by CP Patrick
Father did not have great wealth, and so we were his only children. Now that I am older, I believe this was intentional. It was not that Father could not achieve abundance. He chose not to pursue affluence, for this ensured he would have just one wife— Mother.
“The day is over,” Father would announce. “It is time for the sun to go home.”
His children came running toward his open arms, jostling for position, for we all wanted the best view. Amondi often charmed her way into Father’s lap. Her brothers would only push her so much, for they were frowned upon if they shoved their sister with too much force. And I was the oldest, and although I wanted to be in Father’s lap, it was not really an option, so I crouched at his side.
Father would lift his palms to the sky and enclose them around the sun. Mother smiled as her children clamored around the man who could guide the sun into the earth with his hands and the sound of his voice.
While Father put the sun to rest for all of his children, he made it rise in the morning just for me. He awakened me before my siblings, and together, hand in hand, we walked in silence toward the baobab tree. Long, green blades of grass damp underneath each footstep. We moved quick and purposeful. The pathway familiar. Our feet knew the way without us telling them where to go.
Dark purple billows rolled through the sky at daybreak, providing us little light as the sun waited for Father. We were surrounded by the color of dawn, the sounds of life preparing for a new day. Birds chirped their cheerful songs announcing morning. Insects rubbed their wings together. Nature’s music.
The baobab tree stood enormous and forbearing on the horizon. Its branches reaching high before leaning over, wooden limbs stretching toward the earth. Shadows beckoned my youthful imagination, and I believed the tree to be the resting place of hundreds of birds. I knew the branches held gourds of fruit, but I enjoyed pretending the gourds were dark fowl nestled within their own wings, sleeping and swaying in the early morning breeze.
Father called it the tree of life, and near its large trunk, a worn patch of grass revealed our sacred place. I sat in Father’s lap as the dark gourds hung on long stems above our heads. Father raised his hands, slow and deliberate. The sun would rise and take its place in the sky.
These moments were for us.
“Remember what makes us special, Awiti,” Father reminded me. “I can control the sun. And when your heart desires, you can control the rain.”
It was often after Father made the sun rise, he would tell the story of how the rains soaked the village during my birth. The last raindrop fell as I took my first breath.
I know now, of course, it was not true. That Father could not make the sun rise or set. His fictitious display of power was for his children. Young ears and eyes that believed whatever their Father said and showed them. But for many years, I believed him.
Even when I was old enough to question the possibility of it all, I still believed. For he was Father. Perfect in every way.
Our lives were simple then. Gentle breezes carried the smells of meals cooking. Bellies always full with fresh catch. Vegetables grew abundant in the fertile land. The women braided each other’s hair and told stories that made little sense to children’s ears but caused much laughter amongst those old enough to understand the tale.
Boys fished in the blue waters with their fathers while the girls and mothers waited on shore for the catch. The younger children watched. Their dark naked bodies splashed about, swimming and playful. When children became aware of their nakedness, the boys went off to become men. And when the men returned, the girls were women. Ready and eager to be wives and mothers.
Sometimes the fathers left the village to trade and hunt, with great fanfare made upon their departure and return. Their travels were filled with stories that enticed the young boys and frightened the girls. Danger abounded outside our village, but the fathers would not be defeated, determined to come home to their wives and children.
Excited to hear of life in other villages and tall tales of adventure, the children loved when their fathers returned. The men often brought small gifts for their offspring and taught us the greetings and common phrases of our neighbors. We laughed at how strange the words sounded, amazed other villages only a few days’ travel away spoke a language so different from our own.
As I grew older, I helped Mother, following her movements that would one day be my routine. I learned to cook the meals Father loved. I knew how to tell when the fire was ready and which spices healed sickness. In the mornings, I fetched water from the river and tended to the children. I tilled our garden, giving my siblings and the soil equal amounts of love and attention.
Whenever I looked to the sky, clouds took on the shapes of animals as the sun shined, yellow and resolute. Grass blanketed the land, a vibrant sea of green stems that were sweet when chewed. Flowers with petals of reds, shades of orange and purple dotted the terrain as far as the eye could see. Our village was surrounded by beauty.
There were times when our king called for celebration. Large feasts to honor our ancestors or a successful harvest. Men beat their drums under the night sky while the mothers and older daughters sang and danced around the fire. On these nights the stars in the sky seemed plentiful, glistening and bright against the dark blue heavens. I often tried to count the stars only to awaken the next morning. Father told me I had fallen asleep, but he always encouraged me to try the feat again.
Children scurried about during the village feasts, happy to be awake with the adults after nightfall. I was somewhere in between. Too old to scurry yet too young to dance with the mothers and older daughters, their bodies full of curves from bearing children.
Mother was enchanting in these moments. Her voice strong and harmonious, rising above the others as she sang songs she learned from the women in her second village. Words echoed of courage and bravery. Of joy and forgiveness. Lessons on living and dying interwoven into each melody.
Hips and feet danced to the rhythmic beats of the drums. Father watched Mother, smiling as her dark skin reflected the flames. I dreamed I would grow to dance like Mother. That one day, as I danced and sang, my husband would look at me the way Father looked at Mother.
