Waves of blue fabric and white lace tumble from the ceiling in a far corner of the room where a small, chocolate skinned woman sits with her legs crossed, quietly watching women dressed in white move about the room as they rearranging furniture, removing dust from lamp shades, sweeping and tidying up the space. She looks very serene, the eyelet stitching on the hem of her skirt rests delicately at the top of her ankles and heaping plates of grapes, melons and other colorful fruits sit at her feet.
“Have a seat hon,” says the woman from the door who introduces herself as Iya Yewande*. “The Iyawo* isn’t quite ready and the drummers aren’t here yet, it will be an hour or so before we start.”
Cumin, curry, garlic and the heavy scent of sage drift from the kitchen and the clang of pots and pans keep time with the rhythm of women’s laughter.
The ritual, before the ritual is underway. Every face in the room looks familiar; high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, full gap toothed smiles, they all look and feel like women I know. Women who I call auntie, momma, nana, they look like family.
“I love your earrings,” a short, caramel colored woman says as she leans towards me to inspect the small stones dangling from my ears. “Are they amber?”
“Yes, they were a birthday gift from a friend.”
“Your mother is Osun?” her words come across as both a question and statement.
“No…I mean, I’m not sure, I haven’t been initiated or had that determined yet.”
Before I can introduce myself and continue our conversation the woman is summoned to the kitchen. Left alone, I begin to replay her words in my mind. I’ve always had an affinity for Osun, but then again most people do. The Diaspora is smitten with Osun’s iconography. New World Santeria practitioners depict her as a beautiful young woman, adorned, perfumed and peeking flirtatiously from being a fan of peacock feathers. However underneath the layers of perfume and flowing skirts lays a graceful warrior, a clairvoyant diviner, an herbalist and a healer whose energy is strongly connected the future as she is always present during conception.
My thoughts are interrupted by Iya Yewande who is standing in a doorway on the side of the living room motioning me to follow her. I walk through the growing crowd, out the door and onto a small patio where a woman dressed in shades of orange and yellow sits next to several large plastic buckets filled with water and white flowers.
“Here’s someone who I haven’t seen in ages,” Yewande squeals while walking over to embrace the woman who is now smiling ear to ear.
The two gush over each other for a moment before Yewande turns toward me.
“This is my friend Iya Ayodele,” she says. “She’s been initiated priestess of Osun for 30 years.”
Orisa Vocabulary
*Iyawo (EE-Yah-Whoa): translated from Yoruba the word means “bride of the Orisa” it is the title given to newly initiated priest as they complete a year of training.
The names in the story have been changed to protect privacy
* Yewande (Ye-wan-day) means mother returns
* Ayodele (I-yo-deh-lay) – joy has come home
