband taught her the meanings of the signs, and she herself could have delivered the readings he gave; however, even now, she preferred to sit and listen instead of flaunting her own knowledge. From time-to-time, Orúnmila did approach the odu from new avenues, and these were the nuggets of wisdom she wanted to learn.

When he was done, and it was time to make the ebó of the mat, Oshún was the one to gather the needed items while Orúnmila and his client waited patiently.

“I need seven plates, Oshún,” said Orúnmila. “I need a plate with a coconut and a white candle, a plate with the four strips of cloth in ósun's colors, a plate with corn meal and okra, a plate with toasted corn and black-eyed peas, a plate with a calabaza, a plate with charcoal, and a plate with twelve otás [smooth black stones representing the soul's immortality and strength].” Oshún nodded her head and went to the cupboard where Orúnmila stored his items for ebó; however, before he rattled off his list, she already knew what he needed. Ejila Shebora had come for his clients before, and she knew well the ebó the odu entailed.

She helped him perform the ebó; she knew all the songs and all the motions by heart.

For years, this was Oshún's life. Orúnmila divined: Oshún assisted. More importantly, Oshún learned as Orúnmila was her unwitting teacher. Every day went just like this.

Every day, that is, until the messenger from Oyó arrived.

Oshún was cleaning up from the ebó, sealing the ebó's bag and setting it outside the front door when the stranger arrived. He was dressed in the royal robes of Oyó, surrounded by several armed men, all on horses. While they remained mounted, he dismounted, and walked up to Oshún, bowing reverently. “This is Orúnmila's home, is it not?” It was more of a statement than a question and cautiously, Oshún answered, “Yes.”

“May I come in?”

Oshún guided the stranger into her home. Everyone in the waiting room eyed him nervously. He was well-dressed, although obviously a servant, and youthful; he walked with an air of lent authority, self-assured, but only because another gave him purpose. She invited him to sit, but he refused. “I am here on the Oba's business. Shangó, the King of Oyó, has sent me. I must see Orúnmila as soon as possible.”

From his workroom, still seated, Orúnmila heard the messenger and the insistence in his voice. He got up from his mat, and stood in the doorway. When he saw the man's royal dress, he knew the business was urgent. “Come in,” he said to the young man. “We can speak in here.”

When the door was closed and Orúnmila, Oshún, and the messenger were assured of privacy, the messenger spoke slowly, but deliberately, “The king of Oyó, Shangó, has great need of your skills as a diviner. He has requested that I escort you back to his compound in the kingdom. There are pressing needs that require your advice and wisdom.”

Orúnmila thought about his waiting room. It was filled with dozens of people who had come for help, advice, and ebó. He looked at his wife, Oshún; Oyó was many days' travel, and it would be weeks before he returned. “Who will care for my clients?” asked Orúnmila. “Who will watch over my wife?”

“You cannot go,” said Oshún. “We need you here. I need you here.”

“Shangó will reward you handsomely,” said the messenger. “Many times over what you would make here divining for all these clients.” He paused. “And do not forget, sir, the fame and celebrity that come from working at the request of the king.”

A thousand and one thoughts ran through Orúnmila's head, but at the front of them all was this: a king was asking for his services, a king who would pay him handsomely for his work. He weighed the dozens of plain people and their mundane problems against the life of a king and his concerns running the wealthy kingdom of Oyó, and managing its tributaries. A hint of greed and opportunity flashed in his eyes as he looked at his wife, but before he could speak, she insisted, “Husband, there is no one else here to do your work. Who will minister and care for all your people? They depend on you. I depend on you. And how safe is this trip, truly?”

Her voice was sharp and nagging, but tempered with concern and worry.

“Shangó is not a patient man,” said the messenger, “and he is expecting you. There are other doctors and healers and wise men in Ilé Ifé, and they can carry on your work while you are gone. And if the people do not choose to see others, your wife can reschedule them upon your return.”

Orúnmila sighed. The call of duty was strong from both Oyó and his home, Ilé Ifé, but in his mind the promise of riches and prominence from working for a king outweighed the needs of his own people. “I have to go, Oshún. It is my duty. And the messenger is right. There are others who can do some of my work, and you can reschedule those who insist on seeing me.” He turned to the messenger, his back to Oshún, “How long will I be gone?”

