Then the babalawo gathers up the nuts and begins again until sixteen sets of marks have been drawn in the dust. It is a long process, sometimes made shorter by use of an opele, or divining chain. Oya, however, had insisted that they go to this diviner.
“The orisha,” she had said seriously, “are said to listen more carefully to the fall of the palm nuts, than to that of the chain.”
Aduke, who was beginning to hear her college-educated self arguing with her traditional self, had not resisted.
There are 256 possible figures that can be arrived at in either form of Ifa divination. Each is tied to a series of stories; the wiser the diviner, the more stories he knows. All the stories are held within the diviner’s memory—though some scholars like her brother-in-law Kehinde have tried to record them. In the stories are the answers to any problem a client may bring.
So the elders say.
Yes, it’s rather like binary, Aduke thinks, remembering that lecture on computer languages. Binary is 1 0 1 0, open shut open shut. So much has been said about the abacus as an ancestor of the adding machine. Has anyone ever noticed that the Yoruba invented the computer?
She sighs. So often she is like this, a woman of two worlds. In one world she is what the Yoruba sometimes call onikaba, a gown wearer, a westernized woman. This is the Aduke who has been to the university, speaks and reads not only English but French and some German, knows history and dates, theories and theorems.
In the other world she is little better than an aróso, a wrapper wearer, like the women in the market when she was a child. This Aduke trembles at the stories of àbikú and dreads that her baby might have been one, that she is doomed to bear the same frivolous ancestor spirit back to earth again and again, suffering each time it dies. The aróso here looks upon the babalawo and his palm nuts with respect and awe, hoping he can show her the path her personal ancestor spirit chose for her before her birth, hoping that he can guide her to discover which god demands a sacrifice or what actions she must take to ensure that her next baby is born willing to dwell on the earth with her.
When her mind is torn like this, Aduke feels more like a twin than a single person. Certainly Taiwo, her husband, the firstborn of twins, does not seem to feel any such confusion. His university education sits easily on him; his only mention of the traditional ways is to make jokes about the old customs. Kehinde, his identical twin, is interested in the things Taiwo is not. He is forever listening to the old people’s stories. At first he wrote them down, now he tapes them. Perhaps that is one of the powers of twins—to split a single destiny between two people and so move into life without confusion of purpose.
And who, she thinks to herself in amusement, are you now? Are you the aróso believing that twins are born with greater power than other people or the modern student of psychology analyzing the quirks of the human psyche?
“I don’t know,” she says aloud, and her companion, the strange woman Oya, turns to look inquiringly at her.
“What don’t you know, Aduke?” she asks pleasantly.
“I...” Aduke certainly doesn’t want to tell her thoughts here, not where the babalawo might hear and be insulted. But then, if he truly is a “father of secret things,” as his title implies, might he know anyhow, might her lying block his ability to help her?
The two sides of her mind pull her in separate directions like a woman tugged by two small children (like, her westernized mind whispers, the charioteer in Plato’s story, pulled by the two horses, the unruly black and the patient white).
Which is the unruly side? Aduke wonders desperately. Her black side seems the more patient one, willing to accept what happens and be guided by tradition and custom. It is her “white” side, the one that has been exposed to the contradictions offered in her European-influenced education, that seems unruly.
Belatedly, she realizes that Oya is studying her, still waiting for an answer.
“I can’t say,” Aduke answers lamely, choosing neither to lie nor to enlighten.
She wonders if Oya might understand her confusion. The older woman seems completely comfortable with traditional ways, yet Aduke heard her speaking to a tourist a few days ago, speaking perfect English and using modern idiom. There is definitely more to her than first impressions would suggest.
“I am,” Aduke says aloud, in complete honesty, “very tired. My breasts ache with milk I cannot give my child. My heart hurts, and I am sick of the heat and the wind.”
