Joseph McNair
A New Turn
One does not enter into the water and then run from the cold!
A Yoruba Proverb.“Master Shango,” began the journeyman Timo, as he removed the glowing iron bar from the forge to pound into a cutting tool on his anvil, “I hope you don't think me presumptuous, but I've told my father about you and he would like to meet you.”
Shango, flushed from his whirlwind courtship with the banker's daughter, Cassandra, who was the only thing on his mind outside of the exacting wheelwright work in front of him, was momentarily taken aback.
“Why would your father want to see me, Timo?”
“Why else, good sir, he is a banker and I suppose he smells money to be made. I have told him how the business here is booming. It certainly wouldn't hurt to talk to him.”
Shango studied Timo closely before responding. He thought of the growing cache of currency and coinage in a compartment he built under his bed in his loft. I probably should do something about that, he thought.
“I guess it wouldn't do any harm,” he said guardedly. “Besides,” he smiled knowingly at his journeyman, “we have all done quite well by you of late, journeyman Timo. I, for one, have new clothes, access into polite society and a social life and… perhaps even a girl friend. By all means, tell your father I will be more than happy to meet with him.
He thought about Cassandra as he fitted the spokes in yet another set of wagon wheels. His wheelwright work was the most lucrative of all the jobs he took on in his shop and his wheels were in high demand. The overflow customers from Master Seth's shop now came directly to him. With Timo's rapidly improving wheelwright skills they were meeting demand, if just barely, with no loss in quality. That elevated workload permitted only five assignations with Cassandra since he met her at the dance only two weeks before.
These meetings to the unpracticed eye were tame affairs, consisting of brief walks along the beach and two quiet lunches at Old John's Inn in addition to a few stolen moments a week before at a second dance. For Shango, though, just being in her presence set tremendous internal forces in motion; caused untold psychic pressures to force the tight mental controls he had put in place to function in this incarnation. Under normal circumstances he had to use the illusions of time and forgetfulness to live authentically in his twenty-year old body. He had to make each moment the stage and setting to create and experience the set of circumstances and challenges to shape the different qualities and aspects of this persona. But unlike normal human beings, he could not entirely forget who he was. His Orísha memories patrolled like sentries around the perimeters of his waking consciousness. More often than not his Orísha memories complicated things.
Cassandra made his body respond like it had a mind of its own. His nose opened when she was near. Her jasmine perfume and even her natural unadorned scent caused a throbbing, a pulsing in the part of his brain that controlled voluntary movements and coordinated mental actions, causing it to release a magical brain potion that traveled to his reproductive glands, shocking them into activity. His eyes, wide with expectation, slowly, fitfully learned the elaborate body language of human proception, its vocabulary and its syntax. Stolen glances fixed in his mind the multiple perspectives of her image:
her large, slightly slanted eyes, her wide nose with its broad curvature of nostril and flat frontal angle, her plump lips with their natural pout arranged in perfect, pleasing symmetry on her yellow-brown face which could appear softly saturnine and stoic in moments of deep thought or beautifully bright and juvenescent in moments of joy; the movement of her lithe body in dance, the turns and whirling about on the balls of her feet showcased her curve of hip and thrust of bosom; the musicality of her voice, its soft warm tones which resonated in the deepest parts of his soul; the press of her hand and its electric charge; the profoundly tempestuous touch of her spirit preceded by that faint and ephemeral sensation, much like the lovely and unique smell that fills the air just before a Summer storm.
He would carry these images in his head home with him after every encounter with her. He would go up to his loft and lay on his bed as if to sleep. He would then relax his mental control and allow those images to mingle briefly with the visual erotic imagery of his post-pubertal consciousness before succumbing to the overwhelming tide of his Orísha memory.
He knew who she was because he could look upon her soul fires and see the colors of the Orísha, the pure energy of awareness, the matrix of power and higher harmonic yet to be awakened and blended with her human identity.
As he completed the last spoke on the final wheel of the set of four wheels he had been commissioned to build, his mind went back to that night in the village some seven years ago when he awakened Simon the hunter, the last of Maggie/Eshu's Original initiates to be awakened and made one with his guardian spirit Oshosi. After the awakening of Simon Oshosi, the six awakened ones, Maggie/Eshu, Shango, Tom/Ogun, Ezzie/Oshun, Peter/Osanyin and Simon/Oshosi in turn awakened all of the celebrants in attendance that night.
There was one young woman, a regular attendee whom he himself had awakened who became one with the spirit of the wind. Her name was Yansa. She started attending Maggie/Eshu's ceremonies at the age of nineteen. She was the young wife of a barrel maker, a cooper. Her motive for joining Maggie/Eshu's celebrants was mainly boredom, but all of that changed when Oya, the spirit of winds, took her head. She danced like a wild woman, becoming like the wind itself, howling soundlessly into the night. And then, after a time, she would collapse into a heap.
He was thirteen going on fourteen on that night when he took both of her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes. A circuit closed and something passed between them -- his young body experienced an erection. This incident, though remarkable, paled in comparison to the life-changing event precipitated by Ezzie/Oshun's spontaneous kiss months before, helping him complete his own psychic blending and saving him from certain insanity. His Orísha nature now in full control, he held the twenty-five year old housewife in his gaze as he chanted:
I respect the Spirit of the Winds;
I respect the one who walks with confidence and pride;
I respect the one who wears pants before going to battle;
I respect the one who does not fear death;
Spirit of the Wind I am calling you;
Spirit of the Wind descend;
Come, Mother of the Nine,
Awaken, I beseech you!They spent several lifetimes together in the few moments of that awakening. Oya the Spirit of the Wind had been his warrior wife and magical peer in past lives and alternate realities. There was much between them. But even more so than Ezzie/Oshun, in this life, that Oya was beyond his reach…
“Master Shango,” Timo's voice broke through his reverie, “I have finished my cutlass and the forge is white hot. Should we not be preparing the tires for wheels?”
Shango, annoyed at having to be reminded answered brusquely, “You and Michael can heat and rivet the tires, Timo. I have a bit more finishing work to do on these wheels. When the first tire is ready, call me, and we will all be on hand to put it on the wheel and dunk it in the quenching pit.”
