Where the Goat Was First Sacrificed

Ogundá (Ogún) binds the blessed head and puts Unle (Obatalá) in place.

It was almost midnight and the full moon cast a silvery light on the gates of Ido. The town slept. It was not the peaceful slumber of innocents, but an exhausted sleep brought on by greed and excess. Olófin stood just outside those gates peering in, shaking his head woefully. Ido was beautiful once, a clean, prosperous city filled with joyous laughter. Now it was dirty, a dry shell of what it once was, its beauty shed like an old snakeskin and its laughter replaced by sorrow. The youth had risen up and driven the elders out of town; they pillaged and plundered the wealth accumulated by years of labor; and now they squandered it on immoral pleasures.

From the path leading to the city came a faint light; Olófin turned and watched as it came closer. In its warm glow he saw the white robes and wrinkled, wizened face. It was Obatalá; slowly he walked toward Olófin. In one hand he held a lantern and with the other he gave Olófin a light hug.

“It is good to see you, Obatalá,” he said, returning the embrace carefully to avoid the hot lantern that floated between them.

“And it is good to see you, Olófin.” Concern deepened his wrinkles. “Why are we here outside the gates of Ido?”

“I wanted you to see what it has become.”

“What it has become? It is a great city! What more could it achieve?”

“Just look, Obatalá, and see for yourself.” Olófin’s voice trailed off into the chilled night air. Obatalá tilted his head, puzzled.

Olófin stepped to the side as Obatalá lifted his lantern to the side and above his shoulders; his ancient eyes narrowed as he looked past the gates. With the full moon’s soft phosphorescence he was able to see the city in a silvery relief; it seemed to shimmer under its glow. But while the light was beautiful, what it illuminated was not. He saw the littered streets, unkempt, and the houses and storefronts with broken doors. A gentle wind wafted through the night lifting the scent of decay; Obatalá’s nostrils widened and then snapped shut. “What happened here?” He turned to Olófin, bringing his lantern down so quickly that it almost slapped him in the face. “Ido . . . what happened to it?”

A deep sigh, and with it Olófin’s chest lifted and lowered slowly. “What always happens, Obatalá? A group of hardworking humans settle a town. They marry; they have families, and they work hard to be prosperous. And then their children decide ‘we know better than they do,’ and they try to improve on what their elders set down.” He paused, peering back through the gates. “Only this time it was worse. There was a revolt, a terrible uprising by the town’s youth, and they drove all the elders away. You are looking at a town of children run by its youth.”

“A town cannot be governed by its children, not without their elders to advise them. They will destroy themselves.”

“They already have,” said Olófin. “Ido is all but in ruins.”

“They need their elders back,” said Obatalá. “They need their wisdom, their life experience. We must quell the uprising first and install a temporary ruler. I will go out into the world and find the elders who fled. I will lead them back. And once we enter the town again as a group, I will make ebó so that this never happens again.”

Olófin smiled. Obatalá was such a forgiving orisha that it melted his heart. He had been ready to smite the town, reduce it and everyone inside its gates to cinder and ash. He had only called Obatalá here to witness the town’s evil before he wiped it clean. Yet Obatalá’s words moved him; they stirred his heart and quenched his desire to destroy. Perhaps if he told him the full story—that those who ruled now wiped out those who ruled before, that they murdered them in cold blood and in their sleep—perhaps he would not be so quick to forgive. Or perhaps it would kill him. Or maybe he would forgive all the same. Olófin decided to keep the full story to himself; already Obatalá was overwhelmed with grief. It was too much for the old man to handle. “Your forgiveness is deep and unconditional, Obatalá. I would be lying if I did not tell you I was going to destroy this city this very night. I only wanted you here to see what state it was in before I rose up and brought it down.”

“Father, no!” The old man fell to the earth and put his head to Olófin’s feet; the lantern, dropped, lost its light. “They are young. They are reckless, yes, but they deserve a chance. Let me find the elders and bring them back. Let me make ebó. Humans are, basically, good creatures.”

Olófin bent down and touched Obatalá’s shoulders lightly; he lifted him and the two embraced. There without the lantern’s light, among the darkness and the shadows and pale moonlight, they embraced, and tears fell freely from their eyes. “You are too forgiving, Obatalá. I will give you one chance to make this right.”

Obatalá shook his head gingerly; he gathered up the hem of his robes and walked off into the darkness. His sadness darkened the road he traveled. Olófin stood still at the town’s gates. When Obatalá was out of sight, he called to the warriors Elegguá and Ogún. Together the two orishas had been waiting in the forest. “You know what to do?” he asked them.

“Yes, Olófin, we know,” said Elegguá.

“No one is to get in, Elegguá,” ordered Olófin.

“No, father, no one will get past me.”

“And if anyone escapes this night with his life, let him leave. Let him leave in fear to tell the world of how Ogún destroyed them all for their evil ways! There must be people left alive to tell the story of Ido so humans are loath to repeat its history. But if any tries to come back?”

“If any dare come back,” said Elegguá, “it’s off with his head!”