“Don’t ever feel sick from the wind,” Oya says. “The wind is a woman’s friend, the storm power that remained hers when Shango took the thunder and lightning. Sickness comes when the wind stops blowing in fresh air.”
“It is an ill wind that blows no one good,” Aduke quotes with a smile. Only after she says this does she remember the old Yoruban story. It had not been just any woman who had possessed the wind. It had been Oya.
The babalawo is ready for her now. He greets her, welcoming her to sit on the ground in front of him. She does so, placing a few naira on his mat as Oya has coached her. Even as she moves, she recites the appropriate greetings for a young woman to an older man, for a supplicant to a priest.
The Ifa diviner is an old man, and what hair he has is sparse and white. His costume is the traditional long robe of striped cotton, bright and clean except where it has trailed in the dirt. Clearly his family treasures him. Kehinde would treasure him, too, as a repository of nearly lost stories.
When the old man smiles at her, he shows more gum than teeth. When he speaks, slight whistles and lisps slip out where the teeth should be, but Aduke understands him without too much difficulty.
“Daughter, what do you wish to know of yourself?”
“I had a baby,” she says, and despite the fact that she has rehearsed these words over and over in her mind over her voice cracks, “a son, still nursing. He was taken by”—she drops her voice low, leaning forward so only the father of secrets will hear her—“the Owner of Hot Water.”
She feels hot water falling on her hands and bare arms and realizes that she is crying. Letting the tears fall, she continues:
“Baba, why did my son die? Do I have an enemy? Is he àbikú? What can I do to keep my future children, if I am blessed with them, alive and safe? Will I have other children?”
Aduke stops, realizing that she has departed from her prepared speech. She swallows hard. Somehow she is leaking all over: tears from her eyes, milk from her breasts, words from her mouth. Whatever happened to the Aduke she thought she knew?
Another question, she scolds herself. Be silent and listen.
The babalawo seems to know that she has collected herself.
“It is easiest,” he says with a gentle smile, “if we begin with one question. The stories may give you the answers you need at once, but if not, you can ask more questions.”
Aduke nods. “Yes, Baba.”
“What is it you want to know?”
Aduke reiterates her first question. “Why did my son die? I know the simple answer. There was an illness, but...”
She stops in mid-word. That had been the aróso speaking, prating about simple answers and illnesses. In a moment she would have been talking about bacterial infections, vaccinations, disease vectors. Why ask if she knows the answers?
“I’m sorry, Baba,” she says repentantly. “My question is ‘Why did my son die?’”
The babalawo smiles and nods. Then he taps a bell against his divining tray to get the god Ifa’s attention. When this is done, he scoops his sixteen palm nuts, polished with frequent use, from the carved wooden cup made specifically to hold them. This cup is particularly beautiful. A man on horseback surrounded by his entourage is carved around the stem of the cup. The cup itself is over their heads, like a ceremonial umbrella.
Normally, Aduke would have admired the artistry. Today, she is too nervous.
While he casts the nuts, Aduke feels her thoughts wandering again. She lets them go, feeling them blown on a wind she rides.
/> Ifa divination is not the only form of traditional divination she might have chosen. There are many simpler forms: casting four cowries or four kola nuts; water gazing, and trance utterances. Some Yoruba use forms of divination taken from other cultures, like Islamic sand cutting or even reading tarot cards or casting dice.
Initially, she had been drawn to a form of divination similar to the casting of the palm nuts. In this form, sixteen cowries are cast instead. The way they fall onto a wicker basket indicates the verses to be recited, just as in Ifa divination the combination of ones and twos indicates what verses are to be recited.
What had attracted Aduke to this form, even though it was less complex and thus (to her westernized way of seeing things) could offer her a less precise answer, was that in the divination with sixteen cowries, the diviner might be a woman. Babalawo are always men.
Aduke had thought that confiding her grief to a woman would be easier and that a woman might be more sympathetic and so give her better advice.
Oya had dissuaded her from this course of action.
