The Altar of My Soul

by Marta Moreno Vega

  The ceremonial drums used in Santería are called batá drums. Shaped like hourglasses, the double-headed drums are covered with goatskin on each side. The three ceremonial drums vary in size. The largest drum is called the iya, followed by the itotele and the okonkolo. Lying horizontally across the knees, each drum has a distinct sound. During ceremonies they enter into a rhythmic call and response, in the tempos of the particular song of the orisha to be called to Earth. In the Santería religion only men are allowed to play in ceremonies. Sacred batá drums and drummers undergo a special ceremony in which Añya, the orisha of the drum, consecrates the instruments and the drummers. The batá drums are original to the Yoruba of West Africa and were re-created in Cuba by enslaved Africans. Following the journey of Santería initiates, one can find batá drums throughout the Americas.

  The dreams were vivid and real. I felt the touch of my spiritual mothers, my guardian angels, as they entered, guided, and filled my dreams with divine inspirations. The dreams unfolded like scenes in a film, but they had no logical sequence. Since I did not have the full script in my hands, the ending was still unknown to me. What was clear, however, was that a new order was emerging in my life, and it would soon be revealed. Eager to understand what was going on, I looked forward to a forthcoming divination session that Elpidio was organizing for me before I was to leave for home. I tried to remain calm, though I was very curious to know the revelations Orula would have about my life.

  The spiritual past that was coming into the present through my dreams was opening a series of inner doors, each connecting me to my unknown family lineage. I hoped that through divination I would gather information on my family’s spiritual legacy, whether my family would reunite, and what my destiny would be.

  In the meantime, Zenaida continued to organize our daily activities, filled with learning opportunities that revealed the complexities of Santería. She would advise me: “Never go into a situation blind. The more information you have, the better your decision. I consult the spirits, Obatalá and Orula, when there is a major problem or decision I must make. I always seek confirmación, confirmation, from the higher powers; that is why they are there.” This belief, I felt, explained her unshakable confidence.

  For the next phase of my training, Zenaida decided we should visit a tambor, a drumming ceremony, in celebration of her god-sister Justina’s fifth year of having been initiated with the orisha Obatalá. Zenaida was particularly eager to attend, wanting to know if Obatalá had a divine message for her. She advised that I dress in my best white clothing.

  Zenaida wore a layered cotton skirt trimmed in white lace. The hem was cut into eight-pointed, petal-like leaves covered with layers of white lace that were woven with threads of silver to catch the light. Her blouse, trimmed with the same silver thread, created a continuous shimmer around her robust body. Her cotton scarf, covered with rows of silver lace, was carefully wrapped around her head and appeared to be the feathers of a bird in flight surrounding her dark shiny skin. With white mule sandals also trimmed in silver, she looked magnificent. As I was unprepared for such a grand event, Zenaida lent me a white flouncy skirt covered with lace, and I wore my white T-shirt, white sneakers, and a matching head wrap. My informal style was no match for Zenaida’s luminescent grandeur.

  The aim of the drumming ceremony was to have the orisha possess a designated Omo Obatalá, a child of Obatalá, to speak to the religious community. The ceremony took place in Old Havana, which was a short distance from Zenaida’s apartment. A large crowd had already gathered outside the street-level apartment where the drum ceremony was being held. The narrow street with its endless line of worn colonial buildings was overflowing with restless initiates dressed in an array of white clothing, like restless doves ready to fly into the distant blue sky.

  The front room of the apartment was filled with practitioners dressed in beautifully designed, handmade white clothing. The ninety-five-degree temperature, mixed with the sizzling heat released by the dancers, created a wall of humidity that hit us as we entered. Zenaida wedged through the crowd, making space with her ample body. I followed her lead, stepping into a sliver of space as she quickly maneuvered through the web of dancers. Zenaida searched the crowd and quickly found Justina at the far end of the room.

