Maurice Broaddus - [BCS300 S03] Read online

  “Yes,” Obatala’s eyes cleared and focused with the dim light of recognition. “I know you.”

  “His dying is telling you something,” Luci’Kobe pled. “You have to be willing to listen.”

  Dinga was no longer sure if she was speaking to him or to Orunmila. Or, rather, if she spoke the things to him she dare not say to her orisha.

  Dinga spoke anyway. “It tells me that life is meant to be incomplete. There is much unfinished between my father and I, that we waited too long to attend to. Now it... never shall be.”

  “Nothing makes sense any longer, losing the pillar around which your world was built,” Orunmila said. “When Olurun created the Universe, I bore witness. It is my burden to know the destiny of everything that exists. It is I whom people call on for healing. So where do I turn when I am in need? Feeding and bathing the dying, yet we do so every day without hesitation; since from the time you are infants, every minute lived is a step closer to death. Life can be cruel. A life of suffering is no life, and death often a relief. That’s why we say only the sky knows who will be saved.”

  The white sheets rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell.

  Desiring a better vantage point, Dinga risked a step forward. He interpreted the delicate play of words as similar to combat, with their subtle feints and thrusts. Now the conversation intrigued him and he stood in silent witness. Orunmila asked the questions of fathers and sons. If they had any regrets about how he lived. If they had any doubts about who he became. If they were proud of him. If he was loved. And Obatala, being present for the moment, told of their love for their son, and bandaged the old wounds of the heart because it was always up to the parent to restore the bridge to the child.

  “What madness is this?” Dinga asked. His constant, incandescent rage an inchoate thing, without a specific target to focus it on. He welcomed it, as it was better than the overwhelming silence that ruled his mind. Like his entire journey had led to this moment. Somehow all of this felt orchestrated, all staged for his benefit.

  “Madness? Orishas stand beyond what you count as rational or irrational.” Luci’Kobe took his hand, her touch cool, calming him like a cool breeze along a desert plain. “You have a very human lens. The world is not an object to be controlled, manipulated, or consumed. The orisha move through it as you should, appreciating its array of beauty. And pain. All of us are open vessels, free and vulnerable to experience all the joys and sorrows of life to their fullest. Craft sorrow into something that will grow the community.”

  Dinga was where he was supposed to be. Not an imposter. Blaming himself for Lalyani, from the Wasting to their lost time together, carrying the guilt with absolute conviction. Exposed, his damage revealed. He hated the little boy inside him, for not being man enough to stand up to his father. All of his fears, insecurities, and hurts buried within him. Not wanting to be vulnerable or appear weak. Life was a choice. He didn’t have to stay where he was. He no longer wanted to hide. Lalyani knew him and had loved him. What happened with her was not his shame to carry but his father’s alone. His father’s dishonor.

  Orunmila held his father’s hand until Obatala fell back asleep.

  “It’s almost time,” Dinga said to no one in particular.

  “How do you know?” Luci’Kobe asked.

  Dinga peered deep into her eyes, without words, his pain mirroring Orunmila’s terrible knowing. Weeks of sifting Lalyani’s facial expressions to monitor her pain when she wouldn’t hint at complaint.

  The white sheets rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell.

  Obatala grew quieter and quieter. Softer and softer. Their breathing became more shallow, a hard, jagged thing. Though their lips moved, they no longer formed words. Limp, no longer responding to anything he did. A strangled rattle clotted the back of their throat.

  “Go in peace,” Orunmila whispered.

  The white sheets fell.

  Orunmila closed his eyes. A solitary tear trailed down his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something profound in his father’s last moments, but no words escaped. A sound rumbled from deep within him. His body spasmed once, gripped by a deep pain, and a distant cry began. A haunting keening came from beyond Orunmila as much as within him. A death wail, all of his grief shuddering out of him in one paralyzing instant. He collapsed to his knees, the wail having exhausted him. His hands searched for purchase along the bed frame, enough to draw himself up. He crawled into the bed alongside his father and wrapped a lifeless arm around himself. No one dared approach.

  Something had set fire to Dinga’s soul, a call he responded to. Something raw and ancient and untamed. He wept for the family who had lost their parent, their sibling, and their friend. For Orunmila who was there when they passed, the son who loved them and share his life with them. For the loss he knew all too well.

  A firm hand landed on Dinga’s shoulder, ushering him to the side.

  Eshu stepped between them and stationed himself at the bed’s side to whisper to his brother. “Come. You cannot stay in this place. The mystery soon comes.”

  Eshu held his hand out. Unsteadily, Orunmila took it and rose from the bed. They stepped backward.

