Historical Background of Diplo-santería1

Since the very first humanitarian flight that departed to Cuba in 1979 after negotiations with the Cuban government allowed Cuban exiles to return to the island to visit their families, Diasporan Cuban Olorishas and their multi-national religious descendants have made countless visits to the island for religious purposes. Today, many younger Olorishas from the United States, Puerto Rico, Spain, Mexico, Venezuela, Panama, and other areas of the Cuban-Lukumí Diaspora are traveling to Cuba, infected by the nostalgic virus that we, the earlier generations of Cuban exiles disseminated, that idealized or romanticized the religion in Cuba. Under this assumption, bitten by the Lukumí-Mecca-in-Cuba bug, they seek religious knowledge and orthodoxy in the island. In many, the virus spreads and becomes a malignant cancer that cannot be extirpated. Continue reading »

Miguel W. Ramos, Obá Oriaté
Florida International University, Department of History
May, 2008

The discovery of iron by early human civilizations some 10,000 years ago permanently transformed humankind. Iron became fundamental in tool-making, but even more so in agriculture, with the invention of the plow. This new tool revolutionized agricultural production, and by extension human society, by exponentially multiplying the amount of food that people could produce. The technological advances that followed had a direct effect on human intellectual development by placing greater demands on the brain that allowed for the expansion of the existing knowledge base. Humanity crossed a major intersection. Continue reading »

Obá Oriaté Willie Ramos, Ilarí Obá
Miami, Florida
Traducido por Flor Rodríguez

Un incidente que involucra a sacerdotes y sacerdotisas lukumíes y yorubas tradicionales ha impactado a Miami recientemente. Al menos dos personas ya ordenadas en el sacerdocio lukumí, han sido reordenadas por un grupo de sacerdotes yorubas tradicionales que han estado causando situaciones lamentables y desestabilizadoras en esta ciudad.

Además del carácter controversial de las ceremonias, es insultante, que estos ritos hayan contado con la participación de olorishas lukumíes y de un apuón y babalawo lukumí que relativamente conocido en la comunidad desde su llegada de Cuba tres o cuatro años atrás.

En última instancia, aunque como sacerdote pueda tener mi opinión personal acerca del incidente, esta es una opinión que parece ser compartida por la mayoría de la comunidad Orisha en la ciudad y es poco lo que yo o cualquiera pueda hacer en este momento para revertir este proceso.

Claramente los participantes—los ordenados y los olorishas tradicionales Yorubas que realizaron la ordenación—tomaron una decisión y voy a respetar esa elección, aunque no necesariamente esté de acuerdo. Mi conflicto mayor, sin embargo, no es con ellos sino con lo que es claramente un proceso que posteriormente traerá consigo inestabilidad a ambas tradiciones religiosas. Lamentablemente, estos olorishas están socavando el bienestar de la Religión Orisha en África y en las Américas, con total indiferencia por las consecuencias de sus acciones a largo plazo. Esto también es su elección pero es una opción que muchos lukumíes en esta ciudad, al igual que quien escribe, no estamos dispuestos a aceptar tranquilamente porque en esencia ponen en cuestión nuestra ortodoxia y validez.

Como olorisha que durante años he realizado numerosas contribuciones a la expansión de la Religión Lukumí, y promovido la comprensión, la tolerancia y el respeto en una sociedad que no necesariamente nos acepta, me uno al creciente número de olorishas en Miami que condenan la burla vil y ofensiva hacia la Regla Lukumí y la despreciable falta de respeto a nuestros ancestros por parte de todos los participantes en estas ceremonias, pero más aún, de aquellos lukumíes que desempeñaron un papel activo en esta farsa. Insisto en que si no hubiera sido por nuestras progenitoras y precursores, los alagbás que echaron los cimientos de la Religión Lukumí y los orishas en Cuba así como en otras áreas del Nuevo Mundo; los sacerdotes y sacerdotisas yorubas no pudieran realizar sus funciones fuera de África con la facilidad que lo hacen en la actualidad.

Se reconozca o no, y pese a nuestras virtudes y defectos, nosotros, los lukumíes cubanos echamos los cimientos de esta región del Nuevo Mundo. Si por nada más, solamente por este hecho se nos debe el reconocimiento debido y más importante aún, el debido respeto.

Creo sinceramente que los olorishas lukumíes que participaron activamente en estas ordenaciones conscientemente se burlaron de nuestros ancestros lucumíes y de nuestra herencia religiosa. Su participación directa en estas iniciaciones es condenable, irresponsable, y por todos los medios imperdonable porque ellos perpetuaron un atentado directo e indignante para nosotros como comunidad religiosa. Sus acciones constituyen una deplorable transgresión en contra de nuestro legado religioso porque cuestionan y ponen en duda nuestra validez y ortodoxia como religión mundial en crecimiento. No estoy dispuesto a quedarme de brazos cruzados mientras un grupo equivocado y poco juicioso de gente malintencionada, hurgan en los fundamentos de nuestra comunidad, hacen caso omiso de su historia, destruyen su estabilidad, y cuestionan su legitimidad y validez, algo que ha tomado a los lukumíes y sus descendientes casi doscientos años llevar a cabo.

No podemos permitir que las semillas de la discordia y la inestabilidad broten entre nosotros—ya seamos lukumíes, tradicionales u otro de los varios grupos de la Diáspora que conservan este legado—porque en lugar de promover el entendimiento y la cooperación mutua, estas semillas sólo se convertirán en confusión, tensión e intolerancia. Lamentablemente, en lugar de buscar la unificación y la cooperación, estas iniciaciones sólo contribuirán al ulterior fraccionamiento de la religión Orisha en África y las Américas.

En consecuencia, esta falta de ética e irrespetuosa violación a nuestra ética religiosa no me ha dejado otra opción que sumarme sin reservas a las filas de los lukumíes que ofrecen el apoyo correspondiente a los críticos que piden la censura directa y la expulsión completa de nuestros rituales de aquellos sacerdotes que participaron en esta parodia impertinente y odiosa.

Si bien no podemos revocar su sacerdocio, ya que esta es una prerrogativa de Olodumare, sí podemos rechazarlos y negarnos a permitir que se puedan beneficiar en modo alguno de nuestros rituales y celebraciones.

Si nuestras prácticas no son lo suficientemente legítimas para que estos olorishas lukumies las defiendan y respeten, ¡entonces ellos no deben tener participación en ninguna ceremonia Lukumí!

No obstante, la pregunta sobre los efectos a largo plazo de estos eventos sigue sin respuesta. Al condenar a estas personas y cerrarles nuestras puertas no vamos a resolver los grandes problemas que tenemos a mano. Esto requiere un enfoque completamente diferente. Durante años, tanto otras personas como yo, hemos insistido en la necesidad de que la Diáspora y África nos sentemos a discutir nuestra posición religiosa y el futuro de nuestra tradición. En este punto, es imprescindible que lo hagamos antes de que estos y otros delitos despreciables provoquen una avalancha de controversias entre nuestros sacerdotes y sacerdotisas que solo harán más estragos y conducirán a una mayor confusión y divisionismo.

En nombre de la civilidad, hago un llamamiento para un congreso que cuente con la participación de representantes legítimos y reverentes de la nación Yoruba, Cuba, Estados Unidos, Brasil, Trinidad, y otras zonas de la Diáspora Orisha. Llamo a un encuentro de las mentes en el que todos puedan sentarse a la mesa y hablar de igual a igual, libres de condescendencia y arrogancia. Es crucial que patrocinemos un encuentro en el cual, abiertamente, enlacemos las vías como comunidad religiosa para lograr una conciencia común, un entendimiento mutuo, respeto a nuestras diferencias, y lo más importante, la unificación de un pueblo que adora a las mismas deidades aunque nuestros enfoques son diferentes.

Si no podemos respetar nuestra propia devoción, independientemente de nuestras diferencias rituales, entonces no podemos respetar, y de hecho no respetamos, a Olodumare y a los orishas.

Obá Oriaté Willie Ramos, Ilarí Obá
Miami, Florida

Miami has been rocked by a recent incident involving Lukumí and traditional Yoruba priests and priestesses. At least two people already ordained in the Lukumí priesthood, have been re-ordained by a group of traditional Yoruba priests that have been causing unfortunate and destabilizing waves in this city. Despite the controversial nature of the ceremonies, to add insult to injury, the rites counted with the active participation of Lukumí olorishas and a Lukumí apuón and babalawo who has become relatively well known in the community since his arrival from Cuba three or four years ago.

Ultimately, while as a priest I may have my personal opinion about this incident, an opinion that seems to be shared by the majority of the Orisha community in this city, there is little I or anyone can do at this stage to revert this process. Clearly, the participants—the ordained and the traditional Yoruba olorishas that performed the ordination—made a choice and I will respect that choice, even if I disagree. My major conflict, however, is not with them, but with what is clearly a process that will subsequently bring about instability to our mutual religious traditions. Sadly, these olorishas are undermining the wellbeing of the Orisha religion, in Africa and in the Americas, with reckless disregard for the long-term consequences of their actions. This, too, is their choice, but it is an option that I and many other Lukumís in this city are not willing to accept acquiescently because at its core are issues of orthodoxy and validity.

As such, as an olorisha who for years has made numerable contributions to the expansion of Lukumí religion; toward promoting understanding, tolerance, and respect in a society that does not necessarily accept us, I join the growing number of olorishas in Miami that condemn the vile and offensive ridicule of the Lukumí Orisha tradition and the contemptible disrespect for our ancestors by all the participants in these ceremonies, but more so by those Lukumí that played an active part in this travesty. I stress that were it not for our foremothers and fathers, for those alagbás that laid the foundations of Orisha in Cuba and other areas of the New World, Traditional Yoruba priests and priestesses would not be able to function outside Africa today with the facility that they do. Whether they acknowledge it or not, and in spite our virtues and flaws, we, the Cuban Lukumí, laid the foundations in this region of the New World. If for nothing else, we must at least be given our due respect for this much.

I sincerely believe that those Lukumí olorishas that actively participated in these ordinations consciously mocked our Lukumí forebears and our religious heritage. Their direct participation in these initiations is reprehensible, irresponsible, and by all means unforgiveable because they perpetrate a direct and outrageous affront to us as a religious community. Their actions constitute a deplorable transgression against our religious legacy because they question and cast doubt on our validity and orthodoxy as a growing world religion. As such, I am not willing to sit idly while a misguided and injudicious group of people maliciously burrow at the foundations of our community, disregard its historical plight, destroy its stability, and question its legitimacy and validity, something that has taken the Lukumí and their descendants almost two hundred years to accomplish! We cannot allow the seeds of discord and instability to sprout among us—Traditionalists, Lukumí, and all Diasporan traditions—because instead of promoting understanding and mutual cooperation, these seeds will only evolve into confusion, tension and intolerance. Sadly, instead of seeking unification and cooperation, these initiations will only contribute to the further fractioning of the Orisha religion in Africa and the Americas.

Consequently, this disrespectful and unethical violation of our religious ethics has left me no choice but to unreservedly join the ranks of Lukumís that support those rightful critics that are calling for the outright censure and complete banishment from our rituals of those priests that participated in this insolent and odious travesty. While we cannot revoke their priesthood, given that this is Olodumare’s prerogative, we can reject them and refuse to allow them to benefit in any way from our rituals and celebrations. If our practices are not legitimate enough for these Lukumí olorishas to respect and defend, then they should not take any part at all in any Lukumí ceremony!

Nevertheless, the question of the long-term effects of these events still remains unanswered. By condemning these individuals and closing our doors to them we will not resolve the major issues at hand. This requires a completely different approach. For years, I and others have continuously stressed the need for the Diaspora and Africa to sit down and discuss our religious position and future. At this point, it is imperative that we do so before these and similar despicable offenses provoke an avalanche of controversies among our priests and priestesses that will only spread greater havoc and lead to further misunderstanding and divisionism.

In the name of civility, I call for a congress that counts with the participation of legitimate and reverent representatives from Yorubaland, Cuba, the United States, Brazil, Trinidad, and other areas of the Orisha Diaspora. I call for a meeting of the minds, one in which we can all come together to the table and speak as equals, free of condescension and arrogance. It is crucial that we sponsor an encounter in which we can openly engage the ways in which we as a religious community can achieve a common awareness, a mutual understanding, respect for our differences, and most importantly, the unification of a people that worship the same deities even if our approaches differ! If we cannot respect our own devotion, regardless of our ritual differences, then we cannot, and do not, respect Olodumare and the orishas!

Obá Oriaté Willie Ramos, Ilarí Obá

El nacimiento de una persona puede indicar su orisha tutelar sin necesidad de consultar al oráculo para definirlo. Es de suma importancia que el babalawo u oriaté que vaya a identificar el orisha tutelar de una persona pregunte acerca de las circunstancias del nacimiento de una persona antes de proceder a preguntar el orisha tutelar al oráculo. En muchas oportunidades se han cometido graves errores y han marcado un orisha con el oráculo que no es el indicado para la persona de acuerdo a su nacimiento. A veces esto puede traerle consecuencias nefastas al individuo.