“Cowrie divination is good in its place,” she had said, “very good, but it has one weakness that Ifa divination does not. All Ifa diviners take their learning from Orunmila, who has been given this wisdom directly from his father Olodumare. Since it is Olodumare from whom the ancestral soul requests his new destiny, the chain of knowledge is simple and direct. Olodumare to Orunmila to the babalawo.
“However,” she had continued, her voice growing soft yet more firm, “the chain of knowledge is not so simple in the divination with sixteen cowries. Depending on which deity the diviner is consecrated to, the verses differ slightly.”
Aduke had protested. “But one of the orisha to whom the sixteen cowries divination is given is your own namesake, Oya. Another is Shango, who is the patron of this city. Yet another is Eshu, for whom each household keeps a shrine. Perhaps the personal orisha will intercede more closely with his diviner and so the knowledge will be more precise. Certainly Olodumare cannot be expected to keep track of every destiny he grants!”
Oya had frowned sternly at her. “You sound like a lawyer or a medieval Christian invoking a patron saint! Since you are so wise, tell me, who are all the orisha who employ the sixteen cowries in their personal cults?”
Aduke had blushed. “I can’t remember precisely. There are several. The ones I already mentioned: Oshun, Yewa... There are others, but I would need to look them up in Kehinde’s notes.”
“I will spare you the trouble,” Oya had said coldly. “In some areas the cult of Shopona uses the divination by sixteen cowries. Now tell me, wisewoman, who is the one orisha of the many, of the over four hundred named deities, who is the only one whose worship has been banned by the government?”
Aduke had not been brave enough to use the terrible god’s name. “The King of the World.”
“The same King of the World who left his mark on your baby?” Oya asks mockingly.
“The same.” Aduke’s answer was in a whisper.
“And will his worshipers announce their alliance publicly?”
“No, ma’am.”
“No, that is so.” Oya’s tones had softened. “Now, young mother, let me tell you my thinking. If I had been raised and trained in the cult of an outlawed orisha, I would not want to waste all the training I had been given, especially since that training serves my patron as well as me. Remember the saying, ‘A boy learns to divine in poverty. When he knows Ifa he becomes wealthy.’ So this diviner has been poor, and is going to be denied the chance for wealth. Do you think he—or she—will think this fair?”
“No, ma’am.”
“So what does this diviner trained in the cult of an outlawed deity do? Tell me. You are wise.”
Aduke had straightened and given the answer she knew Oya expected. “Go out and do the work for which he—or she—has been trained but say that you are from another cult, perhaps that of Eshu, for Eshu is a difficult god for any mere human to predict.”
“Good girl!” Oya had seemed genuinely pleased. “I hadn’t thought of the Eshu connection. Good! Now do you see why I want you to go to a babalawo? One cowrie diviner might pass as belonging to the cult of another—the verses do not differ greatly, and how they do is mostly in emphasis. An Ifa diviner, however, must know many more verses, for there are many more combinations open to him. There a substitution could not be carried off.”
“I understand, Oya, and I will do as you say.” Aduke, warmed by Oya’s praise of her insight forgives the older woman for making her feel like a child again. “But I had hoped to speak to a woman. This is a woman’s matter.”
Oya had reached and stroked Aduke’s hair. “Is it, child? Then you haven’t looked to your husband since the baby fell ill. Still, since you wish a woman to consult, I will accompany you. My patron orisha would request no less of me.”
Afterward, Aduke has trouble remembering precisely what had happened. The babalawo had finished casting his palm nuts, checked his divining tray to see what series of stories were indicated, then had begun reciting them. Her role was to listen and then to select which story out of the many applied to her situation.
Before they had come, Aduke had been worried that none of the stories would apply or that all of them would seem to apply. However, in the dreamlike state in which she listens to the babalawo speak, these concerns recede. However, the babalawo seems reluctant to give her advice.
