The Osogbos (Misfortunes) and the Akùko (Rooster)

Eshu can help us: Eshu can hurt us.

Àkùko had ashé; not a creature in the forest denied that.

All the animals from the smallest bird to the largest elephant sought him out for advice when their lives soured. He spent his days with these clients, prescribing spells and witchcraft to solve their problems. Sometimes he divined for them and although his ashé was not divination, he had studied enough to be competent in its practice. His work brought him wealth, and with that wealth he built a house that was spacious by any human’s standards. The rooster lived well.

Ekún was jealous of Àkùko; he, too, had ashé, but instead of skills at magic or witchcraft or divination, his ashé lay in both his cunning as a predator and his dark alliances with the creatures known as the osogbos. Animals sought him out for his advice, but when he was unable to provide magic as a solution they were disappointed. When he suggested gifts to the osogbos as if they were ebós to the orishas, many refused and ran to the diviners. Ekún knew the osogbos well; they were his best friends and if given the right gifts as bribes would leave any animal alone—for a time. Ikú (Death), Ano (Illness), Aro (Terminal Illness), Eyo (Tragedy), Arayé (Misfortune), Inya (War), ona (Affliction), Ofo (Loss), Ogo (Sorcery), Akoba (Suffering), Fitibo (Sudden Death), Égba (Paralysis), Oran (Crimes), Epe (Curse), Ewon (Imprisonment), and Eshe (General Afflictions) were Ekún’s best friends. It was because of these unnatural alliances that the animals were afraid of him; and when faced with an insurmountable obstacle, they chose to seek out Àkùko before they sought out Ekún. The wisest animals chose light over darkness, and it made Ekún angry.

Such was his anger that he stalked Àkùko. When he walked through the forest, Ekún was there, walking in shadows and watching. When he was inside his house sleeping, Ekún was outside peering through the windows. And when his own home was empty of clients, Ekún hid outside Àkùko’s house, watching the rooster’s clients come and go. Today was such a day—Ekún watched the rooster’s house. It stood in a clearing in the middle of the forest surrounded by thick bush, and Ekún crouched low in the bushes as he spied; with jealousy his tail flicked and his eyes narrowed. A constant line of clients formed outside the rooster’s front door, and one by one they waited their turn to see Àkùko. This day his stomach rumbled with hunger—it had been days since he had eaten, such was his poverty. “It’s not fair,” he said to himself, trembling. “My ashé is as good as the rooster’s ashé, but everyone comes to him for help and not me.” He backed out of the bush in which he hid slowly, and when he was sure he was out of earshot, he ran through the forest.

He went to the house of Ikú.

It was not hard to find Ikú; when she was idle during the daylight hours she sought out the darkest part of the forest. Even there, she sat in the darkest shadows. Ekún found her alone; she was always alone. The air around her was cold, chilled with the ashé of death; dark shadows wrapped themselves around her like a thick quilt. Her gaze made him shiver; it was ominous, filled with unfathomable secrets. She smiled at Ekún; and as always, he was conflicted by that smile. While her figure was uninviting and imposing, her smile belied inner warmth that made her seem loving. Reverently he crouched before her; it was an act of subservience, and he waited, with dread, for her cold hands to offer a blessing. He shivered at their touch.

“Why have you come?” Ikú asked. In spite of the coldness of her touch and the darkness of her gaze, her voice was musical and pleasant, loving in spite of her chilling form. It was both her smile and her voice that made him trust her in spite of her preternatural nature; for most, death was little more than the end of life, but Ekún found in her a willing friend, and he cherished that friendship not only for what she could do for him, but also because they were kindred souls. “We are both hunters, you and I,” she had once told him, and he had agreed it was true.

Ekún stood up on all fours, his tail wagging nervously. “You know I wouldn’t come to you if it wasn’t important.”

Ikú knew. For most of his favors, he approached the osogbos who were less fatal. Rarely did Ikú lash out at an animal unless she meant to kill it, and once a creature was in her gaze, it was as good as dead. Her prey had little chance to escape. “I know. You rarely come to see me. You seem to fear me.”

“You are imposing, my friend.” Ikú smiled at him. “Except when you smile,” he added. Ikú laughed, and her laughter lifted the shadows a bit; but when she grew silent the darkness seemed deeper.

“Ekún, you flatter me. You of all creatures know you have nothing to fear by seeking me out. It is only when I seek you out that you know your time has come. Only then should you be afraid.”

That relaxed him. He sat back on his haunches. “Ikú, you know my work. When the osogbos threaten the animals of the forest, the animals come to me, and when I discover which osogbo plagues them, I offer to . . . intervene . . . for a price.”

“Yes, I know. You have been a friend to us all since you and I first met.”

Ekún bit his lip. “Why did you not kill me that day? When we ran into each other? You came to me.”