El único orisha que siempre “está bien hecho” es Obatalá, y no importa cuales sean las circunstancias alrededor de la persona al nacer. También es necesario aclarar que Obatalá es el dueño de todas las cabezas ya que según la tradición y la creencia, es el orisha que moldea el feto dentro del vientre de la madre. Aunque se haya identificado el orisha tutelar de una persona, todo ceremonial se le debe hacer a través de Obatalá ya que este sigue siendo el orisha tutelar de la persona hasta el día de su iniciación.

Adicionalmente, Obatalá es el dueño de todos los defectos que puedan existir en el cuerpo humano, ya sean de nacimientos o adquiridos después. En el odu Ejiogbé mejí, donde se narra el mito de la creación del mundo y de los seres humanos, Obatalá, bajo los efectos de la bebida, creo seres defectuosos. Al día siguiente, cuando vio los resultados de su mal habito, juró proteger a todo ser defectuoso que el haya creado. Obatalá se convierte en el patrón de las personas con defectos físicos. Toda persona que tenga un defecto físico es automáticamente hijo o hija de Obatalá y no se le identifica el orisha tutelar a través del oráculo. Dado el caso que una persona tenga su orisha identificado y al cabo del tiempo adquiera algún defecto físico, ya sea en un accidente u otra forma, pasa a ser automáticamente hijo de Obatalá y cae bajo su protección. Incluso, hasta en el caso de una persona que sea iniciada y adquiera algún defecto físico, esta persona automáticamente pasa bajo la protección de Obatalá ya que se considera que ningún orisha acepta personas con defectos físicos.

NombreSignificadoOrishaCorrespondencia
TalabíAquel que nació envuelto en el manto.ObataláSe le pone a una niña que haya nacido con la cara envuelta en zurrón.
SalakóExtiende un manto blanco y exhíbeloObataláSe le pone a un niño que haya nacido con la cara envuelta en zurrón.

Una versión dice que estos dos nombres se le ponen a los niños gemelos que no se les haya podido hacer Yemojá y Shangó. En dicho caso, se les hace Obatalá y se nombran Talabí y Salakó.
OkéObataláSe le pone a un niño/a que haya nacido dentro del zurrón sin que este
se haya roto.
OníNiño/a que nace gritando y llorando. Indica que hubo aflicción en el proceso de nacer que afectó a la criatura.
IgéElegbáNiño/a que nace de pie.
AjayíNiño/a que nace boca abajo.
OjóAiná (se le hace Shangó)Niño que nace con el cordón umbilical enredado alrededor del cuello.
AináAiná (se le hace Shangó)Niño que nace con el cordón umbilical enredado alrededor del cuello.
ErinléErinléNiño/a que nace con el cordón umbilical enredado alrededor de la cintura.
DadáDadá (se le hace Shangó) Niño/a que nace con una corona de pelo o el pelo encrespado.
IloríNiño/a concebido inmediatamente después del nacimiento de otro cuando la madre aún no ha cesado de sangrar.
TaiwóSale y prueba el mundo.Ibejí (se le hace Shangó)Se le pone al primero en nacer de una pareja de Jimagüas o mellizos. Este se considera el menor de los dos. Incluso, evidencia científica indica que lo es.
KehindeYo permaneceré aquí en espera.Ibejí (se le hace Yemojá)Se le pone al segundo en nacer de una pareja de Jimagüas o mellizos. Este se considera el mayor de los dos. La ciencia lo corrobora.[1]
Idowú/IdeúIbejí (se le hace Oshún)Niño que nace después de un parto de Jimagüas.[2]
IdogbéIbejí (se le hace Oshún)Niño que nace después de un parto de Jimagüas.
AlabaNiño que nace después de Idowú.
OlugbodíOsayin (se le hace Shangó)Niño que nace con dedos extras en las manos o pies.

Endnotes

  1. Si fuera un parto de mas de dos, o sea, trillizos o más, todos los niños/as se consideran hijos de Shangó y Yemojá. Se identifican a través del oráculo.
  2. Hay quien considera que también se le puede hacer Elegbá.

Miguel Ramos
Florida International University

The presence of Africans in the Americas dates back to the arrival in 1492 of Christopher Columbus and his three ships of discovery. Soon after Bartolomé de las Casas’ sixteenth century defense of the indigenous populations of the Americas and simultaneous condemnation of Africans to slavery, the presence of enslaved Africans in the Americas increased until its eventual abolition in 1888 in Brazil, slavery’s last bastion.[1]

Very little is known about the daily lives of Africans in colonial Spanish and Portuguese America outside of themes associated with their forced captivity. Africans in the literature are most frequently studied in association with slavery and the trade. More recently, there is an upsurge in the number of investigations about African culture and religiosity in the Americas; however, the great majority of these studies deal with practices that are more current; from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and their survival through syncretism and transculturation.[2]

Unlike Native Americans who were only subject to civil and ecclesiastical authorities, Africans were considered an Old World population; as such, they were bound to Christian orthodoxy, and any infraction of that orthodoxy exposed them to possible Inquisitorial proceedings. This was no less influenced by the fact that in most areas of colonial Latin America Africans were often more numerous—or due to white insecurities, perceived as such—than Spaniards.[3] Nevertheless, the encounters between Africans and the Inquisition in the New World are possibly one of the best available tools to study the culture and history of transplanted Africans in the colonial era.

Brazilian historian Laura de Mello e Souza has stressed a similar idea in her remarkable study of colonial Brazilian sorcery and syncretism. Similar to this author’s argument for Brazil, I stress that knowing some of these “remarkable stories” about Africans tried by the Inquisition provides a fuller understanding of what the New World’s “social formation was all about.”[4]

There are other valuable sources, no doubt. Civil proceedings are probably just as copious as the Inquisition records. An excellent example is the extraordinary seventeenth-century proceeding brought against a group of Kongo and creole maroons in Cartagena, Colombia, who were accused of “sacrificing” a white overseer named Domingo Pérez, along with his son Juanillo, and two Indians, Clara and Juan. Their heads were severed, their torsos opened to expose their innards and remove their organs; and their bodies were left in an open field for the vultures to devour, denying them a “proper Christian burial.” The maroons were under the leadership of a woman, Queen Leonor, whom allegedly “drank the blood” of the victims.

Historian Kathryn Joy McKnight has written about this case. She assumed that the queen had probably been ordained into some form of Kongo religiosity. She wrote that the maroons residing in the palenque

“restored Kongo-Angola practices in the New World, creating through ritual violence a trans-Atlantic identity that resisted the supremacy of the master-colonizer and staged a display of power, effective in coercing unity of action among a tensely diverse African—and American-born palenque community.”[5]

Apparently, before the arrival of three Malembas—an ethnic group from the area generally referred to as the Kongo—the maroons lived in harmony with the local community. Soon after, though, the Malemba’s magic went to work. They

“put some devil in Leonor’s head, because from then on she began to command. And all obeyed her, even the captain and commander, because something happened to her in the head that made her walk as if crazy, falling down and hitting herself before she spoke. And when she came back to her senses, she made a thousand wild statements and in effect everyone feared her and obeyed her as queen.”

Undoubtedly, Kongo religiosity was feared. These Malembas allegedly bewitched Queen Leonor and their power intimidated not only the maroons, but also, as McKnight argued, the society at large. As a response to the slaughter, the local authorities hunted down the maroons and tried them. The maroons were hung, their heads severed and displayed in a cage at the entrance to the city, and their bodies quartered and left near the entrance of the maroons’ palenque so as to intimidate them with white “magic,” so to speak. The author referred to this as “a gruesome symmetry of violence.”[6]

Still, McKnight was not able to demonstrate convincingly that the Malembes were indeed practitioners of some form of Kongo religiosity. Based solely on the testimony in the civil proceedings, verifying that the Malembes and Queen Leonor were indeed ordained, and to which religious tradition, is almost impossible. Clearly, the colonial authorities were interested in setting an example, and not in investigating her possible religious practices. As such, this particular account can only reveal something about the brutality of the slave system against which Africans often rebelled, and the extremes that Africans were willing to go to in order to attain or maintain their freedom. Additionally, it tells us something about the nature of the Kongo slaves, reputed in some areas of the New World for having a very rebellious nature.[7] Finally, as McKnight pointed out, it highlights the intimidating exhibitions of power that the dominant class had to employ to coerce Africans—and Indians as well—to acquiesce and submit to their authority and control.

Heather Rachelle White wrote about a similar Inquisitional case in which a group of African women, also from Colombia, allegedly made a pact with the Devil. In one of their ceremonies, one witness claimed that the Devil instructed them to go in groups of

“twenty and twenty, divided in troupes according to different plantations, where [the devil] ordered them to do all the harm they could. And this [witness] and the rest of them killed little children, sucking the blood through the naval[;] and when they were adults, [the sucked the blood] through the nostrils.”[8]

Though the insurrection was almost certainly not incited by the Devil but by the devilish ways of slavery’s oppression and abuses, it is interesting to note here how many of the images that arose in these cases reflected ideas of savagery and barbarism: the senseless slaughter of whites, cannibalism, and drinking blood; themes that are so often associated with Africans and their religiosity. The renowned Cuban ethnographer Fernando Ortiz began his career with a study of Afro-Cuban criminality and its relationship with African religions, primarily the Kongos, and human sacrifice.[9]

In spite of this coercive machinery, African religiosity was often stronger than the masters’ oppression, as is evident in many Inquisition proceedings. Though Africans were forcibly baptized and made to convert to Christianity—at least as far as their Christian traders were concerned—most continued to believe in, and secretly practice their native religions. This is most evident when considering the great variety of African religions that survived slavery in Haiti, Jamaica, Trinidad, Cuba, and Brazil, to name a few. It is undeniable that the only thing that the naked and enchained captive brought from Africa was culture. Religion was in all probability the most resilient element of that culture, for despite the oppression, pain, and destitution that they encountered in the Americas, Africans seldom gave up their traditional religions. In fact, they may have utilized these to transform, and subsequently adapt, the imposed religion of their captors.

A preliminary revision of Inquisition trials from Mexico, Perú and Brazil lend credence to this notion. Unfortunately, it appears that the considerable number of denunciations of Africans that were subsequently tried by the Inquisition has not received sufficient attention in the literature. In his pioneering study of Africans and Afro-Creoles in Colonial Mexico, Herman L. Bennett stressed that at least “50 percent of over 1,533 volumes of surviving inquisition tomes involve persons of African descent as the accused.”[10]

According to Peruvian scholar Teodoro Hampe-Martínez, most of the cases associated with witchcraft, palmistry and superstitious practices that were brought before the Inquisitor in Lima after 1600 were against people of color. During the course of over two centuries (1570-1820), witchcraft accusations in Perú made up a mere 12 percent of all the cases tried in Lima. Perú’s inquisitors tended to be relatively lenient with these cases, as they did not find them threatening nor worth the trouble of prosecuting or imposing harsh sentences.[11] The same seems to hold true for Mexico—and other areas.

