Lit Angels #29 Legacy Magic, Indigenous Roots
Edited by Cyn Marts, writing by Hannah Eko, Jennifer Givhan, Alexandra Someillan, Veronica Castillo, Erin Harker, Cyn Marts, Anays Ponce, art by Savina Monet, Amanda Dibando Awanjo & Gloria Rodriguez
Descansa by Savina Monet
Guest Editor: Cyn Marts
Founding Editor: Francesca Lia Block
Copy Editor: Kerby Caudill
Table Of Contents
1. Three Faces of Òsun – A West African Goddess by Hannah Eko
2. Becoming The Bruja My Ancestors Needed by Jennifer Givhan
3. Ventanitas de Lily by Alexandra Someillan
4. Return to Boriken: Finding Home in the Land of the Great Lords by Veronica Castillo
5. Among Good Neighbors by Erin Harker
6. Poems by Anays Ponce:Waiting To Depart, Queen of the Line, Villanelle for Venezuela, I Honor Those I Cannot Name
7. Trauma Is The Curse by Cyn Marts
Oshun by Amanda Dibando Awanjo
Three Faces of Òsun – A West African Goddess
By Hannah Olabosibe Eko
I don’t think it was an accident that I fell in love with the sweetness of Òsun knee-deep into summer 2016, one year after leaving my active duty Coast Guard life and two semesters into my grad school degree. I am an oldest Nigerian-American daughter, trained by interests both foreign and domestic to put others before myself. If there was ever a candidate for someone who needed an influx of honey, it was me.
Òsun is the grand seductress of life itself, a goddess who beckons us to dance to a new yet ancient song. Hailing from the Yoruba tribe of southwest Nigeria, she has made her way around the world and across many waters.
I met the soul of Òsun four months before Trump took office and regressed the world into the recesses of his underdeveloped psyche, four years before COVID-19 drowned our lives in mask mandates, social distancing, and sourdough.
Òsun is a generous West African feminine deity who rules over fertility, sweet waters, divination, creativity, honey, and love. She teaches me time and time again that life is here to be enjoyed.
If we do not respect and protect the many manifestations of Osun—from freshwater to vulture to peacock to bee to sex to brass--we risk jeopardizing her very life and ours—because when Osun is angry, she does not play around1.
Think massive droughts, unforgiving heat, and despair.
Think uncontrollable flooding, undrinkable water, epidemics of depression.
Think of this beautiful, precious Earth robbed of her sweetness.
Òsun has many faces and many stories.
Here are three.
One Face
One day, people were really trying to get Ogun, the god of iron, to return to civilization. But Ogun wasn’t feeling it. He was going through “some identity stuff” and wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue his terms of employment, despite the generous 401K. The orisas2 tried all their persuasions (invites to the best feasts, courtside tickets for the fertility festival, yams, etc.). They even tried having some of the other gods go and talk to Ogun, but nothing worked.
Finally, the gods wised up and asked Òsun to go and talk to Ogun. Perhaps as his on-off-again friend with benefits she could persuade him? Òsun yawned. So like these gods to only invite her when they needed something. But, she always did like a challenge and so she returned home, covered her body with wildflower honey and royal jelly, and paused right by the river (which was also conveniently near Ogun’s studio). Sure enough when Ogun saw Òsun in all her glory, he forgot his own name—he was awake.
One of Osun’s mightiest powers is her sexual and sensual energy. Humans, to our deep detriment, have misunderstood, underestimated, and pigeonholed Òsun and her sensual power since she arrived on the scene. Far from being simplistic promiscuity, sexual energy lies along the same plane as creation, power, and money. Sex is power, and this is why women and gender expansive beings have been shamed for our sexuality for eons. The world has not been made ready for this power.
But goody for us: where there is shame, there is power. Power is: confidence, security, stability, and the ability to do, be, or have what you (really) want. Great shame and great power are always in relationship, like the bend of umbilical cord.
Òsun never wastes time forcing anyone to her will or convincing anyone that she is powerful. In this story, she embodied who she was. She existed. She covered herself with honey and stood by a tree, her power less domination and more invitation. Òsun teaches us to undertake the vulnerable work of transforming our deepest shames into our deepest powers by choosing to see ourselves in a different way again and again and again.
A Second Face
Olódùmarè, the Supreme Creator Being in Yoruba spirituality, sent seventeen orisa down to earth to get the world right. Save for Òsun, all the orisa were male. These orisa included Ogun (god of iron and workmanship), Ṣàngó (god of lightning and thunder), and Orunmila (god of wisdom and destiny). These orisa didn’t think they needed Òsun’s help with creation. It was like the worst example of a high school group project.
Never once were they like, “Hey Òsun, we need a hand here.” Òsun was rightfully pissed off (and pregnant), and yet the male orisa continued their worldbuilding totally unbothered. These orisa worked and worked, but the world was without flow. Chaos, destruction, and despair ruled the land. Finally, the sixteen male orisa fled back to Olódùmarè full of complaint and confusion.