Cassandra is Oya, he thought. No one human being can contain an Orísha, he remembered. While Oshun who was Ezzie or Oya who was Yansa may have been unavailable to him in this incarnation, he could and would be drawn to individuals in which the essence of these Orísha were strong and some of these, like Cassandra, would be available to him, spiritually, emotionally and physically.
The Orísha inhabits many houses. According to the old path, children of a particular Orísha, those who had been possessed, collected and kept fetishes -- specific objects in which the Orísha was said to reside. They adorned and ornamented themselves with clothes and items associated with their Orísha, things over which that Orísha had power. When the Orísha took their heads, these “power” objects were handed to him or her -- collars and bracelets of a particular color and beading, figurines, costumes and even food said to be sacred to the Orísha.
The new path required none of this. While the old ways were to be respected, like the wombs of our mothers, which nurtured and protected us until we were born into this world, there was no need to go back into our mother's wombs to be reborn. There were new metaphors of birth, rebirth and transformation. He heard his own oracular voice in some far off place in his head sounding like the click and rattle of cowrie shells:
I came to show you that man and Orísha could indeed co-exist consciously in the same identity; that indeed they are one. Once we remember this, we can experience that oneness and the illusion of separateness is suspended. The new path requires us to use the power of the Orísha to live in harmony with creation. We must understand that Olodumare is the Great Mystery of life itself, and we are one with that mystery. We are deeply connected to all life, to all that is. We have never been separated from Olodumare. There is no separation from anything. There is only oneness; there is only unity. There is only Olodumare.
The new path required nothing more than awakening to who we are, remembering that we have drawn the veil of forgetfulness about us so that we can play in the illusions we create for ourselves -- illusions we use to discover and know who we are – and live life fully.
But how do I go about awakening her? She has not had the experience of the Orísha taking her head. Neither has she experienced the highly developed intuition that comes with the influence of the Orísha, which gives the ability to “see” the closeness in quality and substance of one's consciousness with the essence of the Orísha. Even I almost lost my mind…
He remembered vaguely, after calling forth the Orísha Oshun and helping her blend her identity with Ezzie, a spinning sensation, a profound vertigo in which he oscillated in and out of his body, one moment an adolescent boy, the next an elevated ancestor spinning trying to focus spinning faster and faster, sent spinning by the magnetic, radiant and chemical interplay of substance and spirit, feeling the terrifying fear of spinning out of control…
And then the soft urgent intervention of Ezzie/Oshun's wet, hungry mouth on his, an experienced tongue searching his out, sucking and holding fast his spirit, holding him in place until…his self substances blended, became glutinous, and set…
I must consult Orunmila, he thought.
The three men finished the wheels shortly before the third hour after dusk. Shango sent them home claiming extreme tiredness, but promising an early start on the next day's labors.
Before retiring to his loft, Shango went out behind the workshop to draw water from the nearby stream. He filled a bucket and went back in the shop to bathe. He cleaned himself more thoroughly than normal, calling on his Orísha memories to guide him through the ritual bathing that might prepare him for his anticipated encounter with Orunmila.
When he had climbed up into his loft, Shango lay naked upon his bed. He cleared his mind and called up an image of the Opon Ifa, an ancient divining tray carved out of wood, with images of Eshu, cowrie shells, and geometric patterns, carved in low-relief panels along the border. This would be his focus.
He let his mind recreate the divination ritual – the sprinkling of the white iyerosun powder on the tray, the tapping of the tray with the iroke ifa, the divination tapper, to greet Orunmila and attract his attention and the casting of the ikin, the palm nuts, to form the configuration of the Odu signs drawn from the vast body of oral literature that contains the wisdom of the Yoruba, an ancient African people. These signs direct the diviner to the portion of that literature that contains the answer to the querent's life questions.
Unlike the diviner, Shango did not have to interpret signs to consult Orunmila, but he did this as a sign of respect to the Orísha who had long been his friend. The image of the Orísha began to form on the divining tray and in an instant the Orísha materialized sitting on the foot of Shango's bed.
Orunmila took the form of a smallish, thickset, eternally cheerful black man whose eyes sparkled with merriment. Dressed in traditional robes of yellow and green, the portly little man sat there at the foot of the bed with his nose in the air, the picture of self importance.
“Baba?” Shango greeted the Orísha tentatively unable to fathom his odd behavior.
The Orísha turned to him imperiously.
“Well, come on now, since we are being so stuck on formality.”
It took Shango a moment to catch on. Finally he chuckled. Sitting up in his bed, he made an impossible bow and chanted:
Orunmila!
Witness of fate
Second to Olodumare
You are more efficacious than medicine,
You are the Immense Orbit that averts the day of Death.
Mysterious Spirit that fought death.
To you salutation is first due in the morning,
Your Equilibrium that adjusts World Forces,
You are the One whose exertion it is to reconstruct the creature of bad lot,
Repairer of ill-luck,
He who knows you becomes immortal.
Lord, the undeposable king,
Perfect in the House of Wisdom!
Infinite in knowledge!
For not knowing you in full, we are futile,
Oh, if we could but know you in full,
all would be well with us!
Ashe!
“Really, Shango,” the Orísha of Wisdom said, affecting boredom, “Why can't you just call me. You know, like ‘hey Orunmila, you got a minute?' Or even ‘Orunmila come forth,' if you must be tiresome. I am always closer to you than skin.”
“Baba, I was just trying to be respectful.”
“Very well then. Now, what do you want, oh harbinger of the new path, as if I didn't know?”
There was no mistaking the good-natured teasing in the Orísha's tone and manner. But Shango, caught up in matters of the moment, seemed not to notice.
“There is this young woman…” he began.
“Oh yes,” replied the Orísha, not letting him finish. “She reminds me of my own wife, the lovely Odu. You do remember Odu, don't you?” The Orísha's sparkling eyes became dreamy. “ Now there was a beautiful spirit. She's about her own business now…”
“Baba,” Shango interrupted impatiently, “this young woman, Cassandra, is … Oya. I have seen her fires. I want to awaken her but since she has had no preparation at all, I fear doing her harm.”
“You really are smitten aren't you. Imagine, the swain Shango, Olodumare's gift to women, walking around with nostrils wide as caves.”
“Baba, please! I am serious!” Shango's heart was pounding like a petition; like a drum.
“Yes you are, aren't you.” The Orísha studied Shango intently before he responded.
