This is one of the most beautiful stories I have heard about Oya. It is actually one of my favorite fables about motherhood. Maferefun Oya. Hekua Ey Iansa, Iya Mi!
Elegbara, aye-o, Elegbara, aye-o, Elegbara, modupe, Elegbara Wonfa nyem, listen and hear, and remember.
Listen my children to the tale of Oya, and her children the colors of the rainbow, a tale of questions and answers, sacrifice and healing, friendship, and trust renewed.
Hear the tale of Oya, come weary to the bone from a long hunt to her home by the black waters of the Niger. There her children are being raised by Osayin, the herbalist, and taught the ways of the woods. She clothes them in purple, and calls each by a secret name--but they see her seldom, she stays but a few days, and leaves the mothering to the old healer.
One day she does not return, the children go hungry, and Osayin is worried. He turns to Elegwa, who watches everything, and asks where she may have gone.
To the East Elegwa goes searching, far beyond the borders of the land, but though he searches far, he finds only tall grasses waving in the breeze, and tracks of the water buffalo.
To the West Osayin, himself, continues searching, far into the mountains of the Cameroon, and from a high place he seems to see her dancing, but when he gets to the plain, it is a flock of wild birds covering the seashore and the remains of a great catch of fish.
To the South, he sends Ochosi, the tracker, who often finds traces when no one can see the way. Ochosi goes hunting, seeking through the jungle, and though Ochosi is able to find traces of her journey and people who have seen her, they tell him she has gone north to the country of her people.
And so the three friends return to the village, each having journeyed and returned disheartened. The villagers are hungry and they do not know what to do as the harvest has been poor. The three counselors do not know what to do but are fearful of leaving the children without their mother, so packing their belongings, they take the children with them.
To the North, then, Elegwa, Ochosi, and Osayin go journeying with the nine children until they come to the hut of Orunmilla, the seer. He greets them, "I have been expecting you, the Fool, the Bow, the Reed. I have seen you for many days in my shells, for you come to bring home the harvest."
"What" speaks Elegwa, "I know no such harvest, I seek only my friend Oya, whose children miss her."
"It is a strange harvest--I see nine children and a mother who does not return and only now you miss her? She shall be your harvest indeed."
Ochosi spoke also. "I see her trace everywhere. The villagers speak of a brave woman warrior, dressed in black with a purple sash, who comes, stops oppression, but leaves before anyone can thank her."
"You see her harvesting justice--and you do nothing but track her traces--what must you learn?"
Osayin shook his head sadly. "I was trusted with her children, but she has left no word."
"You speak of trust," Orunmilla spoke gently, "and for that I will speak. She has come by this way, and left you these horns. Go home, and she will return when you blow them in blessing the feast."
"But what shall I tell these her children," asked Osayin?
"Tell them she will return when the hunters return from the South with no food, when the sailors return from the West with no fish, when the lands to the East are dry, then they should blow their horns and she will return."
And the three returned to the village by the river Niger disheartened. They waited for another moon and thought of Orunmilla's words. Elegwa looked to the East and saw only the shifting stars. Osayin looked to the west and saw only the birds on the seashore, Ochosi pondered the South and the strange tales of a warrior who took no food as reward. And they knew that it was time to call her home.
And they blew on the horns.
The wail of the horns died out, and there was a palpable silence. And from a distance they could here the snort of some beast come to the village. They watched and from the forest came an immense black buffalo, bleeding from many wounds, who ran at each of them, chasing them into huts as if mad with fear.
The buffalo ran about the village, once, and they thought it best to stay indoors. Twice, and they began to peer outside. Three times, and it was if they knew to wait. Four times, and the rhythm of its running made a strange dance on the drums of the elders. Five times, and all the villagers began to dance, ignoring the buffalo as it continued to run. Six times and no one could be still. Seven times and the beast began to tire. Eight times and the drums fell silent. The ninth time, the buffalo ran into the center of the village and collapsed, dead of exhaustion and blood.
The villagers shook themselves, and looked upon the beast, now dead in the village. It skin now hung in tatters, like cloth, and even as they watched, the tatters became loose, and the hooves shrank, until finally they saw Oya, seemingly dead upon the ground.
"No, it cannot be," cried Osayin, "we saw her tracks everywhere and we never suspected."
"She is the harvest we knew was to come, but not at the sacrifice of our friend," replied Elegwa.
"Only the hunter knows what it is to be hunted," observed Ochosi. We tracked her to the East, to the West, to the South, and never knew that we chased a friend. And now, she is dead."
"I am not dead," spoke a voice from the clearing, and they turned but saw no one. "I am not dead," and it was if the sky itself sang. "You see my old form, your old friend, that was but a shell. I am the spirit of the wind, and nothing will keep me from my children." And the wind blew as if a great howling of drums and Oya arose alive again, calling her children one by one.
"Not many know me as you know me, my youngest child, you shall be the Dark Mother (pulling out a cloth of Black). You will lead them by secret ways through the forest when they have lost their way."
"I have shed much blood from the spears of the hunters, you my child shall remember, you are the Blood Mother (pulling out a cloth of Red). You will always remember the blood of the warriors who fight in your behalf."
"The sun shines golden in the fields ripe for harvest, and you will always know its abundance if you call on me. You are now the Golden Mother (pulling out a cloth of Orange)."
"I blind the enemy so that they are diverted and do no harm, you I call my Shield, the sun (pulling out a cloth of Yellow). Do no harm when deflection will do."
"Osayin taught you well the patience of waiting. Sometimes you cannot see the pattern until the cloth is finished. You are now the Weaver Woman. Take this cloth of Green, as you must pull the reed when it is ripe and let it dry."
"Ochosi traced you to the ends of the earth and looked upon the sea. There my winds are forever bringing change. You are now the Hurricane (pulling out the cloth of Blue), forever changing the sea and the land."
"When justice is not done, I grow angry, and become the seeker after truth. I call you Lightning, blasting from a clear sky (pulling out a cloth of Indigo)."
"And when you are old, you will teach the young my words, for you shall be the Crone (pulling out a cloth of Purple). You will be old before your years, and call even the elderly to learn at your feet."
"And you, the eldest child, they will see but seldom as you will follow in my footsteps, invisible as the wind, you are the Dancer in the Flame (pulling out a cloth of Silver)."
Know my friends, Elegwa, Ochosi, Oyasin, that you did not fail me. You, o wondering villagers, you cared for my children even in your hunger. Now when you have need, call me by my horns and there will be fish in the sea, a harvest on the land, and meat for the hunter.
Take up the colors of my children as my token, and when you see them in the sky, know that I am there, and here, and in your heart. For you are now the Rainbow, and I am the Wind.