Interestingly, many of the Mexican cases—as is probably the case in Perú as well—were associated with Kongolese people, generally reputed throughout the Americas for their religio-magico prowess.[12] Sources disagree as to the types of cases that dominated the Inquisition’s endeavors. Ruth Behar wrote that most of the proceedings in the eighteenth century were associated with healing or magical rites linked with love magic and sexual bewitchment.[13] This would be in line with the prevailing ideologies that link Kongolese people with powerful magico-religious practices and vast knowledge of traditional herblore stressed by other studies.[14] Behar also discussed the outcome of the encounter between Spaniards, Africans and the indigenous Mexican communities and their interchanges of magical expertise.[15] Laura de Mello e Souza has argued similarly for Brazil.[16]

Regardless of the Spaniard’s claim to religious purity, Iberian magic permeated the society, and no doubt influenced the African religions that survived slavery in the Americas.[17] A series of publications on magic and satanic pacts abounded in Spain since medieval times. Banned by the Inquisition, the most renowned of these books was probably El Libro de San Cipriano.[18]

McKnight, Javier Villa-Flores, and other scholars stray from Behar’s position. Villa-Flores proposed that throughout the colonial period, blasphemy constituted the most common crime for which Afro-Mexicans faced the Inquisition, with slaves representing the overwhelming majority of the accused.[19] Slaves, wrote Villa-Flores, became familiar with the Inquisition’s processes and learned to use them in their favor. A slave whose master was excessively abusive blasphemed God, the virgin, and the saints; hoping to be taken before the Inquisitor where he or she could plead for the court’s mercy and request to be sold to someone else.[20] McKnight stated that the trials for blasphemy became “stages on which Afro-Mexican slaves struggled to protect themselves from further punishment, criticize the oppression they suffered, and define themselves in opposition to the world of their oppressors.[21] But the courts were not always merciful, as often the Tribunal found itself in the midst of a legal bind. Villa-Flores wrote:

“The obvious difficulty of meeting Spanish standards of civil security, and of fulfilling economic needs at the same time, produced harsh legal measures meant to control the increasing black population and forestall slave revolts. This only made slavery more unpalatable, at times leading to new rebellions, which, in turn, confirmed the need for vigorous suppression. In this circular process of fear and repression, colonial authorities tended to tolerate the brutality of the masters. Indeed, the lash, the stock, the pillory, the use of gags and leg irons, and the practices of branding, burning, and even mutilating slaves evidenced the de facto power held by the slaveholders in New Spain.”[22]

Many of the sentences administered by the Inquisitor in Mexico were considered excessively harsh by the Supreme Holy Tribunal in Spain. Villa-Flores argued that blasphemy was a mechanism used by the slave who suffered under an abusive master to call the attention of the Inquisition to his or her plight. As such, the Spanish tribunal often agreed that slave owners were too harsh and “showing greater tolerance than its counterpart in New Spain, the Suprema instructed the Mexican Inquisitors to warn masters who exhibited cruelty against their slaves not to give them [the slaves] occasion to blaspheme against God our Lord, but to treat them well.”[23]

There is no doubt that Africans quickly assimilated the religious ideology of their masters. Clearly, they had no other choice, especially if survival was their priority, though some would eventually question this ideology and rebel against it. The case of María Blanca, a Kongolese slave residing in Mexico, illustrates this.[24] Given the Inquisition’s focus on extirpating “idolatry,” “heresy,” and “Devil-worship,” among other superstitions, the probability is that their trial records will contain innumerable descriptions of practices that deviated from the Catholic religion, which to the Inquisitor were clear examples of sacrilege. In addition, the lives, ideologies, and experiences of Africans—the people without a history—no doubt, come to the fore through these Inquisitional accounts. If there is one thing that is explicitly clear in the above examples, it is the revelatory richness of Inquisition sources.

The Peruvian and Mexican examples clearly highlight the coexistence of African religious ideologies alongside European Catholicism, and often native beliefs. The very open, all-inclusive nature of African religiosity—and indigenous religions as well—no doubt facilitated the acculturative processes to these new societies. Unlike the exclusivistic European religion, African religions were able to co-exist because of the many commonalities they found between the two beliefs. The role of popular Iberian Catholicism no doubt played a considerable role in this transculturative process.[25]

One interesting case from Brazil unmistakably illuminates the unrelenting nature of African culture and religion in spite of the obstacles presented by the dominant society and the looming threat of the Inquisition’s pyres. This is explicitly clear in the eighteenth-century Inquisition trial of Luzia Pinta, a freed woman, native of Angola. Luzia was accused of various misdeeds, but chiefly of being a calanduzeira—sorceress—that healed and divined under the Devil’s influence.[26] Indisputably, Luzia Pinta was not witch: she was an nganga—a Kongo religious specialist or priestess who as part of her ritual functions serves as “a medium to the Other world.”[27] Nevertheless, in Brazil, as is true throughout the Americas, African religiosity was equated with pagan superstition, witchcraft and Devil worship.

Despite what appears to be strong Kongo components, the origin of the term calundu is unclear. Since at least the eighteenth century, it was used to denote African practices. Calunduzeiras were very common in Brazil, and this was a known fact to many people, including members of the clergy. Friar Luís de Nazaré, a Carmelite from Bahía, was tried by the Inquisition in the 1740s, accused of having occultist Satanic practices and performing magical cures. The friar was a celebrated exorcist, and his skills were in great demand. When Luís came across a case that he could not resolve with a Catholic exorcism, Luís recommended that his clients visit a calunduzeiro. After exorcising Tomásia, a black slave, on various occasions, the friar determined that he could not eliminate her problem because “exorcism does not remove that kind of spells, for they are a diabolical thing.” There were many more Europeans like Luís and Africans like Luzia whose common and popular practices were unconventional and thereby heretical by the Inquisiton’s standards, and they too were brought before the Holy Tribunal.[28]

Luzia Pinta was accused by two men, both of whom had apparently sought Luzia’s “gifts.” Though it is not clear why, Gonçalo Luis da Rocha, from Río de Janeiro, was the first to denounce her. His statement alleged that some gold coins had been missing from the home of Antonio Pereira de Freitas, resident in the hamlet of Santa Luzia, parish of Rossa Grande in the district of Sabara. Pereira de Freitas went to Luzia’s house in the company of Domingos Pinto, who lived in the former’s house. They sought an answer to the whereabouts of the missing gold.

When they arrived, Luzia was “dressed in various clothes not used in this land and came out dancing to the sound of drums or little drums which some African blacks were playing.” De Freitas offered her eight gold coins if she would help him find the thieves. Apparently, Luzia went into a trance, and in the midst of this mystical state, she revealed that the coins had been taken by two slave women, one of whom de Freitas had slept with, who felt entitled to the coins that she took from him as compensation for her sexual favors. The scribe summarized that “it is public throughout the district that this negress divines when something is missing and she believes completely in the divinations and cures which she makes.”[29]

The second denunciation came from Andre Moreira de Carvalho who also identified Luzia as a “public sorceress” or feiticeira. It seems that Luis Coelho Ferreira, suffering from hypropsy [sic], visited Luzia for help with his condition, and in the process, de Carvalho declared that “they made several diabolical operations invoking the Devil through some dances which they popularly refer to as calunduz which were repeated frequently.”[30] On 10 February 1741, an investigation was ordered. Luzia had come under the scrutiny of the Inquisition. At least eight other witnesses were found. All of them stated that Luzia was a calanduzeira, that when the atabaques—drums—played, she was influenced by “the winds of divination . . . that on that occasion she became horrible looking and furious.”

On 18 March 1743, Luzia was brought to testify before the Holy Tribunal in Lisbon. Even though the Holy Office was established in Portugal in 1536, the Tribunal did not have a branch in Brazil. People arrested by the Inquisition in Brazil had to be taken to Portugal for their proceedings. Luzia stated that she administered a type of gruel made with flour in which she mixed autuca roots (unidentified) and holy bread. She claimed that she prescribed this concoction, which acted as a purge and induced vomiting. She insisted that after her clients vomited, they felt relief from their ailments.

On 28 April, she was asked if she worshiped the Devil, something that she vehemently denied, emphasizing that she had never “abandoned God.” She also denied that she had any mystical or prophetic abilities: the gruel was her secret. After the patient finished vomiting, she would provide them with some pieces of “holy wood” that she would tie on their arms to protect them from evil spells. Luzia claimed that she had learned these “remedies” from a deceased black man who had successfully used this remedy in his home land.

Luzia was brought before Lord Inquisitor Manoel Varejão e Tavora on the 7th of June of that same year, before whom she was administered “the oath of the Holy Evangelicals,” whereby she swore to speak the truth. The Inquisitor insisted that she confess “the truth of her intentions,” so that she would save her soul, but Luzia stood firmly by her earlier declaration. The Inquisitor asked a series of questions about her practice; about her erection of a canopy to act as an altar; about the use of specific clothing and paraphernalia. Luzia’s testimony was unyielding, though she began to offer a series of new details that throw further light on her African rituals.

No longer was Luzia denying that she possessed some sort of oracular gift. Possibly trying to gain clemency, she now claimed that the calanduz “illness” would afflict her when she came in close proximity of anyone who had mandinga—a term that was apparently synonymous with evil or black magic—or “anything devilish.” Apparently, Luzia was referring to anyone affected by evil magic. At that moment, wrote the scribe,

“the illness above described as calanduz comes over her through which she gets out of her mind and she immediately divines that the said African has the said mandinga and for this reason the said can not pass by her unless she acts to remove it; which she does and she divines with power that comes from God and it is so certain what she divines that asking the same Africans if it was true that they had the said mandingas they would confess that it was as she said.”[31]

Clearly, Luzia was claiming that her authority and “gift” were derived from God, and most definitely no the Devil, as by using her abilities, she was evidently working against the latter. What is also interesting, though, is what appears as an attempt by Luzia to infer that she was ill, with a chronic malady that she brought from her homeland—the illness above described as calanduz.” The scribe recorded that Luzia was afflicted by

“a sickness of her land which they call calanduz with which she became as if out of herself and she entered saying the Cures which should be applied and the means of applying them which are the same which she declared in her confession: all of which she does through Destiny that gave to her and for that reason she say and asserted on the said occasions that the winds of divination come to her; and God Our Lord tells her what to do. . .”

In fact, in Africa, as a young girl, barely twelve years old, Luzia had had some sort of near-death experience, provoked by a fall. In her revelation, she claimed that she had seen

“an ancient man with long beard seated in a chair surrounded by various children with lit candles and upon seeing them she (the declarer) prayed at the foot of the said man who accepted the blessing. . .”

For Luzia this man was, in all probability, God. Manoel João, a priest resident in the City of Angola to whom she had told her story had told her that the old man was “God Our Lord.” God, and not the Devil, she stressed, was the source of her gift. Luzia believed it and possibly attempted to use this experience with “God” to gain the Tribunal’s leniency. The man in her vision spared her, sending her back home, and soon after, she regained her consciousness and awoke.[32] No doubt, she wanted the Tribunal to spare her as well.

Luzia’s trial continued. She was brought before the Inquisitor on various occasions and always, her testimony was the same. Subsequently, on 13 August, Luzia was sentenced to a public auto de fe and four years of exile in Castro Marim, Portugal. She was also ordered never to return to Sabara. Though Luzia apparently complied with the Inquisition’s sentence, it is highly doubtful that she abandoned her African religious traditions. Surely, the most that the Inquisition probably accomplished was forcing Luzia to take her practice underground and away from the public eye.

What makes Luzia’s case so unique are the details contained within the trial proceedings that clearly identify elements of African religion that are still practiced today in Brazil and other areas of the Americas. De Mello e Souza stressed that one description of Luzia’s ritual bears a striking resemblance to aspects of modern Candomblé, the Yoruba-derived Afro-Brazilian religion.[33] These proceedings are valuable in this respect as they tend to emphasize the “continuities and discontinuities” of African rituals and the mechanisms, including magic and witchcraft, used by slaves and free people of color to subvert the impositions of the dominant society.[34] Clearly, based on the testimony Luzia gave, she had been ordained, probably in Brazil, into Angolan-Kongo religiosity.

After arriving to Brazil, Luzia seems to have had another bout with the loss of consciousness that she had experienced in Angola. She stated in her testimony that when she came to Brazil, while hearing mass in the town of Sabara, she was quickly overcome by the said illness. It is possible that this affliction was epilepsy, which is often mistaken for the contortions associated with the initial stages of spirit possession, though this cannot be confirmed.[35] Apparently, she had others, as Luzia stated that nothing could remedy her condition. As such, an “unconventional” alternative was in order. Either she or her owners sought help, as Luzia’s condition was eventually identified by an African slave named Miguel. The African said that Luzia was suffering from calanduz and that “the only cure and remedy involved ordering instruments and doing what she has said in her confession [i.e. help others through her gift] since that was the means and method that customarily was used to cure the said illness . . .”

What Luzia does not tell the Inquisition is that this “ordering instruments” in all probability referred to an ordination ceremony. In most African religions in the Americas, the paraphernalia used by the priests and priestesses for rituals are usually called instruments or tools. Many of these must be purchased in advance of the ordination, often requiring ritual or aesthetic preparations beforehand.[36] In possession, Luzia apparently brandished an alfango—scimitar—or a cutlass, probably an ngola associated with her tutelary deity or spirit. Joseph Miller has referred to the importance of ngolas—symbolic iron objects—among the Mbundu people of the area today known as Angola:

“When an Mbundu lineage received an ngola, it appointed a guardian for it in the belief that it, like their other symbols of authority, gave him access to special spiritual forces useful for regulating the affairs of men. . . . It mediated between the living and dead members of the descent group.”[37]

In addition to the paraphernalia, ordination into most African religions requires the use of specific garments for ritual purposes.[38] When possessed by a spirit or deity, the person will be dressed in specific attire symbolic of that entity. In addition, he or she will be provided with the ritual paraphernalia of the deity, which the possessed person will carry. Various witnesses insisted that Luzia wore specific attire during her rituals. The first was Gonçalo Luis da Rocha who said that during her divinatory session with Antonio Pereira de Freitas and Domingos Pinto, Luzia came out “dressed in various clothes not used in this land and came out dancing to the sound of drums or little drums which some African blacks were playing” and used “a crown or grinalha [italics mine] of feathers.”[39] Sousa de Carvalho claimed that he saw her cure the wife of João do Valle while she brandished an “alfango in her hand and a large ribbon tied on her head with the ends thrown backward in the style of an angel.”[40] Francisco Morao Rego saw her “dressed in various inventions with ribbons on her legs and arms and with a small ax in her hand.”[41]

Luzia’s practice also involved the erection of an altar. Although, Laura de Mello e Souza has argued for the relatively flexible religious tolerance of colonial Brazil, highly syncretic in nature, Luzia’s practice may indicate one of two possibilities. Either the society was not as tolerant as De Mello e Souza stressed, or, as in the Cuban traditions, the lack of temples or sacred groves or shrines in Brazil led to the creation of the casa-templo—the home-as-temporary-temple, which acted both as residence and a house of worship, determined by need. The altar she erected, under a canopy, was a temporary altar.