“What do you think being an avatar of the new path means, Shango?” the Orísha asked finally.
“That I show the way. That I be an example of one who seeks harmony with all life…”
“Yes, yes, all that -- but what else?”
“That I be an example of one who remembers and…one who does not forget.”
Shango could never forget that he was an Orísha or that he was sent by Olodumare to the birth canal of the hapless woman who died attempting to bring him into the world. He could neither forget that he was cut from his dead mother's womb by the village wise woman who raised him; who loved him with so much more love than a so-called natural mother could give. He was born with memories of the Orísha, the fourth King of Oyo, sent by Olodumare as emissary of justice, who hanged himself on a shea butter tree when his great hubris and misuse of powerful magicks destroyed his palace and several of his wives and children.
So, too, was he born with the memories of the suicide, who descended into the world of the dead and seduced the virgin daughter of the Orísha of earth, the beautiful Yewa, who was herself sent to the underworld by her father to protect her virginity from Shango's licentious intentions and who while there, consumed the bodies of the dead and rendered the waste of inert flesh into nutrients for the earth.
He could not forget that he was that same profligate Shango, who could resist no form of sexual temptation, who not only seduced Yewa but impregnated her as well. She bore him a child in the underworld, a son. And by impregnating the immortal eater of men with the seed of life in the realm of the dead, he vanquished death, won immortality and rejoined Olodumare, somewhat humbled by his shortcomings during that earthly sojourn.
He could not forget, too, the he was the Original owner of the tablets of IFA, who traded them to Orunmila for the gift of dance; nor that he was the arrogant Orísha who had cuckolded his own brother Ogun twice by stealing two of his wives, Oya and Oshun.
Nor could he forget that he was the one who maimed Osanyin with his thunderstones leaving him with one eye, one ear, one arm and hand and one leg. These memories were part of him, traced on his each and every cell. He had complete recall of every life he had lived. He could never forget who he was.
Nor could he forget that he was an avatar of a new path, sent by Olodumare to show the faithful a new way to oneness with the Great Mystery. He had awakened to full Orísha awareness and consciousness six of the most important people in his life, including his foster mother Maggie/Eshu. These in turn helped to awaken more than fifty of his mother's initiates from the village where he had been born; who had danced for years in ancient ceremonies under the watchful gaze of the new and full moons. He taught them for five years until he was eighteen; until he struck out to make a life of his own here in Orí.
“That is very good my young friend,” Orunmila intruded on his thoughts. “Now let me tell you one thing that you have forgotten. You are the spirit of lightning, one of the most beautiful phenomena in nature and one of the most deadly, burning hotter than the surface of the sun and sending shockwaves beaming out in all directions. Do you really think that you have to do anything to awaken the slumbering Orísha in your fellow man? Being in the presence of your spirit is enough to shock most humans awake.
You are the ritual and the dance. You are the bata drums intoning the rhythms of the Orísha. And you are the healer who will help them complete their blending. The power is not in your words or teachings, it is in your presence. It is in your hatred and fear; in your pain and sorrow and in your love and joy. This is why you, more than any of the others, was chosen and sent.
There is no doubt that Cassandra/Oya will awaken as will Timo/Agayu and Michael/Òrìsàoko. It is just a matter of time. In fact, the only reason it hasn't happened already is because of the care you have taken to keep your self focused and contained in this incarnation during your waking consciousness so that your young body and its identity can accumulate its own experiences and strengthen itself to focus the power and awareness of a fully awakened Orísha.”
“Oh Baba, it has been so hard of late….”
“Now that is like the Shango of old,” Orunmila bounced on the bed clapping his hands with glee, “you are making lascivious wordplay. I can only imagine how hard it has been.” He collapsed on the bed in a fit of giggling. He gathered himself up after a moment or so and became serious again.
“Shango, your physical experience in this lifetime is still that of a pubescent boy. Unlike most young boys, you were completely sheltered from the normal sexual adventures and experimentation that most young boys experience. Maggie/Eshu intuitively knew that it would be a mistake to let loose the sexual proclivities of the Orísha in the growing body of a young boy and especially the body of the avatar of the new path. The physical body and its identity/personality is not powerless. This is why on the old path the identity or body consciousness had to go somewhere to an out of the way place in the consciousness during the time the Orísha took the celebrant's head.
The memories of the Orísha could have gotten you into all kinds of trouble if allowed to have their way in a developing young body. And so, she not only had you watched, during those few times you were out of her sight, but she put it in the minds of the village people that there would be hell to pay if anything untoward happened to you. That was enough. The village people with the exception of those who came to her to be taught, healed or initiated into the mysteries were terrified of her. You were avoided like the plague. Your only friends were adults and animals.
Now your young adult body, which has been kept relatively pure – save for some interesting episodes in the dream state lately – ” he smiled knowingly, “ is awash in powerful urges. Your Orísha memories have shown you what these urges mean and what to do about them. Things have indeed been hard of late…”
Shango was quiet; thinking. Finally: “So what you are saying is that if I am patient, her awakening will proceed naturally?
“Oh my, yes. And stop working so much. You are so much more than a master blacksmith. You are getting to be a frightful bore. Spend time with this young woman. Try to learn something about her life and attitudes; try to learn something about her dreams. Talk to her like you talk to Timo and Michael. Just because she is imbued with the essence of Oya does not mean that she is the Oya that you once knew and loved.”
This last statement caught Shango's attention. “What do you see, Baba? Am I making a mistake?”
“There are no mistakes, my young friend. Everything is as it should be. The illusion is cast. What is at issue is whether you will play in it joyfully or forget yourself in its drama. Remember, you are the example, the one who shows the way…” and with that the Orísha disappeared.
Well, thought Shango as he drifted off to sleep, if there are no mistakes…
***
Timo's father's office building, the merchant bank building, occupied the center of a block of structures that made up the eastern side of Orí's town square. Like several buildings in the block, it was a combination town house/office building, a four story structure set at ground level, with an asymetrical arrangement of arched openings on facade walls set on the property line. An iron balcony at third level marked the beginning of the family quarters. The family lived on the third and fourth floors. The building had a steeply pitched side-gabled roof with multiple roof dormers. It was a completely functional building made of brick with an elaborate stuccoed brick exterior.