“Why was everything so shitty?” they whined.
Olódùmarè, sighed in Supreme Being fashion, “I sent seventeen of you to earth but only sixteen stand before me,” and then They3 said, “What about Òsun?”
Òsun, Chief Mother and the One Who Dances.4
Òsun, Righteous Seductress Who Is Also Vulture.
Òsun, Mother of the Mirror.
“Did you guys really think you could build a world without her?”
And so the orisa ran back to Òsun with throats full of sorry and my bad, but Òsun was not having it. She decided to make a deal with them. If the child she carried was a daughter, she was so over it. But, if the child she carried was a son, she would lend her hand and help the orisa rebuild their world into a paradise, a real heaven on earth.
Thankfully, for these orisa, Òsun gave birth to a bouncing bundle of XY. Looking into her son’s bottomless black eyes, she knew she could not leave the earth hanging on by a thread—even though she was tired of being overlooked and wanted to tell these orisa to go screw themselves. She smiled at the orisa, knowing that her power was so great that it only took one of her for every sixteen of them. And with that pride, she helped create a new world.
Where there is struggle, there is peace.
Peace is: ease, softness, contentment, and the absence of difficulty or worry. Every location of struggle in our lives is an opportunity to discover the calm at the center of the storm and become this center. Òsun was chosen as afterthought to build the world, and that world failed spectacularly until she took charge.
You only need a drop of honey. It only took one Òsun to right the world into balance. Initially, she wanted to meet their exclusion with a grand exit, but she knew that a world without her healing would be a world that her son, her blood, could not live in. And so, ever the ethical goddess, she decided to take her place in the assembly of creation.
Never forget: your struggle is a portal to peace.
A Third Face
There was once a feud on earth against the Village of Women.5 The Village of Women was pissed. Legend had it that they were on their periods, too, so their power was at cosmic levels.
No one could defeat the Village of Women. Understandably, the orisa were vexed. Several of them came down from the Realm of Ancestors to get the Village of Women to behave and cease being so rebellious. The Women were causing chaos, and people wondered if the gods were weaker than the women..
The gods first sent the almighty warrior Ṣàngó, who tried to win over the Village of Women with brute strength. He was quickly defeated. They sent Ogun, who fashioned powerful weapons of bronze and iron in the attempt to win over the Village of Women. He returned like Ṣàngó, defeated and long faced.
The gods sighed. They might as well try sending the goddesses.
And so, first they sent Ọya, who was often called “the woman who would grow a beard in the event of war.” But like the men before, Oya returned utterly defeated by the Village of Women. Yemọja, mother of fish herself, gathered her seafoam skirts and went down. She raged at the Village of Women with slapping ocean waves and caustic seas, but she was still no match for the Village of Women. She, too, returned defeated.
All the while, Òsun was painting her nails a delightful shade of fuchsia. The gods had almost forgotten about her. (Do these people ever learn?) She blew on her nails, smiled, and volunteered to go. She would go to the Village of Women. And she would not return defeated.
And so Òsun blew one last soft breeze upon her nails and stood, ready to face the Village of Women. Leaving the Realm of Ancestors for Earth, she balanced a calabash of water on her head and began to dance and sing one of her favorite R-rated songs.
Some of the Women laughed, while others tilted their heads in curiosity. Some others appeared angry, thinking Òsun was being an asshole. Òsun did not mind their grab bag of reactions. Looking at the Women standing before her, she knew that they were all her and she was them. Òsun recognized herself in their resentment, their bitterness, their disillusionment, their fear, and their hot rage. She was not afraid of their feelings, nor did she judge them.
Òsun continued to dance. Finally, one brave Woman whose foot had been tapping alongside Òsun’s beat could not help herself. She tied up her skirt and began to dance, too. Sometimes she followed Òsun’s rhythm; other times she was content to create her own. One by one, the Village of Women followed Òsun, sometimes dancing in unison, sometimes dancing alone. Smiles began to form on their faces. They did their best not to be fearful of this new feeling, this feeling called pleasure.
During the war, they had forgotten how much they loved to dance. They followed Òsun because they trusted that wherever she was, Òsun—who is love, healing, cooling waters, and seduction––there was life itself. And so, Òsun led the Village of Women back home to themselves. (In my version of this story, she defies the other gods and leads the Women to uncharted territory.)
She did not defeat them. She did not need to dominate. She did not meet the Village of Women with more war.
She asked them to join her in the dance.
Where there is suffering, there is a path towards pleasure. Pleasure is: satisfaction, joy, sensual freedom, fun, contentment, the ability to be jealous of your own life. You were made for more than suffering; pleasure is your birthright.
May your suffering lead you to your pleasure.
So, here I am and here you are.