In Cuba, the Bantú (Kongos) also erected temporary boumbas that were erected for a ceremony and upon its conclusion, dismounted, made into a bundle which was wrapped in burlap, and hung in a loft or attic.[42] The Cuban Lukumí tronos are temporary altars used for ordinations and celebrations. Once the function ends, the altar is dismantled and the area is devoid of its temporary sacred context.[43] After her rituals concluded, Luzia’s altar was dismantled and her residency returned to its “normalcy.” The testimonies of de Sousa de Carvalho and João do Valle Peixoto confirm the temporary nature of Luzia’s altar.

There is no question that Luzia was possessed. Cases of possession of Kongo women by spirits in Africa and the Americas have been documented in the literature often.[44] Possession is an important aspect of most traditional African religions, highly cherished for its ability to place the divine and the secular in direct contact and thereby find solutions to life’s many tribulations. Generally, when possessed, the horses or mediums speak in the African language of the ethnic group that gave origin to the practice.[45] A Portuguese or white Brazilian would probably not understand and require a translator. One witness described a scene in which Luzia was definitely having an “out of body” experience:

“she became as if out of her mind speaking things that no one understood and the people who were to be cured lay down on the floor [and] she passed over them various times; on these occasions it was said that she had the winds of divination [and] … she said that God told her on these occasions what she was to do. . .”[46]

Still, possession in colonial Brazil was not generally associated with God. Antonio Leite Guimaraes went to see Luzia for help with a condition for which the doctors could find no solution. In his testimony, he twisted the scene that he claimed he saw, possibly to gain favor with the Inquisitor. As de Carvalho had done earlier, he too associated Luzia’s trance with demonic possession. He declared that while he was in her house, he

“heard the playing of instruments which are called Tabaques and at the same time [he heard] singing of things that he did not understand seated on the bed where he was laying he saw her pass by dressed in inventions with a sword in her hand and speaking with her black women she went out wildly as if taken possession by the devil [italics mine].”[47]

There are other telling elements in Luzia’s testimony. The atabaques or drums, indispensable in African religions for they carry the rhythms and beat that invite the spirits or gods to descend to earth and assist their devotees (although possession does not always require the presence of drums). The cleansing with herbs that Luzia claimed she rubbed over her client’s bodies, a ritual commonly referred to as a despojo—to remove negative energy from a person’s body.[48] Magical powders are also very common to African, and especially Kongo religion. Luzia claimed that in addition to the gruel and despojo, she also administered “powders that she had made from the same grasses, which she placed in her mouth and that of the said people that she cured because they had power to cure them of the said complaints of spells which they suffered.”[49] Another African from the Mina Coast enslaved in Brazil, Domingos Álvares, used magical powders in his divinatory rituals.[50] In Mexico, Tata Nicolas, also Kongolese prepared a magical powder for Isabel de Tovar to ensure the return of her lover.[51] In Cuba, both the Kongos and the Lukumís are renowned for their magical powders.[52]

In addition, the inadequacy of medical treatment on many Brazilian and New World plantations often forced slave owners to seek alternative means to attend to their slaves’ health. Many Africans were renowned healers in their native lands and as such, were greatly familiar with the tropical flora and their application for curing specific ails. In nineteenth-century Cuba, the Oyo native Ño Remigio Herrera, Adeshiná, is said to have saved his master’s son from death with an herbal remedy. Adeshiná was a babalawo—a priest of Orúnmilá, orisha (deity) of divination. He is credited with the introduction of the Ifá oracle to Cuba. Adeshiná was enslaved some time in the 1830s and brought to work on a sugar plantation in Matanzas. As fate had it, however, he was a slave for a very short period. In appreciation for having saved the master’s son, Adeshiná was manumitted.[53]

Undoubtedly, African religious rituals accompanied the administration of the remedies, which no doubt was not that much different from the parallel traditions that existed in the Iberian Peninsula. In popular Iberian religiosity, saints were believed to provide protection against numerous diseases. Prayers to these saints typically accompanied the administration of herbal concoctions to cure the sick.[54]

While it is probably true that we will never be able to recuperate a good deal of the history and experiences that were lost in this horrific past, it is encouraging to know that at least the accounts of some African peoples are recoverable. As the case of Luzia Pinta seems to indicate, the information is definitely there. All that is required now is for the “winds of divination” to steer historians in that direction and rescue the many Luzia’s from among the forgotten.

Endnotes

  1. Bartolomé de Las Casas. An Account, Much Abbreviated, of the Destruction of the Indies with Related Texts. Franklin w, Knight, ed. & Andrew Hurley, trans. (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2003), xxx.
  2. Fernando Ortiz. Cuban Counterpoint—Tobacco and Sugar. Harriet de Onís, trans. (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995), 98.
  3. Herman L. Bennett. Africans in Colonial Mexico—Absolutism, Christianity, and Afro-Creole Consciousness, 1570-1640 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2003), 54.
  4. Laura De Mello e Souza. The Devil and the Land of the Holy Cross—Witchcraft, Slavery, and Popular Religion in Colonial Brazil. Diane Grosklaus Whitty, trans. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2003; 90; 219.
  5. Kathryn Joy McKnight. “Confronted Rituals: Spanish Colonial and Angolan ‘Maroon’ Executions in Cartagena de Indias (1634).” Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History, Special Edition, Vol. 5, no. 3 (2004): paragraph 36.
  6. Ibid, paragraph 4.
  7. See Fernando Ortiz. Hampa Afrocubana. Los Negros Brujos: Apuntes para un estudio de Etnología Criminal (Miami: Ediciones Universal, 1973).
  8. Heather Rachelle White. “Between the Devil and the Inquisition: African Slaves and the Witchcraft Trials in Cartagena de Indies [sic].” The North Star: A Journal of African American Religious History, Vol. 8, no. 2 (Spring 2005): 1-15; 1.
  9. Ortiz, Hampa Afrocubana. . ..
  10. Bennett, Africans in Colonial Mexico . . . : 53.
  11. Hampe-Martínez, Teodoro. “Recent Works on the Inquisition and Peruvian Colonial Society, 1570-1820.” Latin American Research Review, Vol. 31, no. 2 (1996): 43-65; 45; 53.
  12. See Robert F. Thompson. Flash of the Spirit—African and Afro-American Art & Philosophy (New York: Vintage Books, 1984); Simon Rockie. Death and the Invisible Powers—The World of KongoBelief (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993).
  13. Ruth Behar. “Sex and Sin, Witchcraft and the Devil in Late-Colonial Mexico.” American Ethnologist, Vol. 14, no. 1 (Feb., 1987): 34-54; 34.
  14. E.g. De Mello e Souza, The Devil and the Land of the Holy Cross . . . : 99.
  15. Ibid., 36.
  16. De Mello e Souza, The Devil and the Land of the Holy Cross . . . : 46.
  17. Kathryn Joy McKnight. “Blasphemy as Resistance—An African Slave Woman before the Mexican Inquisition.” Women in the Inquisition—Spain and the New World. Mary E. Giles, ed. (Baltimore: The John Hopskins University Press, 1999): 229-253; 233.
  18. See Bernardo Barreiro. Brujos y Astrólogos de la Inquisición de Galicia y el Famoso Libro de San Cipriano (Madrid: Akal Editors, 1973).
  19. Villa-Flores, Javier. “‘To Lose One’s Soul’: Blasphemy and Slavery in New Spain, 1596-1669.” Hispanic American Historical Review. Vol. 82, no.3 (2002): 435-468; 441; McKnight, Blasphemy as Resistance . . .: 229-253.
  20. Ibid., 450.
  21. Mcknight, Blasphemy as Resistance . . . : 231.
  22. Villa-Flores, To Lose One’s Soul . . . : 439.
  23. Villa-Flores, To Lose One’s Soul . . . : 441; 462.
  24. Mcknight, Blasphemy as Resistance . . . : 242.
  25. See William A. Christian, Jr. Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981).
  26. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta, Angolan Freedwoman. 23 December, 1739. Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo Inquisição de Lisboa, No. 252. Rio de Janeiro. Website. “The Academic Server: Cleveland State University, Ohio.”
    I have my reserves about not working with the original document. The document I am working from is derived from Cleveland State University’s website. There seem to be some errors in the translation. Also puzzling are the dates of the denunciations. While the transcription does state that the first Letter of Denunciation was supposedly filed by Gonçalo Luis da Rocha on 23 December 1739, it is puzzling why the denunciation by Andre Moreira de Carvalho, dated 7 September 1739, is listed as the Second Letter of Denunciation. Luzia’s case was also discussed by De Mello e Souza, The Devil and the Land of the Holy Cross . . . : 170.
  27. John Thornton. The Kongolese Saint Anthony—Dona Beatriz Kimpa Vita and the Antonian Movement, 1684-1706 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 53.
  28. De Mello e Souza, The Devil and the Land of the Holy Cross . . . : 109; 167-172.
  29. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : First Letter of Denunciation, Gonçalo Luis da Rocha, 23 December 1739.
  30. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : Second Letter of Denunciation, Andre Moreira de Carvalho, 7 September 1739.
  31. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : 7 June 1743.
  32. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : 3 July 1743.
  33. De Mello e Souza, The Devil and the Land of the Holy Cross . . . : 170-1.
  34. Paul Lovejoy. “Identifying Enslaved Africans in the African Diaspora.” Identity in the Shadow of Slavery (London: Continuum, 2000): 1.
  35. See Lydia Cabrera. El Monte (Miami: Ediciones Universal, 1975), 28.
  36. At The Crossroads—Afro-Cuban Orisha Arts in Miami. Exhibition catalogue. Miami: Historical Museum of Southern Florida, 2001; 20-21.
  37. Joseph C. Miller, Kings and Kinsmen. Early Mbundu States in Angola (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976), 63.
  38. At the Crossroads . . . : 14-17.
  39. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : First Letter of Denunciation, Gonçalo Luis da Rocha, 23 December 1739.
  40. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : 3 July 1743.
  41. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : Testimony of Francisco Morao Rego.
  42. Cabrera, El Monte . . . : 125-26.
  43. At the Crossroads . . . :18-19.
  44. See Thornton, The Kongolese Saint Anthony. . .; McKnight, Confronted Rituals . . .
  45. Cabrera, El Monte . . . : 28.
  46. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : Testimony of Souza do Carvalho.
  47. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : Testimony of Antonio Leite Guimaraes.
  48. See Cabrera, El Monte . . .; Robert A. Voeks. Sacred Leaves of Candomblé—African Magic, Medicine, and Religion in Brazil (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1997).
  49. Inquisition Process: Luzia Pinta . . . : 7 June 1743.
  50. De Mello e Souza, The Devil and the Land of the Holy Cross . . . : 98.
  51. Behar, Sex and Sin . . . : 37.
  52. Cabrera, El Monte . . . : 55.
  53. See Miguel W. Ramos. “La División de la Habana—Territorial Conflict and Cultural Hegemony in the Followers of Oyo Lukumí Religión, 1850s-1920s.” Cuban Studies 34 (2003), 38-70; Ester Piedra. Interview by author. Matanzas, Cuba. 18 August, 2000. This is one of the various stories that are recounted by his religious descendants to explain how Adeshiná acquired his freedom.
  54. Emilia Viotti da Costa. The Brazilian Empire, Myths & Histories (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2000), 132-33.

Testemunho Lukumi.

Miguel W. Ramos, Ilarí Obá, Obá Oriaté Lukumi
Este artigo aparece no livro “Resistencia y Solidaridad—Globalización capitalista y liberación.” Raúl Fornet-Betancourt, ed. Madrid: Editorial Trotta, S.A., 2003 (143-148).

Traduzido por Ricardo Ferreira do Amaral, advogado, artista plástico e filho de Airá.

Ao mês de ter nascido, meu pai, sentado num sofá, me balançava sobre o seu peito para que eu dormisse. O sono o venceu mais rápido do que a mim. Pouco tempo depois, despertou ao ouvir os gritos da minha mãe ao ver minha cabeça e a camiseta do meu pai, totalmente encharcadas de sangue: meu sangue. De imediato, correram à Casa de Socorros em Arroyo Apolo pensando o pior.