The banker's private office dominated the second floor. There seemed hardly enough space for the army of clerks who seemed crammed like sardines into the limited space outside the massive carved double doors that guarded the inner sanctum. That space was a beehive of activity.
Shango's appointment was for mid morning, two hours before noon. He was on time and dressed the part, wearing one of the formal suits that Timo had help him select and purchase weeks before. He did not betray the discomfort he felt dressed in that suit, but kept his face pleasant but inscrutable. He did not have to wait long. The banker's secretary, a tall, harried looking bewhiskered black man of middle years named Collins sat him down in the tiny anteroom space outside the office, furnished with two carved oak chairs that matched the doors, and went in to announce his presence.
He was ushered in almost at once. Unlike the space outside the oaken doors, the banker's office was spacious and expensively appointed. Sitting behind a huge oak desk was Timo's father, Justin Bebe Alafiya, merchant banker. He was medium height with sloping shoulders and the thickset midriff of a sedentary man. His taciturn nut brown face was betrayed only at the corners of his mouth and eyes by smile lines that hinted at a certain sardonic humor, and eyes that were intense in their aggression. He was dressed in a manner that punctuated "the great masculine renunciation" of dandyism that was spreading throughout polite male society at the time. His morning suit, trousers and vest were ceremonies in black, gray and dark tweeds, subdued fabrics and unadorned lines proclaiming sobriety and no-nonsense severity.
But when he looked up to acknowledge Shango, when he stood up and came from behind his desk to extend Shango his hand, a faint smile stole across his face.
“Master Shango, it is indeed a pleasure,” he said grasping the blacksmith's hand firmly.
“My son has spoken of nothing but you since he began working at your, er, place of business.” It seemed that the good banker Alafiya had a bit of trouble saying “blacksmith shop.”
“I had to meet the man who seemed instrumental in bringing about the remarkable changes I have seen in him. He is certainly different and I dare say a better man for having met you and come into your influence. For this I want to thank you. Sit down, sir, if you please.”
It was remarkable how quickly he put Shango at his ease. This man, Shango thought, could sell anything. The master smith sank comfortably into one of the plush, matching oak and leather chairs, wondering if this was the reason why the banker wanted to see him -- to talk about his son.
The banker returned to his seat behind his huge desk and tented his fingers. Shango took this gesture as a cue to respond.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, too, sir. Timo has told me a great deal about you as well. All good, I might add. He truly loves and admires you, sir.” Shango was moved to add this last comment. A hunch, perhaps.
“Ah, yes,” replied the banker. “You must know that I had my heart set on Timo coming into the business like his brothers. I fear that I haven't been as supportive of his career choice as I could have been. He is such a restless spirit. So much like his late mother.”
The banker visibly softened at this reference. He gathered himself and plunged on. “ I suppose that it is because of his mother that I haven't interfered in his choices. It is a good thing, that, for I know now that I would have lost him forever had I tried.”
He paused, seeming to make up his mind before going on.
“What I don't understand is the change in him. What has happened to the whimsical, pampered, irresponsible child who only thought about young girls and dancing and taking off at a moment's notice to do some explOríng? I see before me a young man who has grown courteous and solicitous of his father. He asks for nothing for himself, but speaks with pride about the things his hands have made or fixed and the people he has helped.
He comes in at responsible hours so that he can be up way before cockcrow to be at work. Master Seth was a hard taskmaster and an honest man, which was why I indulged the boy in what I thought was a whimsy that would soon pass. But with you, the unmistakable edges of character are being formed in his face. They are as noticeable as the muscles that are bulking up his once soft, pampered body. What have you done to my child?”
It was a sincere question. The banker looked mystified in the asking. Shango, though, did not have to hesitate in responding.
“In truth, sir, I have done nothing. Timo came to my shop with an infectious enthusiasm. He fell into the work and the routine as though he had been there all along. He loves to talk, but he is an honest man. He works as hard as I do to make my business successful and he is a good model for my apprentice.
I must admit that I was dubious at first about taking any worker from Master Seth, having seen one of his so-called journeymen, but Timo has surpassed my highest expectations. I have never seen the person you said he used to be. He came to me an accomplished journeyman and has built upon that to become much more now. Very soon, it will be my pleasure to supervise his masterwork. He has already asked that I do so and I consider it an honor. It is because of Timo and Michael that I am as successful as I am now. They both work the business as if it were their own. If I have done anything, sir, it can only be that I have given him the opportunity to prove himself. He does this each passing day.”
“I am a believer in the dignity of work, Master smith, just as I am a believer in the unlimited potential of the human spirit. You have described to me a son for whom any father could be proud. I am ashamed to admit that I saw neither the potential nor the development. Perhaps if I had found more time to spend with him, I would have seen it…”
He paused briefly as if to reflect but shrugged the sentiment off.
“But one does not enjoy the success that I have enjoyed by being mired down by regrets, which is why I asked to see you…”
At last, thought Shango, the moment has arrived.
“Do you, Master smith, know what a merchant banker is?” The banker's intense eyes were all that Shango saw peering from behind that desk. Something stirred at the edges of Shango's identity.
“Frankly sir, I do not. I do know that some people keep their coins and tender at your bank and draw them down when they need it.
“Ah,” the banker said, “I see this is going to take some time. Do you wish some refreshment, sir, some tea or perhaps strong drink?”
No thank you, sir. I am fine.”
“Suit your self. I am going to have some tea.” He rang a bell for his secretary. The bewhiskered black man, looking like a long-legged bird, appeared as if listening outside the door.
“Sir?”
“Bring tea, man, and two cups. Perhaps our Master Smith will change his mind.” He turned back to Shango.
“Very well, then. Let me presume on your patience a bit, Master Shango. A merchant banker,” he paused to give weight to his words, “is someone who is willing to provide finance in the form of advance payment for goods and services at a great discount to the delivery value of the same.
For example, let's say I persuade ten to twelve of our local farmers to grow a large crop of corn. I offer to pay them shortly after planting about two –thirds of the revenue they would make if they took their entire projected crop to market themselves. I accept all risks of crop failure. I make my profit when the wheat is sold at market value, usually to a few buyers I have lined up who can afford to buy the entire crop.
That is the principle by which I live and by which my bank thrives -- advance payment for goods at a great discount to the delivery value of those goods.”