“It is a week's travel to Oyó. Your business there should only take a couple of days. You will be home in three weeks, if not sooner. Of course, I will accompany you back as well. And as for safety,” he addressed Oshún with these words, “we will travel exclusively through the tributaries of Oyó, and we will be accompanied by armed horsemen both ways. There is nothing to worry about.”

Orúnmila embraced his wife warmly; she was stiff and unyielding. “It is not that long. Three weeks is nothing.” Oshún sighed, and nodded her head in agreement. Still, she was fearful.

Orúnmila finished divining for those who came that day while Oshún packed his travel bags. The next morning, the messenger and his guards accompanied Orúnmila to the palace at Oyó. And, as Oshún feared, people continued to come every day, plagued as they were with osogbo, and Oshún, sadly, had to turn everyone away.

She worried every day that she was without her husband, the way a wife worries when she is lonely and afraid.

Before the third week ended, the unthinkable happened in Ilé Ifé: drought came to the city, and to all the lands surrounding it. It started innocently as a mild, dry heat wave. It was a welcome break from the sweltering stickiness of summer; and for many days of the planting season, outdoor labor was slow and easy, almost tolerable under the clear, blue skies. Slowly, the heat grew, and as the days grew hotter both the farmers and their beasts of burden exhausted themselves as they plowed dusty soil. Soon, the earth was sapped, and the crops lay shriveled and exsiccated in their furrows. Fear menaced Ilé Ifé like a hungry beast; panic ate at their hearts. When even the rivers ran dry, civility among the kingdom gave way to savagery, and everyone fought over the last stores of fresh water.

Farmers came to the diviner's house day after day. “When will Orúnmila return? Our crops are dying. People in the city are crazed with thirst and hunger. We must see him and make ebó!”

Day after day, Oshún told them, “He will return tomorrow, and then your sorrows can be lifted!”

Yet each new day came, and Orúnmila did not return. There were no messengers bringing word, and Oshún was fearful that something terrible had happened. They were well into the fourth week, and the second week of drought, when the oldest and sickest in the kingdom began to die from hunger, thirst, and disease. Afraid for her people, Oshún Ibú Olólodí decided to put the sixteen cowries on the mat herself, at least to mark an ebó to end the drought. Everyone in town was there that day as fearfully, she let the diloggún roll from her hands onto the mat. She trembled, unsure of herself or her skills. “What if I make a mistake?” she thought to herself. “What if I really don't know what I am doing, and I make things worse?” Carefully, she remembered all her husband did as he marked ebó, and she marked a sacrifice that she hoped would end the drought Ilé Ifé and its surrounding villages were facing. Quickly, each farmer set out to make the offerings she marked.

The next day, the rains came. Soon, her home was filled with people needing help; only this time, they came to see Oshún, and not Orúnmila. At first she tried to turn them away, but as the day continued their numbers increased. Confident with her first success at divination, and moved by the masses who professed faith in her skills, one by one, she divined for them all, and soon word spread through the land that Oshún was a great diviner herself. Some claimed her skills were equal to those of her husband.

Oshún spent the bulk of her days working on the mat with the diloggún; for another week, with no sign of Orúnmila and no word of his fate, she busied herself as a diviner and lost herself in the work. Any fears she had of overstepping her boundaries melted as she became more secure in the art of divination.

After five weeks, Orúnmila returned to Ilé Ifé. His bags were fat with gold and cowries, and he was well rested after so much leisure time in Shangó's court. His fame in Oyó grew quickly; and all the townspeople there, as in Ilé Ifé, regarded him as one of the wisest men on the earth. When he returned to find his house filled with people, he was not surprised. At first, he felt pride. “They are all waiting on my return,” he thought to himself. His waiting room was packed; it overflowed to the outdoors, where dozens of people stood, fanning themselves. No one acknowledged Orúnmila's presence; it was as if they had forgotten him. Then, he stood and listened to the quiet whispers around him. Everyone spoke of the miracles Oshún worked in the lives of their loved ones. ”My wife a miracle worker?” he mused to himself. “What does she have to work miracles with?”

Then he walked into his divination room. At first his mind did not register what his eyes were seeing, but as the surprise melted, he realized his wife was sitting on his divining mat, and in her hands were a set of his cowrie shells.