Resulta que na minha moleira tinha se encaixado a ponta de uma espada de ouro que meu pai levava em sua corrente. Ainda que meu pai era sacerdote de Obatalá, dita espada tinha sido consagrada em Shangó, o Orixá do trovão, pela grande afinidade que ele tinha com esta entidade. Afortunadamente, o dano foi mínimo e a ferida sarou sem deixar marcas visíveis.

Às duas semanas deste fato, meus pais acudiram a um toque de tambor e tão pronto entraram pela porta comigo nos braços, Shangó, possuindo uma das suas sacerdotisas, me tomou dos braços do meu pai e começou a dançar comigo em seus braços. Depois de um tempo, me devolveu ao meu pai e, esfregando minha cabeça, disse aos meus pais que isso que tinha me sucedido (a marca que ele [Shangó] tinha feito em minha cabeça) era para que se soubesse que onde quer que eu fosse em minha vida, eu era seu filho. Shangó havia me marcado para que eu não me extraviasse dele no mundo! Meus pais ficaram estupefatos, pois só eles, meus avós e os médicos de guarda na Casa de Socorros conheciam o que tinha me acontecido. Shangó não falava mentiras!

Aos treze anos, na fria e estranha cidade de Nova Iorque, fui ordenado sacerdote de Shangó na religião lukumi, exilada nos Estados Unidos junto a um crescente número de cubanos que buscavam fugir do sistema totalitário implantado na ilha pela revolução Castrista. Com treze anos, o que eu menos desejava era ficar rapado até a carequice, vestido imaculadamente de branco, e muito menos que me vissem meus amigos, que indubitavelmente fariam troça de mim e da minha estranha religião.

Nessa idade, tendo vivido em Nova Iorque desde os seis anos, a religião lukumi era algo ilógico e insensato para mim, ainda que não estranha, eis que desde que chegamos de Cuba, meu pai exercia como sacerdote lukumi e também como espiritista. Na minha casa no Brooklyn, quase todos os fins de semana ocorriam atividades religiosas. Quando não era uma iniciação, era um toque, um aniversário de iniciação, ou uma missa ou recolhimento espiritual. Ainda que eu vivesse constantemente rodeado por este mundo místico-religioso, mantinha distância, já que a religião me parecia loucura, uma absurda superstição cubana. Quando por casualidade, a curiosidade me levava a perguntar ou indagar, a resposta usual era que com o tempo saberia, pois nesse momento era muito jovem para entender. Devo admitir que mesmo depois de iniciado, naquela época me custou trabalho entender. Não obstante, a vontade de Olodumare e dos Orixás pôde mais do que a minha vaidade e minha ignorância.

Meu maior conflito foi com o catolicismo e a relação dos Orixás com os santos da Igreja Católica. Minha avó, devota de Santa Bárbara toda sua vida e sacerdotisa de Shangó, me dizia que essa santa e Shangó eram o mesmo. Santa Bárbara era la forma percebida pelos católicos e Shangó era como se lhe percebia na África. Essa analogia me ocasionava grandes conflitos, já a santa Católica não se parecia em nada ao deus ioruba/lukumi. A imagem de Santa Bárbara que havia na sala da minha casa era uma escultura de uma bela mulher, de rosto prazeroso, sorridente. Se essa era Santa Bárbara, em nada se parecia com Shangó.

Shangó, a quem eu havia visto possuindo seus sacerdotes muitíssimas vezes, era tosco, ruidoso, extremadamente varonil. Ao dançar, fazia alusão à sua masculinidade com o movimento de suas mãos que ascendiam ao céu para depois descender como um raio em direção à área de seus genitais. Quando via Oshún na cabeça de alguma sacerdotisa, em sua dança, Shangó tratava de conquistá-la, de seduzi-la, ensaiando o já bem conhecido mito de sua atração pela divindade lukumi da sensualidade e do amor. Em nada se pareciam Santa Bárbara e Shangó para mim.

Com o tempo, aprendi que Santa Bárbara era a patrona dos artilheiros, que cuidava dos fortes espanhóis e amparava os soldados da mãe-pátria, e que Shangó, também se relacionava com a guerra e tinha um grande exército à sua disposição. Ambos tinham vivido em um grande castelo e ambos vestiam de vermelho e branco. Santa Bárbara portava uma espada e Shangó um machado bi-pene. Quando trovejava, minha avó que tinha horror aos trovões, corria a cobrir Shangó e a Santa Bárbara com tela branca, pedindo-lhes que tivessem misericórdia. Finalmente, encontrei algo em comum. Não obstante, ainda me chocava o contraste sexual: Santa Bárbara, a mulher de aparência delicada e Shangó, o homem tosco, varonil e sedutor. Minha família estava louca!

Durante meu ano de iyawô ou recém ordenado, minha vida continuou como de costume. De casa à escola e da escola à casa, especialmente durante o inverno. Ao terminar minhas tarefas, saia a brincar com meus amigos, quem contrariamente ao meu temor, nunca fizeram troça de mim. Não sei se foi por ingenuidade, respeito ou quiçá temor, já que os rumores circulavam de que na minha casa se praticava Vudu e os filmes de monstros e de ciência-ficção de Hollywood contribuíam ao estereótipo negativo do Vudu e conseqüentemente, também das religiões africanas. Quiçá meus amigos temiam que eu tomasse alguma represália mágica contra eles, fincando um boneco de pano com alfinetes para que lhes ocasionasse dano, ou quiçá nunca se deram por conta. Não sei.

Não lembro quando foi que escutei a palavra “Ioruba” por primeira vez. Os iorubas em Cuba foram introduzidos como lukumi. A nomenclatura “Ioruba” era desconhecida em Cuba. Não obstante, conhecer esta palavra despertou em mim uma curiosidade, quiçá uma necessidade, de investigar mais sobre este tema. Foi uma tarefa difícil, já que a literatura existente nesses anos não era abundante, mas isto só serviu para incrementar em mim o desejo de persistir e indagar. O resto é historia. Desde os quatorze anos comecei a praticar antropologia sem ser antropólogo, conduzindo trabalhos de campo e levando apontamentos sobre minhas investigações, tanto literárias como no campo.

Mas, as minhas investigações não eram para satisfazer fins nem requisitos acadêmicos, senão que serviam para me ajudar a obter uma melhor compreensão da religião na que tinha sido iniciado. Sem embargo, ao entrar à universidade em Nova Iorque, quando me graduei na escola superior, decidi que queria ser contador público e não antropólogo. Nesse momento não relacionei minha curiosidade religiosa com o papel acadêmico que por satisfação pessoal estava desempenhando. Quiçá foi por isso que não terminei minha carreira universitária naquele momento, conformando-me com uma escola vocacional e um curso de dois anos de administração comercial.

Em 1978, meus pais decidiram abandonar Nova Iorque e se mudar a Porto Rico. Eu desejava ficar em Nova Iorque, mas Shangó pensou em outra coisa. Ele insistiu que eu acompanhasse meus pais a Porto Rico, já que, segundo ele, seria uma terra bendita para mim. Dito e feito! Ainda que eu tivesse funcionado como sacerdote e Oriaté em Nova Iorque, foi em Porto Rico onde minha capacidade sacerdotal floresceu. Meus êxitos nessa ilha foram numerosos e meus conhecimentos, estudos e entendimentos da minha religião aumentaram apesar de ter encontrado ciúmes, rivalidades e oposição.

Eventualmente, meus pais voltaram a Nova Iorque, mas Shangó insistiu em que eu permanecesse em Porto Rico. Para aquele então eu já tinha me casado, tinha o meu próprio negócio, um ervanário, do qual vivia relativamente bem e não me faltava trabalho dentro da religião. Como dizemos no vernáculo lukumi-cubano, tinha um “povo” em Porto Rico. O quê mais podia pedir. Sem embargo, não me sentia a gosto ali e a cada instante lhe pedia permissão a Shangó para ir embora da ilha. Este só dizia que não era o momento.

Em 1983 fui a Cuba por primeira vez desde que fui embora nos anos sessenta. Nessa época, conheci minha família religiosa na ilha, participei de uma série de rituais e conduzi trabalho de campo entre muitos sacerdotes na ilha. Voltei novamente a Cuba em 1984. Essa foi a viagem que deu outro curso a minha vida e à qual vivo eternamente agradecido. Em um tambor que dei para Elegbá (o Orixá do destino, que vigia os caminhos dos devotos) Shangó veio à terra e falou dos meus desejos de me mudar de Porto Rico, dando-me a permissão que eu tanto havia lhe pedido. Mas essa permissão foi condicional, com tanto que eu lhe prometesse que eu ingressaria novamente na universidade e obteria um título. Desde logo, acedi!

Em outubro do mesmo ano, me mudei a Miami, a capital do exílio cubano. Do mesmo modo que Porto Rico, Miami provou ser uma cidade frutífera para mim. Em seguida comecei a trabalhar como contador numa companhia de móveis muito conhecida nessa cidade e a me introduzir na comunidade religiosa. A universidade teria que esperar que eu estabelecesse raízes firmes em Miami, e por tanto, ano trás ano seguia dizendo a Shangó que pronto cumpriria com minha promessa, empregando a falta de tempo como escusa. Mas Shangó era mais sábio que eu, como bem o tempo me demonstraria.

Da noite para a manhã, minha relação com meu chefe imediato na companhia começou a se deteriorar inexplicavelmente. Até então, ele e eu havíamos tido boas relações, inclusive me permitia tomar decisões de grande envergadura durante sua ausência. Sua confiança em mim era total e incondicional. Ainda hoje me pergunto o quê foi o que se passou, pois não há explicação humana que possa explicar a animosidade que surgiu entre nós. Demais está dizer que em janeiro de 1988, logo de voltar de umas férias, renunciei ao trabalho sem aviso prévio.

Passaram-se meses e não conseguia trabalho em Miami. Onde quer que solicitasse trabalho, estava sobre-capacitado para a posição ou tomavam outra pessoa sem me dar explicação alguma. Finalmente entendi que algo sobre-humano estava controlando minha vida nesse momento, pero não conseguia, ou quiçá não queria, identificar o que era. Tinha visto Shangó em vários toques e rituais, mas este não me dizia nada. Tal parece que estava me ignorando intencionalmente. Finalmente, no restou outro remédio do que acudir a ele através da adivinhação. Busquei um Oriaté que não me conhecia para que interpretasse o oráculo e a “conversa” de Shangó. O provérbio do odu ou signo divinatório que me veio nesse momento aludia a uma dívida que eu tinha com Shangó: “Aquele que deve e paga, fica franco”.

Nunca associei a dívida com a minha promessa de voltar à universidade. Quiçá estava muito atribulado com o meu dilema nesse momento e não conseguia entender o que era o que Shangó me reclamava. Até que finalmente, o Oriaté me diz que Shangó dizia que queria que eu estudasse. Como si tivessem estourado raios ao meu redor, me lembrei! Claro! Minha promessa, minha dívida, minhas dificuldades econômicas: tudo tinha uma razão de ser. Shangó tinha me levado a um abismo pelo meu descumprimento e ignorava as dificuldades que eu estava atravessando com todo propósito, para que eu reagisse e me desse por conta da minha falta para com ele.

No dia seguinte, dei os exames de ingresso ao Miami Dade Community College e em janeiro de 1990 comecei minha carreira universitária em Miami. Atualmente, estou terminando uma tese de mestrado em história na Florida International University e penso continuar com o doutorado. Mesmo que nesta altura da minha vida o processo não tenha sido fácil, já que é difícil estudar, trabalhar, criar um filho e cumprir com minhas responsabilidades sociais, religiosas e acadêmicas. As conquistas que tenho obtido e a satisfação pessoal têm me recompensado pela difícil e árdua tarefa.

A religião lukumi tem enchido grandes vazios em minha vida, ao mesmo tempo em que tem me servido de guia, dando-me a direção necessária para viver uma vida melhor, bem como para ser um melhor ser humano. È tanto o agradecimento que tenho por este sistema religioso e às divindades do seu panteão, que não existe maneira humanamente possível de lhe recompensar pelas inumeráveis bênçãos que têm derramado sobre mim. Inclusive, lhe devo até o filho que tenho.

Desde que nos casamos em 1979, por mais que tratássemos, minha esposa não conseguia ficar grávida. Consultamos os melhores médicos em Porto Rico e depois, em Miami, acudimos ao centro de infertilidade da Universidade de Miami. Nos submetemos a quantas provas existiam para a infertilidade e, segundo os médicos, o caso foi diagnosticado como inexplicável, já que nenhum de nós era estéril. Por mais tratamentos e recomendações que nos fizeram, a ciência não conseguiu resolver a misteriosa condição. Os Orixás diziam que teríamos filhos, mas tampouco víamos nenhum resultado ou intervenção divina da parte deles.