At this last statement, he seemed to puff up like a proud peacock. After a moment, he continued:
“You see, Master Shango, I come from a long line of traders. Easily half of the sailing ships you see in the harbor and docked at the back of the market stores are owned by my bank. I indulge myself, I must confess, in one small conceit – that through trade I have had some small part in transforming what may have been thought to be exotic luxury goods into household necessities.”
The secretary re-entered the office with a pewter tea service. Alafiya paused to allow the man to serve him the steaming pungent tea. Shango changed his mind and indicated that he would have some tea as well. The secretary poured him a cup. Shango recognized at once by smell – cardamon.
As he drew in the pungent, aromatic fragrance, he was reminded of the spirit of the blue gum tree in the eucalyptine smell with its undertones of camphor and lemon. Black cardamon, he concluded as the tea passed over his palate. Blunt, the eucalyptus and the camphor very pronounced. This is truly a rare blend, the herbalist in him noted.
Alafiya waited until Shango had savored his first sip of the tea and the secretary had left the office before he continued. He smiled, settled back into his chair and took on the mien of a storyteller:
“My forebears plied the legendary caravan trails of an ancient land, connecting its continents through a nest of pathways that snaked through every ancient capital. They were the masters of exchange, knowing that through trade people exchanged not only goods and services but their ideas, religious beliefs and political systems. They traded horses, grain, gold, silver, glass, fine cloth and their languages and cultures.
While most trade on the caravan trails was done in progressive stages along the route, with local merchants passing goods along without traveling for great stretches of distance, my forbears were among the few who made the entire trip and neither wind, rain or sandstorm nor hostile tribe or bloodthirsty brigand was an acceptable excuse for late delivery.
After making handsome profits, my forebears sought out successful traders and provided them credit or acted as middlemen, connecting trader to merchant, all for even more profit.”
A self-satisfied smile spread over the merchant banker's face.
“And like my forebears, Master Shango, I am one of the masters of trade and exchange here in Orí. This town is growing, Master Shango; it is bursting at its seams. People are coming here every day over land from the interior north and west and by sea from various and sundry places. They will need goods and services such as what the local merchants and craftsmen can provide. They will need houses, wagons, farming tools, horseshoes, nails and all manner of fabricated goods as well as food stuffs and dry goods.”
His eyes began again to blaze…
“I will get right to the point, Master Shango. I have been told by the owners of the limestone quarry how deft your repairs of their tools are and how well those repairs hold up. They have also told me how gifted you are in imitating or modifying a design and replicating a tool they might have to wait months to come by boat. What I am talking about, Master smith, is manufacture on a scale much larger than has been previously known in this town. You are the man to take us into a new age of wealth and prosperity, I can feel it.”
Suddenly the veils parted and Shango saw the Orísha partially awakened in this man, this force of nature. Ajé-shàlúgà, he thought, the Orísha of Abundance.
Eshu came to earth in the guise of a full-grown child with his calabash, demanding that the rich bring food to the crossroads so that the poor might eat. The wealthy people balked, some finding excuses, others outright refusing the Orísha's command. Eshu threw stones at their homes, causing those houses to ignite and burn. Realizing their peril, the rich brought out their extra food to the crossroads in generous amounts. Ajé-shàlúgà, the Orísha of Abundance, fearing for his belligerent “children”, appeared as well bringing a treasure trove of cowrie shells, the preferred medium of exchange in those days, to cool the Orísha's temper. Eshu, appeased, restored the houses, distributed the food to the poor, and took the cowries and turned them into a cape for himself. Adorned in his new cape, Eshu seemed to rain cowries…
The banker's excited, droning voice brought the blacksmith quickly back to the here and now. In truth, the banker was oblivious to the fact that he had mometarily lost Shango's attention, so absorbed was he in his own vision.
“…this town needs industrious young men like yourself to shoulder the burden of economic expansion and growth…”
“Excuse me, sir. I am sorry to interrupt you, but what about Master Seth. Shouldn't he be a part of this conversation?” Shango was clearly uneasy at the direction in which the narration was going. He felt he owed Master Seth a great deal and did not want to undercut him in any way.
“Your loyalty is admirable. Be assured that the Master Seth is fully apprised of what we are talking about today. In fact, you might say that I am acting as a middleman of sorts between you. Seth is too proud a man to admit this himself, but he is getting along in years and wishes to retire. It seemed that he was going to die at the forge until you came along and lifted a great deal of the burden work demanded of his shop. He is equally proud of your work and your industry. He has authOrízed me to make you an offer. He wants to sell you his business.”
“But Master Alafiya, I do not have the means to purchase his business. All of my revenues have been put back into my own business with what is left over under my sleeping pallet –- a dizzying assortment of notes and coins -- and not nearly enough to even think about expanding, let alone buying a thriving business.”
“Tut, tut, my boy!” The banker seemed almost fatherly in a predatory way. “Is this not what bankers are for? I am willing to put a considerable amount of the bank's resources behind you, not only to purchase Master Seth's business, but to be the focus of an important manufacturing initiative that will make us all a lot of money.
I see you heading up a business concern that will not only provide goods and services locally, but for export as well. You will, of course, have to grow the business, train the workers and the like, but it is my vision that with the support of the bank, you will be able to export mining tools, all manner of farm and work tools and whatever new machines you might fabricate at great profit. Of course this will not happen overnight, but I anticipate a return on my money in two years time. In ten years, I see Orí as the manufacturing center of the region.”
The breadth of the banker's vision startled the twenty-year old identity. The Orísha, on the other hand, kept at bay by the young man's mental discipline, sent waves of reassuring confidence. This was a decision the young man, alone, had to make to set a certain chain of events in motion.
“Let me think on this, Master Alafiya. I promise you that you will have my answer by noon tomorrow. “
The merchant banker gave the master smith a long appraising look before responding. When he did finally respond, his face was neutral.
“You are indeed wise, young man. Very well. The offer is on the table until noon tomorrow. I eagerly await your timely response.”
They shook hands. Shango left the bank and made a bee-line to Old John's Inn. There, he knew, he would get the advice and the ear he needed at a time such as this.
The voluble innkeeper beamed when he saw Shango come in. Since Shango took most of his evening and late night meals at the inn, he had a “usual” table. The lunch crowd was beginning to trickle in. John motioned him to his table and disappeared into the kitchen. He soon returned with a pot of Shango's favorite lavender and mint tea and two mugs.