“This story is very old,” he says in a quavering voice, “and even my teacher was uncertain of its meaning. Certainly, many orisha are involved in your troubles, daughter.”
“Which orisha, Baba?”
“Many.”
And that is all he will say. In a break with precedent, he accepts only a small offering for his labors. Usually, he would tell her what sacrifices to make based on the verse selected. His reward would be determined by the verse as well.
“In the next house of Ifa,” he says, “is a babalawo who uses the divining chain. Since the chain is quick to talk, you can ask more questions and find out more precisely what you are to do.”
Perhaps if Oya had not been with her, Aduke would have cut her losses then and gone home. Under the older woman’s watchful gaze, she cannot retreat. As the new diviner’s chain begins to fall (the sixteen shells along its length land either up or down, so indicating the appropriate verse), she falls again into a dreamlike state in which she asks her questions and hears the answers.
In the end, the news is not encouraging. Of the five types of good fortune, only one is indicated with any certainty: money. Defeat of enemies and long life are possibilities. However, the good fortune Aduke desires most of all—children—is not indicated.
“At this time, daughter,” the babalawo comforts her. “Perhaps when your troubles are ended, then the orisha will grant you children. Certainly Olodumare would be a cruel god to send you children with such evils on the horizon.”
He shudders as he says this, and Aduke can only agree. Of the five types of bad fortune, the opele had indicated that four loomed over her: loss, conflict, illness, and death. Aduke hasn’t the heart to have him refine his predictions, to learn, for example, if the death predicted is her own or that of someone close to her.
The babalawo seems eager to have her leave—and no wonder. If his predictions are correct, Aduke and those closest to her are specially singled out for the attention of powerful evil forces. Aduke rises, says the appropriate things, and lets Oya lead her from the crowd.
“Did you hear?” she asks.
“I heard,” Oya says grimly. “First we make the prescribed sacrifices. Then we start preparing for this conflict. At least the divination showed that you have luck in one way.”
“What!” Aduke looks at her in astonishment. “Never has there been so much doom predicted for a single family! The babalawo was nearly as white as an Englishman before he finished speaking.”
“Ifa is sometimes called a ‘white god,’” Oya says reassuringly. “Thi
s may be a good sign.”
“What is the luck we have?” Aduke demands.
Oya chuckles. “Nowhere in all his verses did the babalawo predict that want of money would be among the evils you would face. That’s a good thing, because all those sacrifices we gotta make are going to cost a bundle!”
4
Allzu Klug ist dumm.
(Too clever is stupid.)
—German proverb
“Arthur’s sure in one hell of a mood today,” Bill comments to Chris as they settle into their office one morning. “I just brought him a summary of some stock information he’d asked me to look up, and he was barely civil. Didn’t even thank me for the work I did upgrading his Internet access. I’m beginning to understand why Camelot fell.”
Taking off his glasses, Chris rubs his eyes, musing that there are times when he wishes he drank coffee. He’d been up late the night before covering a concert at Tingly Coliseum for the Journal. No matter how well his new job pays, he doesn’t want to cut his ties to his former employers—and when the editor had requested that he cover the show she’d added backstage passes and choice seats.
“It’s nice to feel wanted,” he says aloud. “Arthur has forgotten how to deal with employees rather than vassals.”
“Guess so,” Bill says. He scans his e-mail, looking for a message from Lovern. Nothing. “Have you heard from Lovern?”
“No. Just a list of supplies he wants purchased and driven out there. It’s quite eclectic: two bolts of midnight blue satin, matching thread and the like, a case of sandalwood incense, six dozen pure beeswax candles, a whole list of different herbs, polymer clay, and forty pounds of small quartz crystals.”
Chris grimaces. “Most of this I can find, but where the hell am I going to find forty pounds of quartz crystals? I could clean out every head shop and ‘mystic’ supply place in town without finding half that much—and they’ll cost a bundle. Lovern forgets that his Academy doesn’t have an unlimited budget.”
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