“It was an accident, Ekún. You were young, and both of us were running through the forest without watching our way. I was not looking for you that day. Ours is a friendship born by chance.”

“And may we always be friends,” Ekún thought. He shuddered. “Now, I have a problem, Ikú, and I don’t know where to turn. Àkùko is a miracle worker. He divines. He prescribes ebó. He knows magic and witchcraft that renders the osogbos powerless over the animals he helps, and no one comes to me anymore.”

Ikú was silent as she thought about this.

“Worse, when he prescribes ebó to the orishas or gives magic to save his clients from the osogbos, they are rendered powerless over that creature, and they get nothing in return. I am starving because I have no work. And I can’t imagine any of the osogbos are doing much better now that the animals of the forest no longer pay tribute to them. Àkùko needs to be dealt with.”

Her voice lost its warmth, and it was as icy as the shadows when she said, “Àkùko needs to die. And then, he can’t work any more miracles or force my brothers and sisters into submission.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Ekún. At that moment he was never happier to have Ikú as a good friend.

It was early evening when Ikú and Ekún crept up on Àkùko’s house; he was leaving, locking the door, and holding a package tightly to his chest. A horse was saddled and tied to a post outside; he untied it and jumped on. Ekún almost laughed when he saw the rooster straddling a horse, but then he became angry. “He can afford a horse but I cannot,” he whispered.

“Quiet,” whispered Ikú. “What is he holding?”

As Àkùko broke into a quick gallop, something primal stirred inside Ekún; he crouched and flicked his tail and then he sped after the horse. Ikú was behind him. “Wait,” she called out, “what is he holding?”

Spooked, the horse broke into a breakneck gallop; behind them, Ekún ran as fast as he could. He was as fast as the horse, but the steed had a head start of quite a few yards. Ikú stretched out and spread as quickly as the darkness, and when Àkùko realized he was being followed he threw the package behind him as he flew past the crossroads. It was a mixture of epó and okra slime, and it spread like melted butter over the road.

Ekún and Ikú slid and crashed into the trees. Àkùko kept galloping away into the distance. The forest rumbled and shook when Ikú screamed in pain and anger. “I’ll get him if it’s the last thing I do!” she swore to Ekún.

Àkùko kept galloping, pushing his horse as fast as it would go. He rode all the way to Orúnmila’s house.

The wise diviner knew why he came. Just that morning he was divining for himself, and the oracle told him that a client was coming with all the osogbos in the world on his heels. When Àkùko jumped off his horse so quickly that he crashed into Orúnmila’s house, he was not surprised—just annoyed at the rooster’s carelessness. He threw open his door; and smiled when he saw his next client . . . was the rooster.

“Inside, quickly,” he said. The rooster wasted no time, and Orúnmila locked the door behind him. “So the forest’s own miracle worker has come to see me?”

He was breathless when he said, “I divined for myself, and I made the ebó, but I barely escaped with my own life. Ekún and his friend Ikú are after me.”

“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid. You escaped, but you didn’t solve your problems. Ekún, Ikú, and now all the osogbos are after you. You only angered Ikú, and she gathers reinforcements outside these walls.”

“But why?”

Orúnmila took a deep breath. “Your skills at divination are lacking, I’m afraid. You rely on magic—witchcraft and charms. Instead of working with the orishas and appeasing them so they can help you and your clients, you work magic constantly to strip the osogbos of power yourself. You might be a powerful sorcerer in your own way, but you are not a god. You use your magic to fight, and he who fights will know what war is.”

“So I am as good as dead? Nothing can save me?”

“ebó can save anyone,” said Orúnmila. “Today, we will make ebó to Eshu. And he will be the one who will save you.”

Together, Àkùko and Orúnmila lined a wicker basket with red and black cloth; together, they filled it with toasted corn, cigars, and eleven bottles of rum. Quietly, Orúnmila opened his front door and Àkùko pushed the ebó outside so Eshu could find it. When the osogbos saw the rooster pushing the basket outside, they rose up; like a great, dark cloud they came rushing at the front door. As quickly as he opened it, Orúnmila pulled the frightened rooster back inside and slammed it shut; he locked it, and listened as the osogbos pounded it, trying to break it. But Orúnmila’s door was well protected by both ebós and charms, and no matter how hard they tried they were unable to break it.

Shadows fell over the windows as they encircled the house once more. “The windows!” screamed Àkùko, his voice high and shrill like a woman’s. “They will break in through the windows!”

“They won’t,” said Orúnmila, rubbing the rooster’s head to soothe him. “The osogbos are dreadfully stupid creatures. They only try to come in by the front door, the door closest to the street. They are easily kept outside. Likewise, we are locked inside if we hope to stay safe.”