“You cut quite the figure, Master Shango, in your fine clothes,” the innkeeper teased. “And what brings you here, away from your beloved forge, in the middle of the day? Certainly not a craving for the fine food I have delivered to you and your men daily. What is the occasion?”
“I need your advice and counsel, John.” The innkeeper's playful bantering stopped immediately as he perceived how serious the master smith was. Old John loved Shango like a son and served as his “in loco parentis” in Orí. He had arranged for Shango to meet Master Seth and was responsible for spreading the word about his business, sending countless new customers his way. He was also Shango's principle source of information about the people and the goings on in town.
“John, I have just come from a meeting with Mister Alafiya.”
“Oh my, but has our stock risen these days. So what did the great one have to say to you? I presume that is what you want to talk to me about. If that is the case, then tell me everything, my boy!” The innkeeper sat down and gave Shango his undivided attention.
Shango replayed the conversation with the merchant banker almost verbatim. Old John listened intently, interjecting an occasional “He said that, did he?” or an inscrutable “My, my, my!” When Shango finished, Old John could hardly contain his excitement.
“What are you going to do?” He asked, sipping his tea; holding his breath.
“Oh I am going to accept the offer, John. I just didn't want to appear too eager… and I wanted to find out a few things first. Tell me, John. Is Mister Alafiya an honest man?
Old John thought about the question. “He is as honest as a banker can be, my boy. He is as honest as his money. If he is going to put up the money for you to buy Seth's business, then I would think that the other part of his proposal is genuine. Merchant bankers take risks, but most of those risks are what you and I would call a sure thing. He knows something, Shango. It is his business to know and he has a nose for money.
His father, Justin Bebe Alafiya, senior started out as a humble shopkeeper, a dry goods merchant. He was a miserly old man and kept every coin he ever made –- a walking breathing symbol of buy cheap, sell dear. But he doted on his son and could refuse him nothing. His son, Bebe, always had big ideas. Bebe convinced his father to partner with several other merchants and slowly bought out all of them except his principal partners.
Bebe then took some of the store's profits, bought and converted a few of the larger seaworthy fishing boats into trading vessels and sent them first along the southern coast looking for trade items. Within ten years, he was able to outfit a fleet of ships which regularly left Orí's ports laden with a variety of grain and limestone for cement-making and came back to port overflowing with goods. Soon, the old man sold his controlling interest in the store and opened the bank, financing all manner of sea-going trade and profitable businesses. Even I got some money to make improvements on the inn, which I paid back with interest.
Soon that bank was into everything in this town. When his father died and left him the bank, Bebe found unanticipated money and resources squirreled away because his father couldn't stop his miserly ways. Bebe promptly turned that money into more money. He invited several of the town's wealthiest merchants to partner with him in the bank. In turn, he became a principal partner or a silent partner in almost every thriving business in the town. He has a gift, he does. So if he approaches you with a proposition, keep your wits about you, and trust his instincts.”
Shango took in all that John had told him, sipping his tea silently. Finally, he said:
“John, you know I have been seeing this young woman. Her name is Cassandra…”
“Ah, you mean the one you have brought here once or twice for lunch” the innkeeper interjected enthusiastically. “Yes, you introduced her to me the first time you brought her here. The other time, the two of you were so absorbed with each other that you hardly spoke to me at all. A very pretty girl, that young Cassandra, with a good head on her shoulders, I have heard.
“We haven't had much time to get to know each other, John. Only at the weekend dances and an occasional lunch. I haven't met her father yet. I only know that he is a banker and a partner, to Mister Alafiya…”
“Tell me how you feel about her, my boy. That is what is most important!” The innkeeper interrupted, pressing his hands on his heart for emphasis. His eyes grew large and dreamy, yet lost none of their intensity, quite the contrast on his normally dark, thin saturnine face.
The part of Shango that was a master of time froze the moment and lined up a sequence of scenes which contained pictures of himself and Cassandra. As his mind flipped through the scenes, first quickly and then slowly, he could examine the subtle changes of emotion which revealed how he in fact felt.
…On the beach against a backdrop of the gaping river's mouth, the dark wet mystery of the sea and an enormous moon, the beautiful Cassandra took his hands, looked deeply into his eyes, smiled at what she saw, brushed his cheek with her lips which burned for days as if he had been branded with the sweetest of brands…
…The second weekend dance, where he let loose the Lord of the dance; where he was her partner in all of the reels; where he dared to hold her close and dance with her slow, breathing in her jasmine scent, feeling the Oya of old in her, every touch electric, baring his intentions for all to see… walking her home and planting a chaste kiss on her cheek before hurrying away in the dark to his lonely bed…
…That first lunch at old John's, the aromatic fish and lavender mint tea, the fresh corn and string beans and the sweet smell of her intention. Her small talk spoke volumes of her desire, creating an opening, a breach in the fabric or ordinary time and space that opens into the timeless; to become caught up in the whirlwind that brings greater and greater knowledge of spirit. She had told him already in so many words, gestures that she wanted to be with him. He knew now that he wanted her as well, but the burden of his calling pressed him heavily…
…Those subsequent contacts, another lunch and yet another weekend dance, when his young earthly body experienced a new birth of the heart, when his young earthly eyes showed him a new world, when he felt Olodumare's touch in this world of time. He let go of his control and examined her spirit with the awareness of an Orísha and suddenly knew that love like spirit is never old; that it renews itself in every lover. So, too, is every Orísha renewed in each heart in which it sleeps. There was nothing about his calling that would or could keep him from love. There was nothing about his Orísha past that would prevent him from loving. Oríshas like their human hosts are innocent in the light of love. There was nothing amiss in the powerful, intoxicating sexual currents rushing through him whenever he thought of her, heard her voice, was in her presence. Flesh and spirit, in love, can revel in the same delights…
…The extrapolated image of her as his wife and companion, sharing his home, sharing his bed, bearing his children. The two of them awakened to their Orísha natures, fully aware. Each of them knowing that it is not for the sake of the other that the other is adored, is cherished, but for the sake of the Self who is more than man or Orísha, who is Olodumare – that Self who should be embraced; who should be seen, heard, meditated upon and known.