  Justina led us into the adjacent room, where a magnificent altar in the room’s west corner had been erected in honor of Obatalá. Like a vast wedding cake with innumerable tiers, yards of white satin had been wound around a porcelain bowl, which was placed on top of the sculpture of an ivory elephant. Obatalá’s bowl was immediately the center of attraction. Before the orisha, there was a dazzling mosaic design of fruits, food, and flowers in a festival of colors. There was a tower made of mashed white yams in a large white enamel basin; dishes of merengue, a candy made from whipped egg whites and sugar; dulce de coco, coconut candy; arroz dulce, rice pudding; and many other sweet treats. On the floor was a large two-layered birthday cake with apple-red jellied writing that read: Felicidades, Mi Padre Obatalá, Happy Birthday, My Father Obatalá.

  Two large white candles had been lit on either side of the altar, shining their sacred light and blessings on the initiates who came to pay their respects. Zenaida prostrated herself before the altar, then I followed, praying for our families and blessings for all.

  Justina was a gentle fair-skinned woman who appeared to be in her late forties. Her chestnut-colored hair was flecked with bronze highlights that cast a golden shimmer around her face. She seemed worn beyond her age, her tired skin and tightly drawn mouth registering years of exhaustion that her carefully applied makeup could not hide.

  Zenaida, overwhelmed with the beauty of the altar, complimented Justina on her hard work in gathering Obatalá’s favorite foods. With a sad smile she said, “In Cuba, where it is so difficult to find anything, you were able to find everything. Obatalá will see your sacrifice and bless you.” Stepping back into the room where the drumming ceremony was in progress, I felt the intense spiritual vibration that was about to take over. Faces glistened with perspiration as drum rhythms drew the dancers closer into the world of the orishas. It was clear from the faces of the initiates that they were oblivious to their surroundings—they were engrossed in singing the songs, following the precise step patterns and hand movements that would create the ambience in which the orisha would select and possess their bodies.

  The room vibrated as the dancers’ voices became one with the movement of their bodies, “Babá Alaye O Babá Alaye O … Father, owner of the world, Father, owner of the world …” As the drumming intensified, the vocalist, the arpon, beseeched the orisha by talking into the ear of a dancer who would soon be touched by Obatalá’s aché. The arpon’s voice became stronger, more forceful and intense, as he teased and enticed the orisha to possess. “Baba Pe Wuró Obi Eyó Araye O … Father, they called you because of your grandness. He who has brought happiness to the world.”

  His vocal cords were stretched tight against his maple-colored neck; his eyes opened wide as the force of his voice exploded in his body, sending out renewed energy. His hands pointed nervously in the direction of the dancer, urging, begging, nagging, enticing Obatalá to enter. The urgency in his voice continued to escalate, soaring like an arrow shot into the sky. The penetration of the drumbeats shook the sacred dancer, rippling through his body, as the insistence of the arpon’s voice sent chills down the spines of all present, taking us to higher and higher spiritual levels.

  Zenaida, hearing the rhythms of the song to her orisha Obatalá, started dancing before the drums. Gently she pulled me to her side, coaching me to follow her lead. Bending low, we performed the slow, swaying steps of the dance to Obatalá. Following the steps, I watched for the moment the orisha decided to materialize. Caught in the high-pitched fervor, I felt my head swirl with the repetitive rhythms and movements. The dance steps to Obatalá came naturally as my body joined the flow that united me to the other initiates. The step-by-step beat released by the batá reached into
my heart, manipulating, caressing, opening my soul to spiritual energy.

  The room seemed to move in a delirious unison as the dancing bodies called upon Obatalá. We moved like soft, rippling waves waking at sunrise. The selected dancer, named Jaime, was a slim man in his late forties. He was wearing thick glasses and oversize white baggy clothing that hung from his thin body, and his shy, nondescript manner made him almost invisible. However, as he began to enter into a state of ecstasy, his personality blossomed. When the aché of Obatalá began to touch him, he fought fruitlessly, trying to stop the energy that was overtaking him.