“No one comes back,” repeated Olófin. “No one except Obatalá, and whatever elders he might find in the world who will want to come back.” He turned to Ogún; already the warrior was clutching his machetes in both hands so tightly that the muscles in his arms bulged and twitched.

“It begins. It begins now!” ordered Olófin, and Ogún growled like a hungry beast. With glazed eyes he marched through the darkened town, Olófin at his heels. By sunrise the leaders of the revolt were dead, murdered in their sleep, their blood shed like a great sin offering to Olódumare in heaven above. Their harlots, their whores—these, too, lay dead in their embrace. The older among them who worked as soldiers in their army fled, some finding death on the edge of a machete before they could make it to the streets while others were able to flee past the gates, Elegguá laughing gaily as he watched them run in fear. When the sun was strong in the morning sky, children lined the streets wiping the sleep from their eyes. They cried when they saw Ogún’s dreadful form clutching bloodied machetes; but Olófin directed Ogún back to the gates and waited while their cries subsided.

“You’re safe now,” Olófin said, shaking his heads at their dirty, unfed bodies. One by one he took care of them, the oldest of the children helping with the youngest. When the sun set on that first day, there was some semblance of order back in the town. When the children were tucked into a bed in a makeshift camp, Olófin sighed. “It is a town of children,” he thought. “They need their elders to raise them.” He left the oldest in charge and went to find Elegguá and Ogún at the town’s gates.

There at the gates Olófin found Elegguá and Ogún standing guard. Ogún was calm now, the blood lust that fueled his divinely murderous rage quelled to a mild heat, and Elegguá stood with him, calming him, whispering words in his ear that seemed to unglaze his eyes bit by bit. When Elegguá heard Olófin’s approach, he put a gentle hand on Ogún’s back and turned to face the ancient one.

“How is he?” Olófin asked. His eyes were teary. Ogún was a frightful creature when divine vengeance filled his heart; and when his hands were stained with blood, he was impossible to calm. Like a forest fire he had to burn himself out before the anger was gone, and even then, hot embers burned, embers that could spark another rage at any moment. Olófin hated using Ogún’s ashé for divine bloodshed, but in times like these there was no other way to right a wrong and restore balance in the world. It was part of Ogún’s nature, and part of the reason Olódumare created him. He noted the sheen of sweat on his hard body, the rapid rising and falling of his chest, and the bloodstained hands.

The stains were fresh. Elegguá saw Olófin staring at them. “He would be calm by now had not several of the youth tried to come back. As you instructed, we chopped off their heads as they entered the town.” Elegguá pointed behind a bush and Olófin saw the heads stacked neatly like blocks, and then he saw the bodies lying just outside the gates. “We left their bodies where they fell,” said Elegguá.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

Elegguá thought for a moment. “The sun was still high in the sky when they tried to overcome us. They all came together, one large band of humans. They saw only two of us compared to a dozen of them. They thought they could take us.”

“Foolish,” said Olófin, and then, “I’m exhausted. I’ve directed Ogún all night, and I’ve cared for children all day.” As the night deepened and the stars winked overhead, Elegguá and Olófin stood watching Ogún. The night calmed him; and anger slipped off his shoulders like a scarf blown away in the wind. He relaxed, sat down, and fell over in a deep sleep. “Watch him, Elegguá. I don’t think anyone else is foolish enough to come back. Hopefully they’ve scattered throughout the world to tell their tales of woe. I doubt the massacres of Ido will happen again, at least not for a while. I’m going to bed myself.”

“Wait.” Elegguá reached out for Olófin’s shoulder before he could walk away. “What if others do try to come back? What do you want us to do?”

“Cut off their heads, of course. Let no one back in.”

“But what if innocents come through?”

“No one innocent travels in darkness, Elegguá. In the morning I want you to go out into the world and let everyone know that the gates to Ido are sealed. Anyone who comes this way will find death as a punishment from me. Ogún will stand guard at the gates and decapitate those who try to come. And I will watch over the children until Obatalá returns with the elders. If they choose to come back.”

Olófin walked back to the camp where the children were sleeping. Elegguá’s heart was sorrowful as he watched him slip into shadows. He sat beside Ogún and watched the gates.

No one tried to return.

While Olófin was directing Ogún’s army to kill Ido’s revolutionaries, Obatalá was walking into the world, looking for the banished elders of Ido. When the sun rose the next day, while Olófin tended the village’s children, Obatalá was gathering the elders together, telling them what he found in the once great city and begging them to return to their children.

“How can we return, Obatalá?” the eldest of the men asked him. “These children murdered our king and our queen in their sleep; and they murdered the royal children as well. Everyone in the palace found death while they slept: death at the end of a machete or even a knife. Those youth in power now are cunning, and they are evil. They will destroy us if we return.”

“We were lucky to escape with our own lives!” said the eldest woman. “While we fled the town arrows flew. Some of us were struck in the back, and we lived,” she said pointing to her own back. Beside her shoulder blade was a wide, thick bloodstain. “Others of us fell down dead while we ran. These new leaders are not children. They are monsters.”

Obatalá’s heart froze in his chest. He heard the fear in their voices; he saw the fear in their eyes. Olófin had spared him the whole story. “But you still have children there,” said Obatalá. “You have grandchildren there. They need their elders.”