Shango returned to that frozen moment in time and replied to Old John's query.
“How do I feel? John, until I met her, I was unaware of that persistent feeling of longing; that prolonged unfulfilled need and desire that lurked in the empty spaces of my self. I became aware of it because of the fullness of what I feel when she is with me and the emptiness that takes its place when she is gone. When she is with me, all of my normal everyday doubts, insecurities and fears disappear. All of the misery and suffering that life brings seems to dissolve. I am wide open, in touch with an infinite presence within and all around me…”
Shango stopped. A quizzical look stole across his face. It was as if he surprised himself with the words that came spilling out of his mouth.
“My goodness, my boy!” The innkeeper chuckled. “You have definitely got it bad! I admire, though, the way you have with your words. I don't think I could ever have expressed it quite that well, but I recognize the feeling.” His eyes softened as he looked inward. “My Jen released the poetry in my soul as well. So, now, if you feel like that, what are you going to do about it?
“Well until today, I couldn't see a way to have her. She is a banker's daughter, John. I am what some call the misbegotten son of a dirt farmer raised by a village wise woman…”
“Now you stop that right now!” The innkeeper seemed truly angry. “How can the same mouth that spoke so beautifully, speak so stupidly now. What is the matter with you? Even if Mister Alafiya had not made that proposition to you today, you are still who you are!” Suddenly the innkeeper shape-shifted and facing Shango now was a livid Orunmila.
“You are neither bereft, defective, destitute, imperfect nor inadequate. You are one with Olodumare and Olodumare is abundance, is more than sufficient. Being one with Olodumare means that you have no more, no less than everything you might ever need. There are no limited resources…In Olodumare there is no part that is better than, grander or greater than any other part. There are no rankings or hierarchies. SuperiOríty and inferiOrííty are illusions. We use these illusions to experience the unconditionality of love and the eternality of life. These are your own truths, Spirit of Lightning, have you forgotten them in your first fits of attraction and infatuation?”
Shango felt like he had been slapped. Old John was back droning on, the fit of anger passed:
“You dishonor your foster mother with talk like that. You dishonor the master smith that drew out of you those fine skills that everyone talks about. And you dishonor your self who has earned the respect of everyone who has met you.”
He looked at Shango with real concern. Shango was contrite.
“You are right, of course,” he said genuinely. “There are just so many decisions to make of late…
“I know, my boy” the innkeeper rescued, “let's see if we can sort it out.” Old John now became all business.
“Am I to understand that you will accept Mister Alafiya's proposition?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I cannot presume to advise you in the matters of smithing and fabrication, only to say that you are going to need some help – the kind of help that can only come from another master smith.
“I understand.”
“Two. You need a place to live. There are a few good houses available on the square as well as a few farms that are up for sale. If I were you, feeling as you do about the daughter of one banker in this town, I'd invite her to help you go house hunting.”
“But John, I don't have the money for a house.”
“Shango, you may be a master smith but you apparently know very little about business. A house, my boy, is part of your terms of agreement. If Alafiya is putting up the money for you to purchase Seth's business, then he should throw in a house for you as well. And not some “lean to,” but a dwelling befitting the “focus” of Orí's new manufacturing initiative.
Three. You need a bank account. No more of this putting your money under the bed. You will be dealing with letters of credit now. You should have an account with enough cash available to you to do more than meet your payroll. Alafiya can help you with this. Learn from him.”
“I understand.”
“Finally, for now, if you are to take your place in Orí's polite society, you must marry and marry well. This Cassandra of yours would be an excellent choice. Her father, Benjamin Idowu, is Alafiya's minority partner in the bank and a mover and a shaker, so to speak, among the merchants. The Alafiya's, the Idowu's and the Dugbe's – Olu Dugbe owns the largest dry goods store in Orí – are the royality of Orí society.”
“This Olu Dugbe,” replied Shango, “does he have two daughters named Ayida and Beryl?
“He is the same. A very saavy business man, that one. But as ruthless as they come. Be mindful of any dealings with him, my boy. He'll do anything to dethrone Alafiya…”
“Then John, number five is setting up Michael for independent living…”
“But Michael is …”
“Very much like me,” Shango finished. “I want him out of the stables and into one your best guest rooms or a small place of his own. I would prefer him to stay with you for a few more years, and under your guidance, but as a valued tenant, not the recipient of your charity. Soon, I want him to move into gentleman's quarters as he figures to be an important part of this new initiative.”
“Well said, my boy. I will see to it this very night.” the innkeeper beamed. “That is certainly good for a start. The plan can be refined as you go along. It is mid afternoon, what else do you plan to do today?”
“I will get out of these clothes and return to my forge. I have much to think about and I do that best pounding and shaping white-hot steel. But before I go, I need to send a note to Cassandra to meet me here tomorrow. I'd like to take her on a late picnic lunch. I need you to prepare a basket. Will you bring me some writing materials?
Shango, Timo and Michael worked well into the night. Although Timo was curious about how the meeting went with his father, Shango held back the news of the initiative. He suspected that Timo already knew. What he told Timo of the meeting was how highly his father had spoken of him, how proud he was of his son.
“He made it sound like I had something to do with the positive changes he saw in you. I told him that you came to me quite accomplished and in the time you have been here, have through your own initiative and diligence, become even more accomplished. Which reminds me…” They were both at the forge working on a metal wagon wheel tire. Shango motioned him away from the forge to speak directly and safely.
“Don't you think it is time for you to be about your master work?”
Timo couldn't believe that the moment he had been waiting for and the words he wanted so much to be spoken had finally come.
“If you think I am ready, Master Shango, then yes.”
“It is not a question of what I think but what you think. Are you ready?”
“Yes Master Shango, I am ready.” There was no cockiness in the response; no arrogance. If anything, Shango heard a surprising humility. “Did my father truly say those things, Master Shango?”
“He not only said them, but chided himself for not seeing those qualities in you before. He is truly proud of you, Timo. Now, for your master work, you will first make a set of farming tools—a cutlass, a hoe , a shovel, a rake, an ax and a plow. I have already seen you make most of these implements, but these are to be a set with your own distinctive mark on them. Then you will make a wagon or some other vehicle that equals the ones we provide wheels for. You will do this on your own time and I expect both projects finished in three months. Do you have any questions, journeyman?”