Oshún looked up angrily, bothered by the sudden disturbance; and then she realized who it was. “Orúnmila! My husband! You are home!”

Surprise became anger, and Orúnmila leaned against the wall, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “Don't stop on my account, Oshún,” he said. “Finish what you are doing. And then, we will speak.”

Anger welled up inside her. “Five weeks he is gone, and he glares at me?” Oshún thought to herself. Then, slowly, she realized his anger was not at her, but at what she was doing, and that is when the fear overcame the anger, and Oshún began to tremble. “I should have never meddled in his work,” she realized. Then, she took a deep breath, and continued divining for her client.

Orúnmila waited silently, and watched as his wife, trembling, finished the divination. Her hands shook and her fingers twitched as she touched the diloggún; and her voice trembled and wavered as she delivered the messages of odu. Every word she spoke sent another cold wave of something he thought was anger, but which felt like despair, through Orúnmila's body—every word that came out of her mouth was one that he himself spoke in years past.

The client left worried and confused: the messages of odu were clear, but the tension in the room struck something primal in his chest. Oshún barely managed a smile as she showed him out of the divination room, and closed the door on the remaining clients.

His face a mural of confusion and anger, his features twisted into a bizarre cacophony of expressions, Orúnmila asked, “How could you?” It was meant to be a question, but sounded like a threat.

Silence: Oshún knew he was angry, and returned his own vacant stare with one that was pleading. “Do you love me?” she asked. It was all she could think of.

“What?”

“Do you love me?” Her voice broke like a prepubescent girl's. “Because I love you.”

“Yes, I love you. But I'm disappointed in you. You know that I am the only man on Earth allowed to divine with the diloggún. You are my wife! You are my helper. You're not meant to be the diviner in this house. And that's not my mandate, Oshún. That is Olófin's mandate. You've broken an ancient pact that he and I have, and those who break pacts with God suffer horrible fates. If anything, I fear for you.”

“You fear for me?” she asked, her face twisted in amazement. “You. You fear. For me?” It became an accusation. “You should fear for your people. They were dying! You should fear for yourself! You had responsibilities here, and you left them to seek fame and fortune with the king!” She narrowed her eyes and opened her palms to emphasize her words. “With your knowledge and skills come sacred responsibilities. Olófin didn't give you the gift of divination to cater to kings and queens! He gave you that gift to take care of his people on Earth. You betrayed your pact when you went running to a faraway land after fame and fortune. Shangó has his own diviners. We had no one!”

“You, my own wife, dare reprimand me and tell me what my responsibilities are? Who are you to accuse me? Shangó is a man, just like any other man to whom I minister.”

“But you went to HIM, and not him to YOU. You catered to one man because you thought him more important than all the people you were leaving behind! That is not part of your pact, is it, husband? I was left alone with thousands of dying people, and I had to do something. THAT was your pact.”

Waves of shock sent shivers down his spine. “You arrogant woman! You dare accuse me of breaking pacts? I am Orúnmila, witness to creation! Who are you?”

“I am your wife, and no one on this earth knows you or your responsibilities greater than I. You left me here alone; your people were dying; and I had no choice but to do what you were not here to do!”

It was the wrong thing to say; something inside Orúnmila snapped, and his ears shut down to Oshún's futile words. His body tense, his face devoid of any expression, Orúnmila walked to her, slowly; and she found herself backing away from him, defensively. Every hair on her body was rising with cold shivers. It was the same metallic fear you feel when seeing a snake just inches away from your feet in the grass or when you realize a stranger with a weapon is hiding in shadows just a few yards away. Her back against the wall, unable to flee, Oshún resigned herself to whatever fate awaited at her husband's hands as he grabbed her wrist.

He spoke a single, unintelligible word. The room melted. Everything went dark, and Oshún woke on the floor of Olófin's palace.

She lay still on the floor, looking around through glazed eyes. Olófin sat in his throne, a huge, silver chair adorned with soft, white cushions, and Orúnmila sat on the floor to his right, speaking softly and looking at him with pain showing on his face. No one noticed when Oshún first awoke, and she listened to what she could.

“Father . . . it is treason . . . I did not mean . . . a woman cannot divine . . . yes, I love her but . . . no, Father . . . you promised me the diloggún was mine alone . . .”