  He jerked, he ran, he shook his head, and he held his hands to his ears in an effort to keep the begging voice of the arpon from entering his inner psychic realm. Like the persuasive, alluring voices of Puerto Rican soloist Marc Anthony, the African American singer Luther Vandross, and Brazilian vocalist Gilberto Gil, the arpon’s voice lovingly cajoled Obatalá, mesmerizing him with the sweetness of his song. Jaime’s body moved more erratically as his conscious and unconscious fought for their space within his body. A woman from the crowd quickly stepped forward to remove Jaime’s eyeglasses, protecting him from possible injury.

  The dancer’s anxious face searched briefly for refuge, but his vision was already blinded by the divine radiance of the aché of Obatalá. Then his bulging eyes seemed to acquire divine sight as he effortlessly moved about. He was enraptured by the spirit force. The dancers surrounding him had built up their own divine power, and now they moved together like a rushing, rumbling tidal wave. The insistence of the drumbeats summoned Obatalá, while simultaneously the trembling voice of the arpon reached yet a higher level of passion.

  “Okú Ni Baba … Babá Wu Olowo eee Babá Wu Olowo eee … Father, may you have a long life; Father, who looks after his venerable flock.”

  The chorus of initiated dancers responded, “Okú Ni Baba … Father, may you have a long life …” The driving, pulsating beat of the drums made his body move like a puppet controlled by an unseen hand.

  The arpon’s demanding voice rose higher as he stared into the eyes of Jaime, who was trying feverishly to escape his gaze. “Babá Pe Wuró Obi Eyó Alayé O … Father who calls us; who gave birth to the happiness of man …”

  The initiates in the room, as well as those outside, were touched by the spirit of the ceremony. The overflow of people stood in the street, hoping to eventually find a bit of space in the room to slip into, as everyone wanted to be part of the spirit energy that was about to erupt. Anxiously, they looked through the entrance door and into the two front windows, trying to get a glimpse of the batá drummers, the arpon, and the sacred dancer who was ready to receive Obatalá. The voices mixed in a forceful chorus that Obatalá could no longer resist. The dancer’s slim body shook like a leaf caught in the violent winds of a storm. He swirled before the batá drums, then leapt as if he were held by a thread that would take him through the ceiling right to heaven’s door. When he descended, he was strong, composed, calm, and cool, the adored regal king of purity and creation. Before us now stood a giant of a man, confident and commanding.

  Jaime would soon be dressed in the ritual pristine clothing of Obatalá. The crowded room seemed to sigh with relief and gratitude that Obatalá had finally been persuaded to make his appearance on Earth. The room was filled with enthusiastic congratulations for the drummers and the arpon, who had worked so hard to secure the spiritual connection. Immediately, they were overwhelmed with offers of cool refreshments, dollar bills were placed on their foreheads, and the small empty calabash on the floor in front of them was filled with money, tokens of appreciation for their special musical gifts. Designated initiates quickly guided Obatalá to the back room, where they would dress him. Happily, everyone waited for Obatalá to appear in his full regalia.

  Obatalá, the king, made his regal entrance dressed in a white satin Nehru-collared jacket. The sleeves were gathered at the shoulders and bloomed into long bells of cloth that came together at the wrist. The pant legs were also bell-shaped, stopping at midcalf. On his head, Obatalá wore a royal white crown intricately decorated with silver thread and rhinestones. It was clear that Jaime was no longer in his body. He was now the embodiment of Obatalá.

  The design of the ritual clothing resembled the dress of colonial times. Like the Catholic saints that hid the orishas, the imitation of colonial elegance served to conceal the identity of the orisha. The ceremonial clothing of both male and female orishas continue to recall the royal dress of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish royalty. The ingenious methods used to camouflage the orishas I found fascinating. Before me was Obatalá in the colonial dress of the culture that had tried to destroy him. His defiance demonstrated that nothing could stop the orishas.

  Starting with Justina, the people in the room went forward and lay on the floor before Obatalá so as to be lifted by his divine aché. Unconcerned about getting their clothes dirty, the initiates lay on the floor before the divine power, hoping to receive advice that would help them to overcome their daily struggles. The divine eye of Obatalá read the minds of those before him, generously greeting, advising, and even admonishing when necessary. The clarity of his vision was so startling that many hesitated before approaching him, afraid to hear the truth of Obatalá’s words.