Timo could do nothing more than smile.
“I will take that for a ‘no!' “
Michael!” Shango called to the young apprentice who was on the other side of the shop at a secondary forge immersing horseshoes in one of the quenching pits. He dropped what he was doing and came quickly to the master's summons.
“How are things in the stables, these days Michael?”
“They are fine, Master Shango. It is peaceful among the horses. It is like sleeping among old friends.”
“That may be well and good, Michael, but a young man who dances with Beryl Dugbe, daughter of the most prominent merchant in town, cannot sleep in a stable. When you go home tonight, Old John will be waiting up for you. He will show you to your new quarters in one of his guest rooms. Timo…” he went on quickly before the boy could respond.
“Yes master Shango.”
“Help Michael get prepared for his journeyman's test. I think he is ready despite his years and I know I will have need for a good journeyman in the days to come…” He smiled knowingly at Michael and Timo. Michael's face went from astonished to overjoyed when Shango's words sunk in.
“It is past the wishing hour and nearly midnight. I will have to presume on your good natures again tomorrow and go into town to conclude the business that I started today. I will bring you news when I return tomorrow evening. Go home, now, both of you, and rest.
Still aching from the tongue-lashing he took from Orunmila through Old John that afternoon, Shango, laying on his sleeping pallet relaxed his grip on the here and now and summoned the Orísha Ogun.
The image of Tom/Ogun, his master, appeared at the foot of his pallet. The visage was a powerfully built black man in his blacksmith's apron, with a hard chiseled face, graying at the temples, whose eyes were like rivets. His voice rumbled like thunder.
“You have done well for your self, young pup. You are quite the master blacksmith now.” And then that dark stormy face burst into a dazzling smile. “I am at your service, o harbinger of the new path…brother.
“Ogun, thank you for coming. How fares the village?”
“All is well, Spirit of Lightning.”
“How is my mother, Maggie/Eshu?”
“She pines for her son, but she knows his every thought and every movement. We all do.
“Then you know why I have called you.”
“Yes.”
“It looks like I will be buying Master Seth's work shop and expanding my own. The banker says he is willing to put good money behind me because he thinks I can make him rich.”
The image closed his eyes as if in deep thought. “Yes, I see him. That is Ajé-shàlúgà. If anyone knows where money is to be made, it is he.”
“I need Tom/Ogun to help me train journeymen and masters. I need the Spirit of Iron to foster the spirit of invention that is to come of this venture. And I need another awakened one to help me tend to those who will awaken because of me.”
“How wise you have become, young pup. I am already preparing for the journey. My workshop almost runs itself now. I have a master whom I will leave in charge, two journeymen and three apprentices. I will bring one of the journeymen with me. Three can do the work they are doing now quite comfortably. They don't need me or the other journeyman. I will be arriving in a week's time with a wagonload of tools and supplies. And brother…” the Orísha's tone changed. “although I trained you and made you a Master, you owe me nothing more than that acknowledgement.
You are the master now in your own right and I am more than willing to take direction from you. This is as it should be. Let us put our heads together and show Orí what a manufacturing center is supposed to be.” He snorted, “Ajé-shàlúgà indeed.” And as an afterthought he added before fading away: “…and call your mother in this way, from time to time!”
The next morning, easily two hours before noon, Shango presented himself once again to Mister Alafiya. As before, he was whisked right in without having to wait. Alafiya came around his desk again in greeting. The two men shook hands and Shango seated himself again in that plush leather and oak chair.
Alafiya, not standing on ceremony, went straight to the point.
“Well master smith, do you have an answer for me, as promised?
“Yes sir, I do.
“Well, out with it, Man!” The merchant banker's manner betrayed a nervousness that was not apparent in their first meeting. Although he tried to make his reply sound jocular and good natured, Shango detected an urgency about him.
“I have decided , sir… Shango paused for effect, “to accept your generous offer – with a few conditions…”
The banker's eyes narrowed as he put on his bargaining face.
“And what might those conditions be?”
“I wish it understood, that if I am to purchase Master Seth's business, I am in no way obligated to his employees. I can choose to keep them or let them go as I see fit.
“Done.”
Secondly, I want you to meet Master Seth's first price. His business is worth whatever he says it is and I want him to need nothing in his retirement.”
The banker's eyes became slightly feral; began to gleam.
“I will do as you say, master smith.”
“Thirdly, I want to open an account in your bank and be issued a letter of credit to cover the costs of the new journeymen and masters I may require, their salaries and lodgings for at least a year, as well as the tools, equipment and supplies I will require for refurbishing and expanding the two workshops, and for building a new and larger workshop in the distant future.”
This time the banker smiled genuinely.
“Of course! It will be as you say. And I have just the property. I am sure it will meet all of your needs. Done, to all.”
“Finally … I need a house of my own. I would prefer a townhouse over a farm and something close to, if not on, the town square. I have been told that there are a few properties available…”
Think no more of it, master smith. I have several properties available. I am sure you will find exactly what you want. Is there anything else that you require?” He said this last expectantly.
“Only your hand to seal the agreement, sir.”
Alafiya again came from behind his desk to take Shangos's proferred hand in a firm hand clasp. Looking squarely in Shango's eyes, he paused, like he saw something he hadn't seen previously. Finally, he smiled and said:
“I have a very good feeling about this, Master Shango. You drive a hard bargain, but I think you are just the person I have been waiting for.”
Shango returned his smile. He sensed a quickening in Alafiya, the unmistakable signature of Orísha awareness. Soon, good sir, he thought to himself, you will know me as I know you. I'm just glad I got a good, generous deal from the likes of you. He heard Old John's words in his head. “He is as honest as his money…”
His business concluded, he took his leave but not before arranging to see those houses Alafiya talked about on the weekend. As he left the bank building, his mind raced ahead to the next task of this busy day – this picnic luncheon date with Cassandra. He had to get a wagon…
Alafiya sat quietly in his office for some time after the master smith left. That is the most formidable man, despite his youth, that I have ever met, he thought. He smiled. He is going to make me a very, very rich man for he travels the road that money travels.
The banker allowed himself the luxury of laughing out loud. The young master doesn't know, he exulted, that I would have paid three times again what it cost me to secure his services. I will be surprised if I don't make it all back in half a year.