Honey Is the Knife was published two months and three days before yet another Trump presidency. This one already feels far harsher than the first. If I, if you are to graduate into a deeper understanding of Òsun’s sweetness, we need to listen closely to her whispers, her gentle (and hard) pushes, her sweet sharpness and make different choices.
Every single day.
The Goddess gives us so many chances to remember her many faces.
Òsun knows what’s it like to be ignored, under-appreciated, chosen last.
She knows what it’s like to rebirth herself.
Yoruba is a spiritual system that predates Christianity by 1,000 to 1,500 years—perhaps even more. One does not have to be an Ifa initiate or an adherent of an African Traditional Spirituality to receive inspiration from Òsun. She is a generous deity, blessing any and all who seek her wisdom with profound insight to take aligned action.
She stands by a river covered in honey.
She remakes the world.
She dances to a new song.
How will you stand in your magnificence as you are?
How will you remake your world?
How will you dance to your own beat?
Òsun invites you and me to take up her ways.
To resist the siren pull of the abyss.
To take up our sweet work.
And when and if we falter, to be gentle with ourselves like a first lick of honey and remember the three faces of Òsun.
–
1“Whether fighting off predators, looking after their young, or protecting food reserves, bees have developed a range of powerful mechanisms for defending themselves against their enemies, be they rival insects, mammals, or other bees. A sting in the tail is the most famous defensive tool possessed by bees: an injection of venom that causes pain or death in the recipient. The delivery mechanism is a modified version of the egg-laying apparatus on the tip of the abdomen; hence only females can deliver a sting. Bees do not sting readily: venom takes a lot of energy to produce and is reserved for the most serious of threats. Contrary to common belief, in ordinary defensive situations a bee can use its stinger and fly away unscathed.” Page 56. Chadwick, Fergus. The Bee Book. Strand, London, Dorling Kindersley Limited, 2016.
2Orisa is a personification of energy made divine This energy is referred to in Yoruba as ase, which has no direct translation in English and is often closely defined as “and so it is”). Existence is an action of holy proportions. Orisa are divine messengers of Olódùmarè,commonly approached as gods and goddesses. They have been transported across the world (mainly due to the transatlantic slave trade and diaspora migrations) where they sometimes have different names. (For instance, Òsun becomes Oshun or Oxum depending if you are referencing the Yoruba, Cuban Santeria, or Brazilian Candomblev.) The orisa are thought to be innumerable or to number “400 plus 1” depending on who you hear tell it. They are the sacred intermediaries of Yoruba cosmologies.
3Though many scholarly and spiritual retellings, scholars, spiritualists, and diviners assign “He” and “Him” descriptions to Olódùmarè, there is no specific gender for this being. Alternatively called Olorun and Oluwa, Olódùmarè is the supreme ruler of the universe in Yoruba spirituality, the omnipotent source of all that is—good, bad, indifferent. Part of the obsession on naming God as He/Him is no doubt because of the pesky fly that is patriarchy. When God = Man, male leadership seems “natural,” predetermined, and limited to aspects that traditionally govern and safeguard masculine behavior.
Naming spiritual power as feminine and autonomous cracks open the farce of patriarchy, revealing the incompleteness of its worldview. Another reason Olódùmarè tends to slip between gender expressions is the linguistic queerness of the Yoruba language itself. Yoruba hosts many unisex names, and while is does house specific gender categories of woman (obinrin) and man (ọkunrin), it does not carry specific gender pronouns like she/he. Things therefore get a little fun in translation. I often use capital letter “They” whenever I reference Olódùmarè in a gesture towards being a little truer to the unlimited expression of this Being. Some writers and scholars use “She” for this Being to honor Her creative aspects. I dig that, too.
4Italicized titles of Òsun are provided via Awo Fa’Lokun Faunmbi’s Oshun: Ifa and the Spirit of the River. Original Publication, 1993.
5Story recounted as a combination of the stories told within F. Fatunmbi, Oshun: Ifa and the Spirit of the River, Plainview (New York: Original Publications,1993) and D. Badejo, Òsun Seegesi: The elegant deity of wealth, power, and femininity, (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 1996).
Hannah Olabosibe Eko is a Nigerian-American writer, multimedia storyteller, and book doula. A graduate of the US Merchant Marine Academy, she holds a Master’s Degree in Community and Economic Development from Penn State University, and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Pittsburgh. She is the founder of The Lit Club, a cannabis-inspired literary salon, creative community, and event series at the intersection of art, healing, and pleasure justice. Her writing has appeared in Buzzfeed, Bust magazine, Fractured Lit, Aster(ix), and elsewhere. She currently makes her home between Los Angeles, California and the universe.
Amanda Dibando Awanjo is a researcher, artist, and illustrator currently living on the East Coast. She completed her PhD in Critical Cultural Studies in Literature at the University of Pittsburgh in 2022. In both her research and her art, she explores depictions of Black women and girls as crafters of Black futurity. Her art has been published in The Black Joy Project, Taint Taint Taint Magazine, Puff Puff, and The Rumpus