  A glow haloed his father’s form. Obatala’s body slowly collapsed, folding in on itself. Much like the Dreaming City itself, different planes intersected it, no dimensions of their form making any sense in the space. The body dematerialized much like the city’s walls when creating a door, opening a portal for itself. Whatever formed the physicality of the space the orisha once inhabited collapsed into a sphere the size of a small ball. Then a marble. Then the head of a needle. Eshu produced a small jeweled container, enclosing the area the glowing dot once occupied.

  “The golden chord?” Orunmila asked, unable to raise his head.

  “We all have our duties.” Eshu placed a meaty hand on his brother’s shoulder before departing in silence.

  And Dinga shared their sorrow, from a place that didn’t have words.

  When the emptiness swept across the Dreaming City, the community gathered around Orunmila’s temple. The spirits of the unmourned ancestors surrounded it. A hush fell over the streets, with the portent of an impending storm. Luci’Kobe and other attendants congregated at dusk, to witness and provide support. To hold space for their work, as facing emptiness was the key to moving.

  Careening around people, Gerard wandered through the crowd like a lost tourist. Dinga strode to intercept him. “You’re drunk,” Dinga said.

  “I am.” Gerard’s words slurred.

  “On what?”

  “On beer.” Gerard held up a near-empty mug.

  “Where did you get beer?”

  “The gods provide. I let them.” Gerard studied the massing crowd. “What’s this about?”

  “A ritual of remembrance.”

  “Who died?” Gerard chewed his lip, regretting his brashness. Before he met Dinga’s eyes again, he emptied his mug.

  “Obatala. Their orisha.”

  “But gods...”

  “It happens.”

  “Go on ahead. I don’t do funerals,” Gerard said.

  “Yet you have walked beside me this entire time. Lalyani’s journey nears its end. Will you abandon me now?”

  Gerard slowly swigged his beer in silence.

  The mourners began to set up three shrines and then gathered around them. The handclaps started sporadically before finding their united rhythm. A few women began to sing.

  Near the water shrine, Luci’Kobe stepped forward. She brought her arms together, her palms outstretched, and twirled her hands as if grappling with the air. Some of her motions reminded Dinga of the martial practice known as the Forms. He’d never seen them performed as dance. The myal energy built, passing through the dancers like lightning through to the village. The dancers shook, near convulsion; some collapsed. Others knelt, their shoulders heaving as they wept.

  Around the fire shrine, some in the city shouted their anger and pain. The passion of their vented en
ergy igniting the flames. Some simply fell prostrate, unable to hold themselves up. The postures of heartache, broken open by grief, to be witnessed and shared as the story of community.

  Only then did the orisha appear.

  The nine members of their brethren. Silent, unmoving. Reminiscent of the statues in the temple, though not exactly like them, as if each person had caught an aspect of their chosen orisha. Eshu stood behind Orunmila in a protective stance. Luci’Kobe stepped forward.

  “We’ve gathered to honor our ancestors. To offer gratitude for the gift of life, appreciation through drums and dance. We leave food out for them. Your pain is not a private thing. It is not yours to bear alone. It belongs to your community. To have the story, the pain, held by many.” Luci’Kobe handed Dinga a bowl. “For you to join in with their grief.”

  “But I didn’t know them.”

  “You wept for Obatala. And you know grief. You carry a spiritual debt which you cannot repay.”

  Dinga reached into the sacred bowl, finding only roots. Luci’Kobe nodded, and he slipped some into his mouth and began to chew. Their bitter flavor stung his tongue. A sudden lightheadedness caught him off guard. The rush swept through his secret places that had never known love. Places without kindness, where he hid his shame. A kaleidoscopic glow illuminating the parts of himself he was convinced no one would love. The places Lalyani knew. She had touched those places too.

  “It’s time.” Luci’Kobe took his hand. “Follow me.”

  They approached the final shrine, a large bowl surrounded by stones. After her whispered invocation, she picked up a stone and handed it to him. He glared at her quizzically.

  “I know it is not your way. You are much more comfortable with a weapon in hand, ready to slash your way through your problems. But sometimes there is no enemy to vent your anger on. Only the pain and grief to deal with. Grief nourishes life. This will connect you to your community, to help call you back to life. Mourn that which has been lost.”

  She held the stone out again. When he took it, she gestured toward the scattered rocks.

  “Name your sorrow. Keep taking stones until each sorrow is named. When you are done, we will take the stones to the ocean to be scoured clean.”

  Dinga lifted the first stone, its heft comfortable in his palm. He named his denial of Lalyani, labeling her ogbanje. With another he named their complicated relationship. With the last, he named their short time together. Wriggling within the pack straps, Dinga glanced toward Gerard. His friend approached to help free him of the pack. Dinga placed his burden at the foot of the shrine and began to unpack it. Within the bag was a thick, sealed clay container. Fishing around inside, he also withdrew a necklace. Gently as he could, Dinga cracked the jar open. Within it were ashes. He scooped out a spoonful and tamped some into the hollow of his necklace and sealed it with wax. A reliquary to carry with him.