“Can you restore law and order?” asked another man. “Can you assure us that we will return to Ido and be safe?”

“I can,” said Obatalá. “We will return as a group. Olófin is there; Olófin is restoring order as we speak. And once we are back in Ido I will make ebó so that this never happens again.”

The eldest man spoke again. “Gather the things for your ebó, Obatalá. If you can do these things, we will return with you. We believe in you. We will walk with you to Ido and take back what belongs to us.”

Obatalá smiled and he spent the rest of the day gathering what he needed for ebó. When finally he fell into a deep slumber, there was, again, a semblance of joy in his heart.

Joy did not last long.

The next morning everyone in the village awoke to a strange little man dressed in red and black; he was wiry and spry, running through the town like a demented child. As he ran recklessly he yelled, “Death to all who enter Ido! Death to all who enter Ido!”

Obatalá was the first to recognize him. “Eshu!” he called out. “Why do you say that?”

Eshu ran to Obatalá and threw himself at his feet briefly, waiting for him to touch his shoulders and bless him. Obatalá did; Eshu jumped up as if he had springs on his feet. “Because Olófin says that all who enter Ido will find death. They will lose their heads.” With those words he ran through the town announcing, “Death to all who enter Ido!” It was almost a chant, and his words died in the distance as Eshu ran out of that town and into the next.

“You see?” said the eldest of the elders. “We cannot go with you. The town is locked down and anyone who goes there finds death.”

“Call for us once you are there,” said the eldest woman. “If you go to Ido and make ebó, and if you can restore order, call for us. But we have suffered enough. We will not go back unless it is safe.”

The crowd of elders agreed with the eldest; Obatalá felt the fear in their hearts. It was real and it was deep. Sadly he shook his head in agreement. “I will go alone. I will make ebó. And when it is safe, I will send for you all.”

That morning Obatalá gathered his things and started the day’s journey back to the gates of Ido. He had not walked far before the weight of the ebó he carried tired him, and he sat down to rest.

As he rested, he spied a goat lulling in the bush; mindlessly, it grazed on the wild grasses. For quite some time Obatalá watched the goat, and when the animal finally raised his head and spied the old man, he smiled. “Obatalá!” he said, lowering his head to the ground in subservience, “it is a pleasure to see you here.”

Gently the orisha tapped him on his shoulders and bid him to rise. The goat saw the huge load sitting at the orisha’s feet. He frowned. “Why do you carry such a heavy load, Father?” he asked. “Is that why you sit here tired and resting?”

Obatalá nodded his head. “The burden I carry is huge, goat. Olófin entrusted me with making ebó on behalf of Ido. It is a town besieged by evil. After I make ebó, the evil will be quelled, and all the elders can return to their children.”

The goat knew little about ebó, but he loved Obatalá dearly, as did most creatures on the earth. His kindness and gentle nature were well known. “Father, let me carry your burden for you. I am young and I am strong. You can tie it to my back, and you, as well, can ride. I will carry you to the town of Ido.”

He was happy to let the animal help. Carefully Obatalá tied his huge load to the goat’s back, and then he mounted as well. Together they traveled the road to Ido.

While Eshu ran through the world warning everyone about the town of Ido, Elegguá was sitting by the city’s gates keeping watch, and Ogún slept fitfully, his hands still brandishing the machetes. When Obatalá and the goat rose in the distance like two faint dots, Elegguá saw them; but because Obatalá’s clothes were soiled from his journey, and because he sat on the back of a goat with huge saddlebags, Elegguá did not recognize him as an orisha.

Elegguá shook Ogún. “Wake up, Ogún. There is someone coming to the gates of Ido now.” The orishas hid on either side of the gates, Elegguá holding a basket to catch the head while Ogún stood brandishing his machete high above his head. They waited silently; and it was the goat’s head that crossed the gate first.

With one powerful swoop, Ogún brought the machete down; the goat’s head, severed from its body, fell in the basket Elegguá held; and slowly, its body collapsed under Obatalá’s legs. Obatalá planted his feet firm on the earth as the goat fell lifeless beneath him, and he watched, with horror as first Ogún and then Elegguá drank the blood that sprayed from the neck like a fountain. When they were done Elegguá lifted the basket with the head and presented to Obatalá, and Obatalá, still in shock, stood there holding it.

Olófin came to the gate that morning after the goat was killed; he saw Ogún and Elegguá prostrated on the earth before Obatalá, and he saw Obatalá holding the basket with the head. He smiled. “So be it,” he said, “that Obatalá himself will be the head of this town, and all who come will pay him homage.” Gently he took the basket from the old man’s hands and embraced him. “And while the world is still a world, the goat, for disobeying my orders, will be sacrificed for all those who savor his meat.”

The white goat became the favored sacrifice of Obatalá that day; and when war arises in any land, it is the sacrifice of that between he, Ogún, and Elegguá that wins the war. One by one, all the elders of Ido returned to care for its youth; they taught them the ways of the world and how to be prosperous. And Obatalá remained as its spiritual head, the advisor to all the kings and queens who ruled the town with wisdom.