Em maio de 1988 voltei a Cuba junto com minha esposa, onde ambos recebemos a Oduduwá, quiçá o Orixá mais elevado da religião lukumi. Na cerimônia divinatória conhecida como itá, Oduduwá pressagia o nascimento de um filho. Nós, já dubitativos, tivemos isso em conta, mas não elevamos nossas esperanças, pois isso já tinha sido dito tantas vezes, mas nunca se realizava. Ao concluir, o Oriaté enfatizou que ao voltar minha esposa e eu na próxima vez a Cuba, voltaríamos com um filho. Voltamos a Miami e nossas vidas continuaram como de costume, sempre pensando na possibilidade de ficarmos sem filhos de por vida. Mesmo que ainda não tenhamos voltado a Cuba, em 24 de dezembro de 1990, sem tratamentos de nenhum tipo, nasceu nosso filho César.

Através do meu Orixá e da minha religião, tenho tudo o que tenho sonhado em ter, inclusive um lar estável e um belo filho, gozo de saúde, tenho viajado onde tenho querido, tenho publicado livros e escritos, tenho participado de um sem número de conferências e continuo a árdua tarefa de limpar a imagem negativa que a ignorância e o etnocentrismo ocidental têm dado a uma bela e valiosa crença religiosa trazida em buques escravistas ao Novo Mundo. Tudo isto e muito mais, agradeço a um Orixá, a uma divindade e a um sistema religioso que muitos têm considerado primitivo e incivilizado! Maferefun Shangó! Se volto a nascer, a única coisa que peço a Deus é que me permita voltar a ser Olorixá lukumi.

Tem um testemunho a oferecer para publicar em Eleda.Org? Envie-o a Testemunho e compartilhe-o com nossos leitores.

Testimonio Lukumí.

© 2001-2007, Miguel Ramos
Este articulo aparece en el libro “Resistencia y Solidaridad—Globalización capitalista y liberación.” Raúl Fornet-Betancourt, ed. Madrid: Editorial Trotta, S.A., 2003 (143-148).

Al mes de haber nacido, mi padre, sentado en un sillón, me mecía sobre su pecho para que yo durmiera. El sueño lo venció a él más rápido que a mí. Al poco rato se despertó al oír los gritos de mi madre al ver mi cabeza y la camiseta de mi padre totalmente embarradas de sangre: mi sangre. De inmediato, corrieron a la Casa de Socorros en Arroyo Apolo pensando lo peor.

Resulta que en mi mollera se había encajado la punta de una espada de oro que llevaba mi padre en su cadena. Aunque mi padre era sacerdote de Obatalá, dicha espada había sido consagrada en Shangó, el Orisha del trueno, por la gran afinidad que él tenía con esta entidad. Afortunadamente, el daño fue mínimo y la herida sanó sin dejar rasgos visibles.

A las dos semanas de este hecho, mis padres acudieron a un toque de tambor y, tan pronto entraron por la puerta conmigo en brazos, Shangó, posesionado de una de sus sacerdotisas, me tomó de los brazos de mi padre y comenzó a bailar conmigo en sus brazos. Al cabo de un rato, me devolvió a mi padre y, frotándome la cabeza, les dijo a mis padres que eso que me había sucedido (la marca que el [Shangó] me había hecho en mi cabeza) era para que se supiera que donde quiera que yo fuese en mi vida, yo era su hijo. Shangó me había marcado para que yo no me le extraviase en el mundo! Mis padres se quedaron anonadados, pues solo ellos, mis abuelos y los médicos de guardia en la Casa de Socorros conocían lo que me había sucedido. Shangó no hablaba mentiras!

A los trece años, en la fría y extraña ciudad de Nueva York, fui ordenado sacerdote de Shangó en la religión lukumí, exiliada en los Estados Unidos junto a un creciente número de cubanos quienes buscaban huir del sistema totalitario implantado en la isla por la revolución Castrista. Con trece años, lo menos que deseaba yo era estar pelado al rape, vestido inmaculadamente de blanco, y mucho menos que me vieran mis amigos quienes indudablemente se burlarían de mí y de mi extraña religión.

A esa edad, habiendo vivido en Nueva York desde los seis años, la religión lukumí era algo ilógico e insensato para mí, aunque no extraña, ya que desde que llegamos de Cuba, mi padre ejercía como sacerdote lukumí y también como espiritista. En mi casa en Brooklyn, casi todos los fines de semana ocurrían actividades religiosas. Cuando no era una iniciación, era un toque, un aniversario de iniciación, o una misa o recogimiento espiritual. Aunque vivía constantemente rodeado por este mundo místico-religioso, mantenía distancia ya que la religión me parecía locura, una absurda superstición cubana. Cuando de casualidad la curiosidad me llevaba a preguntar o indagar, la respuesta usual era que con el tiempo sabría, ya que en ese momento era muy joven para entender. Debo admitir que aun después de iniciado, en aquella época me costó trabajo entender. No obstante, la voluntad de Olodumare y los Orishas pudo más que mi vanidad y mi ignorancia.

Mi conflicto mayor fue con el catolicismo y la relación de los Orishas con los santos de la Iglesia Católica. Mi abuela, devota de Santa Bárbara toda su vida y sacerdotisa de Shangó, me decía que esa santa y Shangó eran lo mismo. Santa Bárbara era la forma percibida por los católicos y Shangó era como se le percibía en África. Esa analogía me ocasionaba grandes conflictos ya que en nada se parecía la santa Católica al dios Yoruba/Lukumí. La imagen de Santa Bárbara que había en la sala de mi casa era una escultura de una bella mujer, de cara placentera, sonriente. Si esa era Santa Bárbara, en nada se parecía a Shangó.

Shangó, el cual yo había visto posesionado de sus sacerdotes muchísimas veces, era tosco, alborotoso, extremadamente varonil. Al bailar, hacia alusión de su masculinidad con el movimiento de sus manos que ascendían al cielo para luego descender como un rayo hacia el área de sus genitales. Cuando veía Oshún en cabeza de alguna sacerdotisa, en su baile Shangó trataba de conquistarla, de seducirla, ensayando el ya bien conocido mito de su atracción a la deidad Lukumí de la sensualidad y el amor. En nada se me parecían Santa Bárbara y Shangó.

Con el tiempo aprendí que Santa Bárbara era la patrona de los artilleros; que cuidaba las fuertes españolas y amparaba a los soldados de la madre patria y que Shangó también se relacionaba con la guerra y tenía un gran ejército a su disposición. Ambos habían vivido en un gran castillo y ambos vestían de rojo y blanco. Santa Bárbara portaba una espada y Shangó un hacha bipene. Cuando tronaba, mi abuela quien le tenía terror a los truenos, corría a tapar a Shangó y a Santa Bárbara con tela blanca, pidiéndoles que tuvieran misericordia. Finalmente, encontré algo en común. No obstante, aun me chocaba el contraste sexual: Santa Bárbara, la mujer de apariencia delicada, y Shangó, el hombre tosco, varonil, y seductor. ¡Mi familia estaba loca!

Durante mi año de iyawó o recién ordenado, mi vida continuo como de costumbre. De la casa a la escuela, y de la escuela a la casa, especialmente durante el invierno. Al terminar mis tareas, salía a jugar con mis amigos quienes, contrario a mi temor, nunca se burlaron de mí. No sé si fue por ingenuidad, respeto o quizá temor, ya que los rumores circulaban que en mi casa se practicaba Vudú y las películas de monstruos y ciencia-ficción de Hollywood contribuían al estereotipo negativo del Vudú y por ende, las religiones africanas. Quizá mis amigos temían que yo tomase alguna represalia mágica contra ellos, hincando un muñeco de trapos con alfileres para que le ocasionase daño a ellos, o quizá nunca se dieron cuenta. No sé.

No me acuerdo cuando fue que escuché la palabra “Yoruba” por primera vez. Los Yorubas en Cuba fueron introducidos como Lukumí. La nomenclatura “Yoruba” era desconocida en Cuba. No obstante, el conocer esta palabra despertó en mi una curiosidad, quizá una necesidad, de investigar más sobre este tema. Fue una tarea difícil ya que la literatura existente en esos años no era abundante, pero esto sólo sirvió para incrementar en mi el deseo de persistir e indagar. El resto es historia. Desde los catorce años comencé a practicar antropología sin ser antropólogo, conduciendo trabajos de campo y llevando apuntes sobre mis investigaciones tanto literarias como en el campo.

Pero mis investigaciones no eran para satisfacer fines ni requisitos académicos, sino que servían para ayudarme a obtener una mejor comprensión de la religión en la cual yo había sido iniciado. Sin embargo, al entrar a la universidad en Nueva York cuando me gradué de la escuela superior, decidí que quería ser contador público y no antropólogo. En ese momento no relacioné mi curiosidad religiosa con el papel académico que por satisfacción personal estaba desempeñando. Quizá fue por eso que no terminé mi carrera universitaria en aquel momento, conformándome con una escuela vocacional y un curso de dos años de administración comercial.

En 1978, mis padres decidieron abandonar Nueva York y mudarse a Puerto Rico. Yo deseaba quedarme en Nueva York, pero Shangó pensó otra cosa. Él insistió que yo acompañase a mis padres a Puerto Rico, ya que, según él, sería una tierra bendita para mí. ¡Dicho y hecho! Aunque había funcionado como sacerdote y Oriaté en Nueva York, fue en Puerto Rico donde mi capacidad sacerdotal floreció. Mis éxitos en esa isla fueron numerosos, y mis conocimientos, estudios y entendimientos de mi religión aumentaron a pesar de que encontré celos, rivalidades y oposición.

Eventualmente mis padres regresaron a Nueva York, pero Shangó insistió en que yo permaneciera en Puerto Rico. Ya para aquel entonces yo me había casado, tenía mi propio negocio, una botánica, del cual vivía relativamente bien, y no me faltaba el trabajo dentro de la religión. Como decimos en el vernáculo lukumí-cubano, tenía un “pueblo” en Puerto Rico. Que más podía pedir. Sin embargo, no me sentía a gusto allí, y a cada rato le pedía permiso a Shangó para irme de la isla. Este sólo decía que no era el momento.

En 1983 fui a Cuba por primera vez desde que me marché en los años sesenta. En esa época, conocí mi familia religiosa en la isla, participé en una serie de rituales, y conduje trabajo de campo entre muchos sacerdotes en la isla. Regresé de nuevo a Cuba en 1984. Ese fue el viaje que le dio otro curso a mi vida y del cual vivo eternamente agradecido. En un tambor que yo le di a Elegbá (el Orisha del destino que vigila los caminos de los devotos) Shangó vino a la tierra y me habló sobre mis deseos de mudarme de Puerto Rico, dándome el permiso que yo tanto le había pedido. Pero ese permiso fue condicional, con tal de que yo le prometiera a él que ingresaría de nuevo a la universidad y obtendría un título. ¡Desde luego, accedí!

En octubre del mismo año, me mudé a Miami, la capital del exilio cubano. Al igual que en Puerto Rico, Miami probó ser una ciudad fructífera para mi. Enseguida comencé a trabajar como contador en una compañía de muebles muy conocida en esa ciudad y a introducirme entre la comunidad religiosa. La universidad tendría que esperar a que yo estableciera raíces firmes en Miami, y por lo tanto año tras año seguía diciéndole a Shangó que pronto cumpliría con mi promesa, empleando la falta de tiempo como excusa. Pero Shangó era más sabio que yo, como bien el tiempo me demostraría.

De la noche a la mañana, mi relación con mi jefe inmediato en la compañía comenzó a deteriorar inexplicablemente. Hasta entonces, el y yo habíamos tenido buenas relaciones, incluso me permitía tomar decisiones de gran envergadura en su ausencia. Su confianza en mi era total e incondicional. Aun hoy me pregunto que fue lo que pasó pues no hay explicación humana que pueda explicar la animosidad que surgió entre nosotros. De más esta decir que en enero de 1988, luego de regresar de unas vacaciones, renuncié al trabajo sin previo aviso.

Pasaron meses y no lograba conseguir trabajo en Miami. Donde quiera que solicitaba trabajo estaba sobrecapacitado para la posición o tomaban a otra persona sin darme explicación alguna. Finalmente entendí que algo sobrehumano estaba controlando mi vida en ese momento, pero no lograba, o quizá no quería, identificar lo que era. Había visto a Shangó en varios toques y rituales pero este no me decía nada. Tal parece que me estaba ignorando intencionalmente. Finalmente, no me quedó otro remedio que acudir a él a través de la adivinación. Busqué un Oriaté que no me conocía para que me interpretara el oráculo y la “conversación” de Shangó. El proverbio del odu o signo adivinatorio que me vino en ese momento aludía a una deuda que yo tenía con Shangó: “El que debe y paga, queda franco.”