It was often after our celebratory feasts many of the wives’ bellies became swollen.
Love, is what Father said.
Their wombs were swollen with Love.
Much time had passed after the attack on Father and Mother’s first village. They were settled and content in their second village. I believe they thought we were safe. If not for my existence—a daughter born with brown skin and dark, slick curls—perhaps they would have thought the strange men to be just a dream.
Their first village was but a distant recollection. Never forgotten, but with each day, memories of the lives they once lived moved further and further away. Father and Mother never imagined the strange men would return. But they did.
Marching boldly, the brown invaders carried yokes of wood to place around the necks of our people. We all saw them coming, as our village sat high above the clearing for times such as these. Women and children ran to places of safety as they waited for the men to protect them. And the fathers and warriors prepared to fight, Father among them.
Before going to engage in battle, Father gathered his children and Mother.
“You must run,” he told us. “Run fast and do not look back. Run until you find a new village to call home.”
Father promised we would find each other, even if it took a lifetime. And I believed him. I knew no matter what happened, our family would find a way to be together again. I knew I would do whatever it took to ensure our reunion.
And so I ran. I never looked back. And I never saw them again.
2
the immortal
Oyo Empire, Yoruba (1693)
When I first heard the faint cries and saw the thin brown legs peeking out from beneath the leaves of the natal guarri tree, I should have turned away. I should have gone in the opposite d
irection from what was sure to be trouble. But I did not. I could not. For even then, with her body partially hidden, the tree revealing only her long legs, Awiti tempted me.
It was the day the rain came. After thirty-four days of dryness, our prayers were finally answered. The rain began to fall, slow but continuous, the dry dirt eager to soak in the wetness. Raindrops left little circles on the ground where the earth had swallowed them.
I looked up to the pale skies as white clouds moved across the blue with haste. And I thanked Shango, the Sky Father. Then I heard the weak cries, saw the willowy brown legs, and turned toward her. I still remember my first words.
“Bawo ni? Se o le so ede Yoruba?”
We were outside the gates of the Kingdom of Oyo, and I needed to know. Was she ours?
Her legs were much too light in color. They had not seen enough sun. She was not black, her skin not saturated with darkness like the women of our kingdom. So she could not possibly be from Oyo. And thus, she could not possibly speak Yoruba. But she replied,
“Mo le so o die...” Her voice not much more than a whisper. She could speak a little.
I moved closer so I could see her more clearly. Her thin, awkward frame crumpled amongst the dying leaves at the bottom of the tree. If this was her best effort to hide, she had failed.
Small dark eyes with full lashes blinked back tears. Long, thick hair flowed down her back in deep black waves with rounded curls at the ends. Rain fell on her heart-shaped face. Tiny droplets rested on the dark ringlets of hair. She was beautiful.
“Ki ni oruko e?” I asked
Her name might give insight to her village.
“Oruko mi ni… Awiti.”
Her voice was kind, and if she was afraid of the large, dark man towering over her, she did not show her fear.
“Oruko mi ni Oranyan.”
I reached out my hand to her. I wanted Awiti to know I meant her no harm. That I could never hurt something so beautiful.
Her name was strange. Its meaning and origin foreign to me. Awiti did not reach for my hand in return, and so I crouched down next to her. The rain mixed with dirt, and it created a warm mud that seeped between my toes. But I did not care.
Tears stained the brown face thin from hunger. Although she was famished, her lips were full and pink. New leaves were budding on the branches of the natal guarri, rainfall providing the nourishment they so desperately needed. They were tiny leaves. A pale, gold-tinted green, their true color was not yet rich and deep. Now there was rain. The leaves would darken, yellow flowers would bloom, and berries would grow. I imagined Awiti’s full lips tasting the red berries. I was already taken with her.
“Do not worry,” I told her, uncertain as to whether she could understand my words. “I will help you.”
Awiti only nodded in response.
Her clothing was soiled. All of her unclean and full of evidence of disorder. Her feet, too small for a woman but too large for a girl, were dirty. The petite toenails covered with red, brown, and black stains. There was nothing to protect her hands, and so her fingernails mirrored the feet in their cleanliness. But even with all of these shortcomings, she was perfect.
Her unkempt appearance was meaningless to the brown skin, dark coils of hair, and full pink lips that covered straight white teeth. And nothing, not even the filth that coated her, could detract from her eyes.
The indigo bird’s eyes are small and black. And when Awiti looked at me, she seemed a human indigo. I felt as though she could see me. The dark eyes searching who I was versus the man I pretended and wished to be. Exposed, I broke our uncanny trance and looked away. I stood up in an effort to compose myself.
The rainfall became more intense. The raindrops large and warm. Awiti’s hair turned darker as the shower soaked the deep, black waves.
“IIu wo l'o ti wa?” I asked.
Awiti did not answer. She did not tell me the name of her village or people. She just appeared. And that was how it all began. With Awiti appearing outside the palace walls of Oyo, and me rescuing her from whatever she was escaping.