Quietly they waited, listening to the osogbos’ fearful howls and the hungry growls of Ekún. Everything went quiet when there were three knocks at the door; and the shadows receded. Orúnmila peeked out. It was Eshu, and he was eating corn and drinking rum, all the while smiling a crooked smile. “I’ve heard that you need my help?”

Orúnmila let the orisha inside. The howls and growls began again from the forest.

All night Eshu ate; he ate in silence and looked at the rooster with a smile on his face. Orúnmila fell asleep in his chair while Eshu ate, but the rooster was unnerved. “He looks at me as if I am food,” he thought to himself.

All night long, as if the growls of Ekún were not enough the preternatural cries of the osogbos wailed through the darkness. “I won’t survive this night,” Àkùko thought to himself.

Dawn came, and Eshu finished eating. “See? You survived this night after all!”

The rooster trembled. Eshu could read his houghts.

Orúnmila woke up and stretched; when he saw that Eshu finished his corn and rum he asked, “Are you still hungry?”

“No, I’m quite full,” he said. “Now, about the rooster’s problem . . .”

“What can we do?” asked Orúnmila.

“Yes, what can I do?” asked Àkùko.

“It’s no longer just your problem,” said Eshu. “You brought osogbo to Orúnmila’s house. They won’t leave until they get what they want, or unless we trick them first.”

“How do we do that?” asked Orúnmila. “I can’t live with evil right outside my front door.”

“It’s simple, Orúnmila. I’ll carry the rooster away in this basket, covered by this cloth. And then once I leave with the rooster, you can let them come in and try to have the rooster.”

“Excuse me?” asked Àkùko. Eshu’s words confused him—he was going to whisk him away to safety and let the osogbos have him? “Exactly how does that work again?”

“It’s not your business,” said Eshu. “Just get in the basket.” Without faith but having no other options, Àkùko did as he was told. He climbed inside the basket. Eshu covered him with red and black cloth, and then divided himself in two.

“How?” Orúnmila asked.

“Don’t ask,” said Eshu. “You wouldn’t understand.” He picked up one of the two baskets sitting at his feet, the one covered with red and black cloth. The basket filled with corn and rum remained on the floor.

“But . . .” said Orúnmila.

“Is there a problem?” asked Eshu.

The rooster stood on the floor beside the basket; he was trembling.

“How did he get out of the basket?” asked Orúnmila.

“I told you no questions.” Eshu threw open the door and left with the basket slung over his shoulder. Inside, the rooster sat very still; he was afraid, but dared not tremble or squawk. Ekún, Ikú, and the osogbos stood aside while Eshu walked slowly into the forest, and when they saw the door to Orúnmila’s house still open, they stormed inside.

“Get out of my house!” ordered Orúnmila. He stood strong, but was afraid.

Eshu sat in Orúnmila’s chair, drinking rum and eating corn. The rooster trembled and hid behind his feet.

“We want him,” said Ikú, pointing at the rooster. “He has caused quite enough trouble for us.” So afraid was Àkùko that he scattered droppings on the floor behind him. Had Orúnmila not been afraid of the osogbos, he would have been angry at Àkùko for that.

“Well you can’t have him,” said Eshu. “He is mine. I’m eating my corn and drinking my liquor, and when I am done I will eat him.”

“I marked him for death yesterday, Eshu. You have no right to interfere.”

“If you think you’re strong enough, Ikú, you can try to take him from me. But I warn you it won’t go well.” Eshu picked up the rooster and ripped off his head; where he sat, he drank his blood not spilling a drop. Orúnmila’s eyes all but popped out of his head in surprise, and Ikú howled.

When the rooster was quite dead and lay lifeless at Eshu’s feet, she recovered her composure. “It all ends the same. Our work is done. Let’s leave.”

“Wait!” roared the leopard. “He caused trouble for me, too. I want to feast on his flesh.”

Eshu was about to turn over the rooster’s carcass when Orúnmila intervened. “I provided that sacrifice. By our laws and customs, that meat goes to me. Try to take it . . . if you think you’re able.” Ekún growled once, all his hairs standing on end; and then he stood down.

“Never come here again,” warned Eshu. “And never think to look for this Àkùko again. ebó was made here today, powerful magic and sacrifice, which none of you will ever hope to understand. If I ever catch any of you overstepping your bounds on this again, it will not end well. It won’t end well for any of you.” Eshu eyed the leopard hungrily. “I do so love leopard flesh. And your fur is so warm on a cold, dark night.”

Ekún fled Orúnmila’s house that day followed by all the osogbos. When they were scattered back into the world, the diviner turned to Eshu and asked, “How could you kill him after he made ebó? How could you do it?”

“That wasn’t him,” said Eshu, “and this isn’t me. If I’m nothing else, I’m tricky and full of surprises. And you, Orúnmila, owe the real me a real rooster. I saved you today just as I saved the Àkùko.”

Orúnmila was about to thank Eshu when he realized—he was talking only to himself.