Nunca asocié la deuda con mi promesa de regresar a la universidad. Quizá estaba muy atribulado con mi dilema en ese momento y no lograba entender que era lo que Shangó me reclamaba. Hasta que finalmente el Oriaté me dice que decía Shangó que quería que yo estudiara. Como si hubiesen estallado rayos a mis alrededores, me acordé! ¡Claro! Mi promesa, mi deuda, mis dificultades económicas: todo tenía una razón de ser. Shangó me había llevado a un abismo por mi incumplimiento, e ignoraba las dificultades que yo estaba atravesando con todo propósito para que yo reaccionara y me diera cuenta de mi falta con él.

Al día siguiente, tomé los exámenes de entrada del Miami Dade Community College y en enero de 1990 comencé mi carrera universitaria en Miami. En la actualidad, estoy terminando una tesis de maestría en historia en Florida International University y pienso continuar hacia el doctorado. Aunque a esta altura de mi vida el proceso no ha sido fácil, ya que es difícil estudiar, trabajar, criar un hijo, y cumplir con mis responsabilidades sociales, religiosas y académicas. Los logros que he obtenido y la satisfacción personal me han recompensado por la difícil y ardua tarea.

La religión Lukumí ha llenado grandes vacíos en mi vida, a la vez que me ha servido de guía, dándome la dirección necesaria para vivir una vida mejor y a la vez ser un mejor ser humano. Es tanto el agradecimiento que le tengo a este sistema religioso y a las deidades de su panteón que no existe manera humanamente posible de recompensarle por las innumerables bendiciones que han derramado sobre mi. Inclusive, le debo hasta el hijo que tengo.

Desde que nos casamos en 1979, por mas que tratábamos, mi esposa no lograba salir embarazada. Consultamos los mejores médicos en Puerto Rico y luego en Miami acudimos al centro de infertilidad de la Universidad de Miami. Nos sometimos a cuantas pruebas existían para la infertilidad, y según los médicos, el caso fue diagnosticado como inexplicable ya que ninguno de los dos éramos estéril. Por más tratamientos y recomendaciones que nos hicieron, la ciencia no logro resolver la misteriosa condición. Los Orishas decían que tendríamos hijos pero tampoco veíamos ningún resultado o intervención divina por parte de ellos.

En mayo de 1988 regresé a Cuba junto con mi esposa donde ambos recibimos a Oduduwá, quizá el Orisha mas elevado de la religión Lukumí. En la ceremonia adivinatoria conocida como itá, Oduduwá presagia el nacimiento de un hijo. Nosotros, ya dudosos, lo tomamos en cuenta pero no elevamos nuestras esperanzas ya que se había dicho tantas veces pero nunca se realizaba. Al concluir, el Oriaté enfatizó que al regresar mi esposa y yo la próxima vez a Cuba, regresaríamos con un hijo. Volvimos a Miami y nuestras vidas continuaron como de costumbre, siempre pensando en la posibilidad de quedarnos sin hijos de por vida. Aunque aun no hemos regresado a Cuba, el 24 de diciembre de 1990, sin tratamientos de ningún tipo, nació nuestro hijo César.

A través de mi Orisha y mi religión, tengo todo lo que he soñado tener, inclusive un hogar estable y un bello hijo, gozo de salud, he viajado adonde he querido, he publicado libros y escritos, he participado en un sinnúmero de conferencias, y continuo la ardua tarea de limpiar la imagen negativa que la ignorancia y el etnocentrismo Occidental le han dado a una bella y valiosa creencia religiosa traída en buques esclavistas al Nuevo Mundo. Todo esto, y mucho más, se lo agradezco a un Orisha, a una deidad, ¡y a un sistema religioso que muchos han considerado primitivo e incivilizado! ¡Maferefun Shangó! Si vuelvo a nacer, lo único que le pido a Díos es que me permita volver a ser Olorisha Lukumí.

¿Tiene un testimonio que ofrecer para publicar en Eleda.Org? Envíelo a Testimonio y compártalo con nuestros lectores.

© Obá Oriaté Miguel W. Ramos, Ilarí Obá

Traduzido por Ricardo Ferreira do Amaral, advogado, artista plástico e filho de Airá.

NOTA: Tornou-se popular o uso do termo “Aborisha” para se referir a qualquer um que sirva aos Orixás. Em Cuba, alguém que não seja sacerdote, mas participa da religião, é referido como Aberikola ou “não lavado”. Como este termo pode ser utilizado de modo depreciativo, escolhemos empregar o termo Aborisha para respeitar e posicionar àqueles que não sendo sacerdotes, tal como denota o termo, “servem” aos Orixás.

Elegbá (Também conhecido como Eshú ou Eshú-Elegbá), Ogún, Oshosí, e Osun são os orixás comumente designados em espanhol por “Los guerreros – os guerreiros”. Elegbá é primeiro orixá a ser recebido e adorado em todos os atos religiosos. É o porteiro de Olorun e lhe são confiados a abertura e o encerramento de todas as cerimônias. Também é o orixá que prova a fé humana em Olorun e nas divindades. Se a nossa conduta na Terra for apropriada, Elegbá ajuda e valoriza a humanidade permitindo que as iré-bênçãos visitem o indivíduo e distanciando as osobo ou energias negativas. Por outro lado, se nossa conduta for inapropriada, Elegbá permitirá que as forças negativas do universo ataquem o indivíduo, sem lhe prestar alguma defesa.

Em Cuba, os lukumis fazem uma distinção entre Elegbá e Eshú. Para os lukumis, Eshú é o aspecto malévolo da divindade, que continuamente vagueia pelo mundo, testando a humanidade, criando diferentes controvérsias e problemas nas vidas das pessoas. Elegbá é o aspecto mais dócil da divindade, tanto é assim que pode ser trazido para dentro de casa e, se for apropriadamente atendido, não ocasionará nenhuma ruína, ao contrário, trará proveito ao devoto. Na Iorubalândia e no Brasil, Eshú-Elegbá sempre mora do lado de fora da casa, em uma capela erigida especialmente para ele na entrada. Adaptações de diferentes culturas e situações de vida em Cuba produziram a introdução de Elegbá na casa do devoto e a separação ou distinção entre o que eventualmente é entendido em Cuba como diferentes manifestações da divindade. Ainda que Eshú e Elegbá sejam em realidade uma mesma divindade, muitos lukumis não os vêem desta maneira.

Elegbá, o trapaceiro terrestre, pode ser uma divindade muito maldosa, amiúde tão obstinada ou irritável quanto uma criança. Contudo, ele requer pouco e como uma criança, é facilmente satisfeito se tratado com a reverência apropriada e devoção.

Ogún é o orixá do ferro, padroeiro dos ferreiros e de todos aqueles que trabalham em contato com o ferro ou metais. Também está associado com a cirurgia e sua ajuda e solicitada quando há que se enfrentar qualquer operação, seja esta do tipo que for. Ademais, Ogún é o deus da guerra e representa a justiça divina de Olorun na Terra. Ele é o verdugo de Olorun e leva a cabo as sentenças do Ser Supremo quando os humanos violam as leis e os costumes divinos. È muito cruel, feroz e sofre de uma sede insaciável de batalha. Porém, assim como Elegbá, quando é convenientemente apaziguado, protege seus devotos contra qualquer dano.

Oshosí é o orixá da caça. Defende os injustamente perseguidos e garante que escapem de seus antagonistas. Em Cuba, durante a escravidão, Oshosí também foi considerado o orixá dos negros, que lhe oravam no mato, enquanto fugiam das plantações e das crueldades da escravidão. Os negros chamavam por Oshosí para manter os capitães-do-mato e seus cachorros longe das suas pistas. Oshosí está associado com as pegadas e as florestas, prestando socorro aos injustamente perseguidos e auxiliando aos que perderam o rumo de suas vidas, ajudando-os a reencontrá-lo.

Osun está relacionado a nosso orí-interior da cabeça, uma espécie de “espírito guardião” que nos acompanha durante a vida, pelo que também está relacionado com o nosso destino. Osun também é um sentinela. Sua função é proteger o devoto e seu lar da maldade e dos malfeitores. Sua postura é sempre ereta. Osun nunca deve ser inclinado nem tombado, porque isto é um mau presságio ou o aviso de uma morte iminente. Osun é somente virado quando o/a seu/sua dono/a falece.

Se Osun cair ou virar, deve ser imediatamente posto em pé e colocado embaixo de água corrente fria. Podemos pegar um ovo e limparmo-nos com ele, depois quebrá-lo encima do pássaro da representação de Osun e deixá-lo escorrer sobre ele, a fim de aplacar qualquer perigo que se faça iminente. Se isto não estiver disponível, um pouco de ori (ou de manteiga de cacau) deverá ser passado, ou de efún (casca de ovo moída – cascarilla para os lukumis) deverá ser esmiuçada sobre a figura. Ademais, o indivíduo deverá consultar a adivinhação para se determinar se a queda de Osun foi mera coincidência ou um aviso de problemas vindouros.

Servindo a Elegbá:

Os lukumis ensinaram-nos que idealmente, Elegbá deverá ser cultuado nas segundas-feiras, no começo da semana, e preferentemente pela manhã, antes de sairmos de casa para nossa rotina diária. É necessário ter em mente, ainda, que uma vez acostumando Elegbá a este tratamento, devemos ser responsáveis e persistentes. Se você esqueceu de fazê-lo legitimamente, poderá não haver conseqüências, pois os orixás são muito misericordiosos e não castigam a inocência. No entanto, se você propositadamente o ignorou ou abandonou, Elegbá poderá provocar muitos dissabores na vida do devoto.

A Indiferença é uma das armas mais perigosas de Elegbá quando escolhe desconsiderar as súplicas de socorro dos devotos que o ignoraram. Quando o perigo se aproximar, Elegbá simplesmente “olhará para outro lado” e permitirá que o devoto seja atingido. Porém, quando um indivíduo cuida de Elegbá apropriadamente, não somente desviará o perigo, mas também o valorizará com todo tipo de recompensas que possa colocar no caminho do devoto. Este o jeito de Elegbá.

Não obstante, como ele tem a tendência de se comportar às vezes como uma criança, é de se advertir que, uma vez que acostumarmos Elegbá a algo, deveremos prosseguir com este costume tão proximamente e devotamente quanto nos seja possível. Ainda que ele não cause desavenças por erros inocentes, poderá fazer com que o devoto se lembre deles, criando obstáculos ao seu progresso na vida.

Na minha opinião, se a vida do indivíduo é como a da maioria das pessoas que vivem na sociedade moderna, é ponderável cuidar de Elegbá quando tenhamos oportunidade, variando nos dias e assim, criando uma margem de flexibilidade com ele. Ainda que as manhãs das segundas-feiras sejam ideais, a flexibilidade pode ser mais realista e conveniente.

Elegbá não poderá ser lavado com água. Se tiver acumulado muito sangue ou azeite, deverá ser lavado vinho branco ou aguardente, e esfregá-lo suavemente com uma toalha branca ou com uma esponja de limpeza feita de fibra de sisal podem ser as melhores opções. Depois, deverá ser untado com epó (azeite-de-dendê) e uma ou duas gotas de oñí (mel), mas não exagere porque isto poderá se tornar pegajoso e imundo com o passar do tempo. Um pouco de epó deverá ser colocado nas mãos, esfregando-as, de modo a cobri-las totalmente e depois esfregadas em Elegbá. Enquanto untamos Elegbá com azeite, oramos a ele, pedindo-lhe sua bênção e direção. Uma vez terminado, ele é colocado novamente em seu prato de barro e a oñí é lentamente vertida sobre ele. Depois de o epó e a oñí terem sido oferecidos, assopre nele um pouco de fumaça de charuto e dê-lhe um pouco de vinho branco colocando este em sua boca e rapidamente cuspindo-o sobre Elegbá. Finalmente, acenda uma vela e cumprimente-o no estilo ritual acima descrito, fazendo seus pedidos pelas iré e bem-estar.

Ogún e Oshosí são atendidos da mesma maneira, ainda que não sejam lavados. Quando se acumular muito epó sobre eles, poderão ser limpos com uma toalha branca ou um pano branco (esta toalha ou pano deverão ser guardados especificamente para este propósito). A Ogún lhe são oferecidos aguardente ou rum branco (o gin também é aceitável) e a Oshosí lhe é dado anis. Osun não é tratado, a não ser que isto seja especificado na adivinhação. Contudo, você pode lavá-lo quando tenha acumulado sujeira ou pó. Nessa ocasião, deverá ser lavado com água fria, lembrando-se sempre de mantê-lo ereto.

