“In the beginning, our Sky Mother created the heavens and the earth, bringing life to the vast darkness.” Bright lights swirl from the palms of the elderly woman I recognize as the statue on the first floor. Her purple robes glide like silk around her regal form as the new worlds spring to life. “On earth, Sky Mother created humans, her children of blood and bone. In the heavens she gave birth to the gods and goddesses. Each would come to embody a different fragment of her soul.”
Though I’ve heard Mama tell this story before, it’s never felt as real as it does now. It transcends the realm of fables and myths into actual history. We all stare with wide eyes and open mouths as humans and gods spring from Sky Mother at once. While the humans fall to the brown earth, the newborn deities float into the clouds above.
“Sky Mother loved all her children, each created in her image. To connect us all, she shared her gifts with the gods, and the first maji were born. Each deity took a part of her soul, a magic they were meant to gift to the humans below. Yem?ja took the tears from Sky Mother’s eyes and became the Goddess of the Sea.”
A stunning dark-skinned goddess with vibrant blue eyes drops a single tear onto the world. As it lands, it explodes, creating oceans, lakes, streams.
“Yem?ja brought water to her human siblings, teaching those who worshipped her how to control its life. Her pupils studied their sister deity with unrelenting discipline, gaining mastery over the sea.”
Birth of the Tiders, I remember suddenly. Above us, the painted members of the Omi Clan twist the waters to their will, making them dance with masterful ease.
Lekan narrates the origin of god after god, explaining each deity and their maji clan as we pass. We learn of Sàngó, who took the fire from Sky Mother’s heart to create Burners; Ayao, who took the air from Sky Mother’s breath to make Winders. We study nine gods and goddesses until there’s only one left.
I wait for Lekan to start speaking, but he turns to me, expectation heavy in his gaze.
“Me?” I step forward, palms sweating as I take his place. This is the part of the story I know best, the tale Mama told me so often even Tzain could recite it. But when I was a child, it was only a myth, a fantasy adults could weave for our young eyes. For the first time the tale feels real, stitched into the very fabric of my life.
“Unlike her sisters and brothers, Oya chose to wait until the end,” I speak loudly. “She didn’t take from Sky Mother like her siblings. Instead, she asked Sky Mother to give.”
I watch as my sister deity moves with the grace of a hurricane, depicted in all her might and brilliance. The obsidian beauty kneels before her mother, red robes flowing like the wind. The sight takes my breath away. Her stance holds a power, a storm brewing beneath her black skin.
“For Oya’s patience and wisdom, Sky Mother rewarded her with mastery over life,” I continue. “But when Oya shared this gift with her worshippers, the ability transformed to power over death.”
My heartbeat quickens as the Reapers of the Ikú Clan display their lethal abilities, the maji I was born to become. Even as paintings, their shadows and spirits soar, commanding armies of the dead, destroying life in storms of ash.
The magical displays take me back to my days in Ibadan, watching the newly elected elders demonstrate their prowess for our Reaper clan. When Mama was elected, the black shadows of death that swirled around her were magnificent. Terrifying, yet stunning as they danced by her side.
In that moment I knew that as long as I lived, I would never see anything as beautiful as that. I only hoped one day I would join her. I wanted her to watch me and feel even half as proud.
“I’m sorry.” My throat closes up. Lekan seems to understand at once. With a nod, he steps forward, continuing the tale.
“Oya was the first to realize that not all her children could handle such great power. She became selective, like her mother, sharing her ability with only those who showed patience and wisdom. Her siblings followed suit, and soon the maji population dwindled. In this new era, all maji were graced with coiled white hair, an homage to Sky Mother’s image.”
I tuck back my straight locks, my cheeks growing hot. Even if I pass for wise, there can’t be a god above who thinks I’m patient.…
Lekan’s gaze turns to the last set of drawings on the heavenly mural, where men and women inked with white symbols kneel and worship.
“To protect the gods’ will on this earth, Sky Mother created my people, the sêntaros. Led by the mamaláwo, we act as spiritual guardians, tasked with connecting Sky Mother’s spirit to the maji below.”
He pauses as the painting of a woman rises above the sêntaros with an ivory dagger in one hand and a glowing stone in the other. Though she’s dressed in leather robes like her brothers and sisters, an ornate diadem rests on the mamaláwo’s head.
“What is she holding?” I ask.
“The bone dagger,” Lekan answers, removing it from his robes. “A sacred relic carved from the skeleton of the first sêntaro.” The dagger seems to bathe in a light blue glow, emitting an energy that chills like ice. The same sênbaría inked onto Lekan’s arms shine bright against its handle. “Whoever wields it draws strength from the life force of all those who have wielded it before.”
“In her right hand the mamaláwo holds the sunstone, a living fragment of Sky Mother’s soul. By holding Sky Mother’s spirit, the stone tethers her to this world, keeping magic alive. Every century, our mamaláwo carried the stone, the dagger, and the scroll to a sacred temple to perform the binding ritual. By drawing her blood with the dagger and using the power imbued into the stone, the mamaláwo sealed the spiritual connection of the gods into the sêntaros’ blood. As long as our bloodline survived, magic did, too.”
As the mamaláwo in the mural chants, her words dance across the wall in painted symbols. The ivory dagger drips with her blood. The glow of the sunstone encompasses the entire mural in its light.
“Then that’s what happened?” Tzain stares at the mural with dead eyes, rigid in his stance. “She didn’t perform the ritual? That’s why magic died?”
Though he says magic, I hear Mama in his voice. This is what left her defenseless.
This is how the king took her away.
The spark vanishes from Lekan’s eyes and the paintings lose their animated life. In an instant, the magic of the mural dies, no more than ordinary, dry paint.
“The massacre of the maji—‘the Raid,’ as your people call it—was not a chance event. Before I went away on pilgrimage, your king entered Chandomblé’s temples claiming false worship. In truth, Saran was searching for a weapon against the gods.” Lekan turns so we can’t see his face, only the symbols inked onto his arms. They seem to shrink as he slumps in the candlelight, withering with his heartache. “He learned of the ritual, of how magic in Or?sha was anchored to the sêntaros’ blood. By the time I returned, Saran had slaughtered my people, severing Sky Mother’s connection and ripping magic from our world.”
Amari clasps her hand to her mouth, silent tears streaking her rosy cheeks. I can’t fathom how one man could be so cruel. I don’t know what I’d do if that man was my father.