Olófin noticed that Oshún was no longer asleep, and he smiled at her. “Oshún, come to me,” he ordered; but when he said it, it sounded more like a pleasant request. Afraid, Oshún lifted herself, gathering her yellow skirts tightly to her body as she approached Olófin, and lay down on the floor before him in reverence.

Olófin's aged but strong hands touched her shoulders lightly, blessing her. She rose, and the two embraced. The old orisha sat again, bidding Orúnmila to rise and Oshún to remain standing.

“We have a serious problem here,” he said.

Before he could finish, Oshún burst into tears, and she fell on the floor, pleading, “I know, Father, and I am sorry. I only divined because Orúnmila was gone, and everyone was dying. I felt helpless and powerless. I knew I could mark an ebó, but I had no idea how powerful it would feel to be on the mat, reading the odu. If I'd stopped there, maybe my actions would have been excusable. But it felt good. It felt right. And I couldn't stop. Too many people in this world need help!”

She looked at her husband with blurry eyes, and wiped the tears on her face with her hands. “I said horrible things to my husband when I was the one who deserved to be reprimanded. Whatever punishment you give me, Olófin, I will accept without complaint, and I will bear its burden honorably.”

“What punishment, Oshún?” He looked at her with a warm smile; she returned his with confusion. “There is no punishment to be had. The universe is a marvelous place filled with infinite possibilities. This isn't about right and wrong, or punishment. This is about evolution.”

“I have made up my mind, Orúnmila,” Olófin said, looking only at him. “The diloggún no longer belongs to you. You are never again to touch the shells with your hands. I am giving it to Oshún.”

Orúnmila's jaws dropped, and he took in a sharp breath. “Olófin, what have I done to deserve this?”

“Nothing: you've done nothing wrong, Orúnmila. I'm giving you a gift.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken and shimmer as Olófin held his right hand up, fingers curled and palm facing upward. There was a flicker of light; ashé moved and flared across his palm. When the air again thinned and the lights were gone, the old man held a curious chain with eight golden disks.

“This is yours now, Orúnmila. It is called an òpèlè, a divining chain. As with the cowrie shells, you can access the 256 odu of creation and improve the lives of those who come to you for help; however, it has one benefit that the diloggún does not have.”

Reverently, the diviner took the chain that was offered to him; a thin current, almost electrical, tingled his fingertips. The chain had power, and for just a moment, Orúnmila thought he heard the sweet voice of Olódumare singing in its gold. “What benefit is that?” he asked, completely focused on the talisman he held.

“The diloggún has a flaw that you have never encountered. It can refuse to speak in a shadow that is but is not an odu: Opira. All mouths can touch the mat when you cast the diloggún, and only the blank sides face Heaven. When that happens, the diloggún refuses to speak. In your hands, Orúnmila, it never refused to speak.”

“But in my hands?” asked Oshún.

“There are times it will refuse to speak. The òpèlè does not have that flaw. Opira is not a possibility with its castings.”

“Then, what do I do when Opira comes,” asked Oshún.

“When you divine, if Opira comes, you take your client to Orúnmila. Just as husband and wife need each other, so the diloggún and òpèlè will depend on each other.”

Orúnmila looked at his wife, Oshún; in his hands was the òpèlè, and he was still bewitched by the incredible, but subtle ashé that flowed from it into his hands.

“There is one more thing,” said Olófin.

“What is that, Father?” asked Orúnmila, his eyes still on the òpèlè.

“As long as you are married to Oshún, you are responsible for teaching her what she does not already know about the diloggún and its mysteries. You have higher mysteries at your disposal, and it's your duty to make sure what you left behind is not forgotten.”

Oshún and Orúnmila remained married for many years after this; however, while he forgave her of what he believed to be betrayal, his heart never forgot the pain this brought him. In time, the lessons he gave Oshún in the casting of the diloggún became less and less, and one day he told her, “I can no longer teach you. It pains me too much.”

“But Olófin said . . . the day you no longer taught me was the day he would annul our marriage.”

“I realize that,” said Orúnmila. “I still love you, but it hurts too much to be with you.”

There was no more to be said. Their marriage was over that day. Sadly, the two orishas went their separate ways.