Elegbá prefere morar em um prato de barro, mas pode ser colocado em um pote de cerâmica. Ogún e Oshosí moram juntos num caldeirão de ferro. Osun mora em algum lugar alto, preferentemente acima da cabeça de seu dono. Ainda, para certas ocasiões, e somente quando for recomendado na leitura do oráculo, Osun poderá ser colocado diretamente no chão,

Saudação para Elegbá:

Para cumprimentar ou saudar Elegbá, primeiramente derrame três ou mais gotas de água fresca de uma cabaça ou outro recipiente na frente dele. Depois disto, deixe a cabaça a um lado e bata três vezes no chão, com o punho fechado, na frente dele, tal como se bate em uma porta. Depois, permaneça ereto enfrente dele e esfregue as mãos uma na outra, enquanto ora e pede por suas bênçãos. Então, vire rapidamente dando-lhe as costas e raspe os pés para trás na direção dele, assim como um touro prestes a atacar. Finalmente, balance rapidamente suas nádegas de um lado para o outro e vá embora. No mínimo, antes de sair de casa e antes de retornar, devemos pedir a bênção e a direção de Elegbá no mundo lá fora.

Oferendas:

Elegbá gosta de todo tipo de frutas, especialmente das goiabas, da cana-de-açúcar e dos côcos. Também aprecia doces e balas, bolas feitas de farinha de milho com mel, peixe defumado e ekú defumada (aguti ou cutia – jutía ou hutía em espanhol), pequenos pedaços de côco e bolas de ado feitas com gófio- um tipo de farinha de trigo torrada ou de milho e mel. As oferendas para Elegbá são usualmente postas numa coluna em ruínas ou num monte de lixo, numa encruzilhada do bosque ou no mato.

Ogún aprecia côco verde, bananas verdes ou plátanos, inhame branco (ishú –ñame em espanhol) e batata doce branca (ambos assados com casca), melancia e ananás. Suas oferendas podem ser deixadas no mato ou na linha-de-trem. Oshosí aprecia uvas brancas e melões. Também de ado, feijão-fradinho assado ou adoçado e milho assado ou adoçado. Oshosí gosta especialmente de caça, tal como a carne de veado e semelhantes, assadas com epó. Suas oferendas podem ser deixadas no mato ou nas encruzilhadas.

Antes de qualquer atividade religiosa ou social ser celebrada em nossa casa, é aconselhável preparar três bolsinhas com grãos assados de milho, peixe defumado, cutia defumada, azeite-de-dendê, mel, rum, guloseimas e algumas moedas. Elas são colocadas em Elegbá um dia antes e depositadas no dia seguinte nas esquinas do quarteirão onde moramos. Às vezes um sacrifício é requerido, mas deverá ser indicado pela adivinhação. Este pequeno ebó sossega Eshú, o trapaceiro, e traz harmonia a qualquer evento celebrado em nossos lares. É costumeiro recolher os restos da comida servida em um dia particular e enviá-los a Eshú, colocando-os aos pés de uma árvore da nossa casa, no meio-fio da nossa calçada, ou enviando-os ao mato. Esta oferenda garante ao devoto a caridade de Eshú.

Prece a Elegbá:

Mojubá Elegbá (Saúdo a Elegbá)
Elegbá agó!(Peço a sua permissão, Elegbá!)
Baralayiki, Eshú odara (Baralayiki [nome de louvor], Eshú, o bom)
Mojubá Eshú lona (Saúdo a Eshú dos caminhos)
M’ore nla (Meu grande amigo)
Kosí ikú, kosí arun (Permita que não haja morte, permita que não haja doença)
Kosí ofo, kosí arayé (Permita que não haja perda, permita que não haja problemas terrenos)
Fun mi iré owó, iré omó (Conceda-me as bênçãos do dinheiro, as bênçãos dos filhos)
Iré omá, iré arikú babawá (as bênçãos da inteligência [para discernir o certo do errado], as bênçãos de uma saúde boa e duradoura e o bem-estar.

© From the archives of Miguel “Willie” Ramos, Ilarí Obá, Obá Oriaté.

NOTE: It has become popular to use the term “Aborisha” to refer to anyone who serves the Orisha. In Cuba, a non-priest who participated in the religion was referred to as Aberikola, or “unwashed.” Since this term has the potential of being used in a derogatory way, we have chosen to use the term Aborisha to give respect and position to those non-priests who, as the term denotes, “serve” Orisha.

Elegbá (also known as Eshú or Eshú-Elegbá), Ogún, Oshosí, and Osun are the orishas commonly referred to in Spanish as “Los guerreros-the warriors.” Elegbá is the first orisha that is received, and is worshiped first in all religious acts. He is Olorun’s gatekeeper and is entrusted with opening and closing all ceremonies. He is also the orisha that tests man’s faith in Olorun and the deities. If one’s earthly conduct is proper, Elegbá aids and prizes humankind by allowing iré-blessings to visit the individual and distancing the osobo or negative energies. On the other hand, if one’s conduct is improper, Elegbá allows the negative forces of the universe to attack the individual without coming to his or her defense.

In Cuba, the Lukumí distinguished between Elegbá and Eshú. For the Lukumí, Eshú is the mischievous aspect of the deity who continuously roams the world, testing humankind by creating different controversies and problems in people’s lives. Elegbá is the more docile aspect of the deity, so much so, that he can be brought into the home and, if properly attended, will not cause havoc but rather bring advancement to the devotee. In Yorubaland and in Brazil, Eshú-Elegbá always lives outside the home in a shrine that is set up for him at the entrance. Adaptation to different cultures and living situations in Cuba brought about the introduction of Elegbá inside the devotee’s home and the separation or distinction between what in Cuba were eventually understood as different manifestations of the deity. Though Eshú and Elegbá are in reality one and the same deity, many Lukumí do not see them as thus.

Elegbá, the earthly trickster, can be a very mischievous deity, often as stubborn or cantankerous as a child. He requires little, though, and like a child, he is easily satisfied if treated with the proper reverence and devotion.

Ogún is the orisha of iron, patron of smiths and all those whose job places them in contact with iron or metals. He is also associated with surgery and his aid is sought when facing an operation of any sort. Additionally, Ogún is a war god, and he represents Olorun’s divine justice on earth. He is Olorun’s executioner, and carries out the Supreme Being’s sentences when humans break divine laws and mores. He is very fierce, fiery, suffering from an insatiable thirst for battle. Like Elegbá, though, when properly appeased, he protects his devotees from all harm.

Oshosí is the Orisha of the hunt. He defends those who are persecuted injustly and ensures that they escape their foes. In Cuba, during slavery, Oshosí was also considered the orisha of the marroons who prayed to him in the bushes while fleeing the plantation and the cruelties of slavery. The marroons would call on Oshosí to keep the slave catchers and their dogs off their trails. Oshosí is associated with trails and the forests, bringing succor to those who find themselves persecuted unjustly and helping those who have lost their path in life to find it once again.

Osun is related to one’s orí-the inner head, a sort of “guardian spirit” that accompanies one through life, that is also related with one’s destiny. Osun is also a sentinel. His function is to guard the devotee and the home from evil and evil doers. His posture is always erect. Osun should never be tilted and nor should it fall as this is a bad omen or an indicator of impending death. Osun is only turned over when his/her owner dies.

If Osun falls or turns over, it should immediately be stood erect and placed under cool, running water. One should take an egg and cleans one’s self with it then break it on top of the bird, and allow that to drip over him to cool down any impending danger. If this is unavailable, some ori (shea or cocoa butter) or efún (cascarilla) should be crumbled over it. Additionally, the individual should seek divination for it may be necessary to determine if Osun’s fall was coincidental or a warning of forthcoming problems.

Attending Elegbá:

The Lukumí taught us that ideally, Elegbá should be worshiped on Mondays, at the beginning of the new week, and preferably in the morning before heading outdoor for one’s daily routines. It is necessary to keep in mind, though, that once one accustoms Elegbá to this treatment, one must be responsible and consistent. If you legitimately forget, there can be no consequences for the orishas are very merciful and do not castigate innocence. However, if you purposely ignore or abandon him, Elegbá can provoke hardships in the devotee’s life.

Indifference is one one Elegbá’s most dangerous weapons as he can choose to ignore his devotee’s pleas for succor when his devotees ignore him. When danger approaches, Elegbá will simply “look the other way” and allow it to assault his devotee. When an individual attends to Elegbá properly, though, not only will he avert danger for him, but he will also prize him with whatever rewards he can place in the devotee’s path. This is Elegbá’s way.

Nonetheless, as he tends to be childlike at times, it is advisable that once one has accustomed Elegbá to something, one should try to follow that tradition as closely and faithfully as possible. Though he will not cause harm for innocent mistakes, he can remind the devotee by creating obstacles that block one’s progress in life.

In my opinion, if the individual’s life is like that of most of the people who live in modern society, it may be advisable to attend to Elegbá when one has the opportunity, varying the days, so that one creates a degree of flexibility with him. Though Monday mornings are ideal, flexibility may be more realistic and convenient.

Elegbá should not be washed with water. If he has accumulated too much blood or oil, washing him with white wine or firewater, and scrubbing him lightly with a white towel or scouring pad made of rope fiber may be better options. Afterward, anoint him with epó (red palm oil) and a drop or two of oñí (honey), but do not overdo it with these because they can become sticky and mucky with the passage of time. A dab of epó should be placed on the hands, rubbed together to spread the oil out over the hands, and then rubbed from the hands to Elegbá. As the epó is spread on Elegbá, one prays to him asking for his blessing and guidance. Once finished, he should be placed back in the clay dish and the oñí is slowly dripped over him. After the epó and oñí have been offered, blow some cigar smoke at him, and then some white wine by taking the wine into your mouth and quickly spitting it out on him. Finally, light a candle and salute him in the ritual style described ahead as you make your petitions for iré and well being.

Ogún and Oshosí are attended to in the same manner, although they are not washed. When too much epó has built up on them, it can be cleaned off with a white towel or cloth (this towel or cloth can be saved specifically for this purpose). Ogún is offered firewater or white rum (gin is also acceptable) and Oshosí is given anisette. Osun is not attended as often unless specified in divination. You can wash it, though, when it has accumulated grime or dust. At this time, he should be washed with cool water, remembering to always keep him erect.

Elegbá prefers to live in a clay dish, but could be placed in any ceramic bowl. Ogún and Oshosí live together inside an iron kettle. Osun lives somewhere high, preferably in a place where it remains level or above the owner’s head. For certain situations, though, and only when recommended in a reading, Osun may want to be placed directly on the floor.

Elegbá’s greeting:

To greet or salute Elegbá, first drip three or more drops of fresh water from a gourd or other container on the floor before him. After this, set the gourd to the side and knock three times on the floor before him, with a closed fist, as if you were knocking on a door. Afterward, stand erect facing him, and rub both hands together as you pray and ask for his blessings. Then, turn swiftly and give your back to him, and scrape your feet backward, toward him, like a bull that is going to charge forward. Finally, quickly swing your buttocks from side to side a few times and walk away. At minimum, before leaving the home, and upon returning, one should ask Elegbá for his blessing and his guidance in the world outside.

Offerings:

Elegbá likes all types of fruits, but especially guavas, sugarcane, and coconuts. He also enjoys sweets and candies, balls made of raw cornmeal with honey, smoked fish and smoked ekú (agouti or bush rat-jutía in Spanish) and small pieces of coconut; and ado-balls made with gofio- a type of meal that is made from roasted wheat flour or corn-and honey. Elegbá’s offerings are usually taken to a refuse pile or garbage heap, a crossroad in the woods, or to the bushes.

Ogún enjoys green coconuts, green bananas or plantains, white yam (ishú/ñame) and white sweet potato (both roasted with the peel), watermelon, and pineapples. His offerings can be taken to the bushes or to the train tracks. Oshosí enjoys white grapes and melons. Also ado, roasted or stewed black eye peas, and roasted or stewed corn. Oshosí especially likes hunted meats such as venison and the like, which are roasted with epó and offered to him. His offerings can be taken to the bushes or to the crossroads.

Before any religious or social activity takes place in one’s home, it is advisable to prepare three little bags with roasted corn grains, smoked fish, smoked ekú, palm oil, honey, rum, candies and a few pennies. These are place on Elegbá the day before and deposited on the corners of the block where one lives the following day. Sometimes, sacifice may be required, but this must be indicated in divination. This minor ebó appeases Eshú, the trickster, and brings harmony to any event taking place in one’s home. It is often customary to gather the leftovers of the meals served on a particular day and send them to Eshú, placing them either at the foot of a tree by one’s home, the curb by one’s home, or sending them to the bushes. This offering ensures the devotee of Eshú’s beneficence.

Prayer to Elegbá:

Mojubá Elegbá (I salute Elegbá)
Elegbá agó!(I ask your permission, Elegbá!)
Baralayiki, Eshú odara (Baralayiki [praise name], Eshú, the good one)
Mojubá Eshú lona (I salute Eshú of the roads)
M’ore nla (My great friend)
Kosí ikú, kosí arun (May there not be death, may there not be sickness)
Kosí ofo, kosí arayé (May there not be loss, may there not be earthly problems)
Fun mi iré owó, iré omó (Grant me the blessings of money, the blessings of children)
Iré omá, iré arikú babawá (the blessings of intelligence [to discern right from wrong], the blessings of good and durable health and well being

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