Much time has passed since that day, and each second reminds me of the power of mortality. Soon my life will end. As death becomes more imminent, the mind tends to reflect on life. Chances that were or were not taken. Whether decisions made were right or wrong. And each of my considerations reminds me of Awiti.
All those years ago, although I tried to convince myself I was noble for rescuing a helpless girl, I knew I was being selfish, deviant. Awiti had something I wanted. I knew I could take what I wanted from her. And I did.
I did hurt something so beautiful.
Most will never know the misery of living an indefinite number of years. The reality of immortality is much more burdensome than the fantasy. At first, yes, it was wonderful to take risks and do harm. To live with reckless abandon and know I would never die. But then, and then came much sooner than I imagined, I desired to become old.
I wanted a true life. Many days I longed for a wife and to have children who favored me. There were even times I desired to experience death, for I had become so despondent at the thought of living forever.
And that was why Awiti hiding beneath the natal guarri in the rain, dirty and childlike, was so enticing. Awiti had what I wanted the most. She was mortal.
Often when I reflect on meeting Awiti, I wonder if it was I who was tricked. If all along Awiti had come to Oyo with a purpose. Her spirit searching for someone like me. Waiting for me to bargain with her.
“Come with me,” I told her, extending my arms. “Someone so lovely does not belong in the dirt. Will you come with me?”
Our first encounter—Awiti beautiful and vulnerable, and I walking outside the palace walls at that exact moment—well, it was quite fortuitous for us both. And I know from all my years of living such an encounter was rarely happenstance. Could Awiti have known who and what I really was? I have never been certain.
Regardless, that fateful day, I picked Awiti up from beneath the pale, golden-green leaves and cradled her in my arms. Her thin frame was light, and I held her without much effort. She placed her head on my shoulder. Her lips grazed my neck as the dark waves fell over my bare skin.
I took Awiti into Oyo, carrying her past the palace guards, who had never seen someone with such brown skin. The guards’ eyes acknowledged her beauty, but they were careful not to disrespect me. I held Awiti as though she were already mine.
“She is injured,” I told them as I moved quickly through the large wooden gates. “I must get her to the healers if she is to be saved.”
Awiti raised her head so she could take in the magnificence of our kingdom. There was much evidence of our wealth and power. When we passed by the palace of Oba, her dark eyes opened wide. I suspected Oyo was very different from her home.
“Come quick,” I yelled, rushing towards the compound of the Oloogun. The air smelled fragrant, full of incense and musk. I was quite frantic as I pleaded,
“Please help this young woman. Her name is Awiti. That is all I know.”
Olujimi, the high priest, prayed for Awiti. And the medicine women tended to her wounds. They fed her well, nourishing her with our finest fruits and vegetables and slaying fresh meat in her honor. Although dehydrated and famished, Awiti was alive.
“She will be fine, Oranyan,” Olujimi assured me. “She is in need of nourishment, prayer, and rest.”
I continued to linger, watching her.
“Go now,” Olujimi commanded. “Let us do our work.”
Soon Awiti was in good health, and everyone in Oyo came to see the young woman who had magically appeared outside the palace walls. The medicine women massaged Awiti with the finest oils until her brown skin glistened as honey from a bee’s hive. Awiti’s thick hair hung down her back, nearly reaching her waist.
“Isn’t she so beautiful?”
“Look at her skin. It is though her father is the heavens and her mother is the sun.”
“Where is her home?” some
men asked. “Could there exist an entire village with women so beautiful?”
Oyo’s people worshipped Awiti, stroking her deep coils of hair and not-black-enough skin. We all believed she was blessed. And Awiti was gracious. Even the Alaafin of Oyo came to see Awiti. When I told her his name meant “owner of the palace,” she understood his significance. Awiti bowed to thank him for allowing her into his kingdom.
I was pleased Awiti had recovered. For although this sounds harsh, her successful recovery meant I could take from her what I needed. There existed only one concern. Awiti was anxious. And I was certain it had to do with her past.
I would often inquire, “Awiti, tell me of your village, of your home before you came to Oyo.”
“I have told you I cannot, Oranyan,” Awiti would say softly. “I cannot allow myself to return to those memories. The weight of what I have lost—it crushes me. When I think of that time, I do not want to live. And so I try not to remember.”
“But it is not good to hold in painful memories. Allow me to share in your pain. Allow me to help you heal, Awiti.”
“Oranyan, please,” she would beg. “Please, can we not discuss such things?”
And often, after we had these conversations, Awiti would cry. Even the sky seemed to share in her misery, dark and gloomy. For many days, Awiti would remain cloaked in sadness.
Because of this, she was not ideal. As an immortal with a troubled spirit, Awiti would live within two worlds. Awiti’s body would exist in mortal form. And her restless spirit would walk the earth for eternity. She would be among the living and the dead. But this did not stop me.
She was not perfect, but Awiti was a vessel nonetheless. I told myself numerous times her past affairs were not my concern. But I knew then, as I know now, that was not true.