  Zenaida whispered in my ear, “When Obatalá speaks, it is law. You must follow his advice to the letter. Sometimes he tells you what you do not want to hear, but you must still follow his instructions. He knows what is best for you.”

  Obatalá hugged Justina, thanking her for the wonderful, elaborate ceremony. Rising to his full impressive height, he said, “You do not need to shower me with gifts that you cannot afford. It is your heart, spirituality, and pure love that I want. Remember that I never want more than you can give.” Pausing a moment as he continued to embrace her, he said, “Do not worry, you do not have cancer. Go to the doctor, get an examination; all you have is a female problem.” He held her hands and looked deep into her eyes and said, “This is the second time you have been advised to go to the doctor. This time it is minor, but do not wait to be told a third time. Then it will be serious, and I will not help you.”

  Justina’s eyes filled with tears and confirmed the words of Obatalá, agreeing that she would immediately make an appointment to be examined by a doctor. Obatalá patiently spoke to all who came before him. On occasion, he would shout out to an initiate who was avoiding him and respond to an unasked question. In particular, I remember Obatalá looking at a young man who was standing by the door, trying to decide whether to enter to go before the orisha.

  Obatalá looked his way and said, “It is time you assumed the responsibility of your actions. You are going to be a father. Do not hide from me. I am the father of creation; I created you, do not offend me by abandoning the child and your responsibility.” The startled man blushed, turned, and ran away, causing all the gathered initiates to burst into laughter.

  Zenaida then decided to go before Obatalá for her blessing. Embracing her gently, he held her at arm’s length, and then said mischievously, “Well, you finally decided to listen to me. You are starting your own orisha family, your familia santoral. I am glad; it is time. Soon you will have a house full of godchildren who will bring you greater health and happiness. Your aché is in giving birth to the future generations of the religion.” He smiled as he twirled her around, then, facing her, said, “I have never failed you. You have no need to doubt me.”

  Turning in my direction, he beckoned me forward, but my legs refused to move. I was frightened, and my feet felt as if they were nailed to the floor. Wanting Zenaida to guide me, I stared at her, feeling fear mount inside my stomach as my body remained frozen. Obatalá laughed out, “Come to me, my child, why do you fear your father?”

  Barely breathing, I followed the reverent actions of others and lay down on the floor to await his blessings. When Obatalá lifted me, a tingling electrical sensation raced through my body, stopping deep inside my head. Ob
atalá delicately hugged me.

  Then, holding me at arm’s length with his left hand, he brought Zenaida forward with his right hand. He swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet, and with an authoritative look in his clear eyes, he said to Zenaida, “Understand the power of my will. I brought this young woman, obini, from another country to be your first goddaughter. You have been running away, avoiding your own salvation, refusing to give birth to children in the religion. You cannot run from me.”

  My heart was beating hard inside my chest when Obatalá’s unwavering eyes fell upon me, and he spoke. “You also have been running from me, ignoring the spiritual signs I have sent you. I brought you here from your country to show you my power. You are my child, and you cannot turn your back on me.” Still standing on the balls of his feet, he continued to sway back and forth, looking from Zenaida to me. With a knowing smile, he said, “I have brought you together to help each other and to spread my aché.”

  Suddenly, he turned to the drummers and hugged each of them. Then he embraced the arpon, who had started to sing and was encouraging everyone to join in, signaling to the drummers to start playing as he began to dance before the batá drums. “Okuni Bamba, Okuni Bamba … That you live a long life, that you live a long life.”

  Soon another initiate rose into the spiritual world, bringing down the blustering energy of the whirlwind with the female warrior, Orisha Oyá. Oyá descended into the body of an older woman named Mari. The music continued to drive its sacred message as it found a willing receptacle in her willing body. The arpon quickly went to Mari’s side, cajoling the orisha to possess her and signaling to the drummers to play the special rhythms of Oyá. The arpon joined in with his magical song, enticing the orisha. “Oyá de Ariwó, Oyá Nsan Loro Sokotó … Oyá, the one who arrives making noise, Oyá, that one who comes with the wind …”