  “Only a broken heart can know true love.” Luci’Kobe placed her hand on his shoulder. “Grief never ends. It may soften, but it is the reminder of the love you had for her. It keeps her in this world. Don’t forget what must be remembered. You are a living memorial to her, but to do that, you have to live.”

  At the edge of the Dreaming City was a grassy field that overlooked the forest below. It reminded Dinga of the alcove from his childhood. He raised his arms, joining his hands together, his palms curved as if cupping a great bowl. Holding up future generations or taking in the world, the moon, all the stars. A figure approached him, her gait hauntingly familiar until her image crystalized into that of Luci’Kobe.

  “Your friend, Gerard, awaits you.”

  “He can’t wait to depart for home. He hopes for an easier way down than the sheer cliffside.”

  “There are ways known to us to make the way less... perilous.”

  “I suppose he’s had enough peril for one journey. Time enough has passed that even those he probably angered in his homeland have, if not forgotten, given up on pursuing him.”

  “I have something for you.” Luci’Kobe reached behind her and drew a sword. “It is the symbol of Ogun, orisha of war. Also, the patron of hunters and warriors.”

  “But I do not serve Ogun. These days I do well to claim Nyame. Or even be claimed by him.”

  “All who do Ogun’s work serve him. Gods don’t need your faith to carry out their will.” Laying the sword before him, Luci’Kobe joined him in the grass.

  “I wish I shared your faith.”

  “The gods are coming back one day.”

  “The gods keep a fickle schedule. Do they give any hints as to when that might be?”

  “A day. A year. A hundred or a thousand. It’s all but moments to them.” Luci’Kobe stood, reaching her hand down to drag him to his feet. When he rose, she clasped his face between her hands. “You are no longer who you were. It’s alright to shed that outworn skin.”

  Dinga embraced her. “Tell Gerard that I will be with him in a bit.”

  “Do not tarry too long. I do not know how long our beer stores can withstand his one-man siege.” Luci’Kobe smiled, and it drew one out of him.

  When she left, though he stood, Dinga’s feet bothered him. It was his sandals. Lalyani could never abide shoes on her feet, which was why her soles were tougher than leather. He took them off and began to run. He came into the world free, and he would know what it meant to run free, to live in that space, and carry her story within him.

  ...to protect our future

  “All journeys are born of death.” The eyes of Selamault sparkled as she spoke, delighting in the intonation of the ancient words. “Maya, bring down the lighting fifteen percent.”

  said Maya, the AI running all Muungano systems.

  The holographic flames dimmed. The young bard picked his chakram and tested the sharpness of its edges.

  “You love to tell the ancient stories.” Wachiru bridged his fingers over the heatless flames of the artificial campfire.

  “We’ve been telling the stories for hundreds of years. Every word in its place, none forgotten. The order is sacred, exactly as I once heard it. The story telling is the discipline. But when you perform the duty, uphold the sacred trust you were born to, you can’t help but love it.”

  “Or be crushed by its weight,” Wachiru said.

  “Did you not hear the story?”

  “I heard a tale of death and sorrow. I’m not about a grief performance.”

  “True, grief was part of it. But it was the lesson of figuring out your path. On your terms. Held safe by community. We have never been called to a safe path. With life, we’re promised a hard one, sometimes filled with adventure and uncertainty. Sometimes its only the path itself that can fill the longings of your heart.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you become domesticated? Do passions cease to burn within you? Do you want to be safe? Then stay here.” Holding her hands out toward him, the Wise One stood up. “Or get off your ass and come with me. Your people need you to be a leader. Find those of us too savage for delicate sensibilities and refined ways. We are at a crossroads as a people. There is a kingdom of darkness, the old ways we strive against. We are a land torn by fear and in danger of falling back into the darkness that once held us.”

  “Becoming the darkness to fight the darkness,” Wachiru said, his voice low and thick with regret. “So many believe we should project only strength, eschewing weakness, perceived or otherwise. From within or without.”

  “We want to be subject to the scared whims of a manic leader, especially when by moonlight his inner demons get the better of him. The nature of true power can tolerate, even abide, dissent. Because with true power comes security. The secure are unbothered, even by the fever of ambition. Only the weak hate weakness. And his is the language of thrones and kingdoms. Barons of oppression. We chart a different course. That was the dream.”

  “We’re a long way from the idea of Wagadu.”

  “But M
uungano is the city dreamt.”

  The young poet grasped the old woman’s hand. She returned his clasp but overturned his hand to point out the black mark on his palm.

  “The mark of Umlando?” he asked, his voice thick with skepticism.

  “Or simply a birthmark. You’ve been raised with duty to family and community. A sacred duty. And a burden. But in the end, it is your choice what path to follow.”

  © Copyright 2020 Maurice Broaddus