written by Lisa Pérez
The white-clad men, women, and children began arriving at dawn, shortly before six in the morning: at first a van and a taxi-cab, then one car after another, to a beach on Lake Michigan, a body of water so vast that it bounds four states and resembles the ocean in its horizon-filling breadth. This is where Yemojá has agreed to receive offerings from her landlocked children in an annual celebration sponsored by Chicago’s Ilé Osikan. In past years, Olorisha Richard “Lalu” Mosley built a boat to launch into the lake filled with offerings, but as of late, the community has opted to create a large wreath that floats on the waves as if it were a raft, nailing together wooden boards and weaving leaves and flowers between the thin slats.
Most participants brought flowers, as specified in the announcement sent by Ilé Osikan: cream-colored lilies, spicy carnations, multicolored daisies, chrysanthemums, roses, irises, feather-duster-shaped hydrangea, and—appropriately for the maternal Yemojá—baby’s breath. During the singing of praises to the orishas, priests arranged the flowers on the body of the wreath, placed smoking incense in the center, then decorated it with pieces of ripe mango, bananas, fritters made from black-eyed pea flour (akará), yam-balls, a pineapple, and a small watermelon, its innumerable tiny seeds symbolic of Yemojá’s fecundity. Six men volunteered to carry the raft out in the frigid water as far as they could go; from shore, one could see the outlines of the men, as well-defined yet featureless as paper dolls, arms outstretched and united in the task of launching the craft pregnant with that day’s intentions.
Incantations continued to the rhythm of shekerés (gourd rattles) and a cowbell, the verses led by Iyalorisha Asabi Thomas—priestess of the orisha Elegbá and founder of Ile Osikan. She danced at the edge of the water, and dedicated the offering to Yemojá, emphasizing her ability to bless the faithful with children, health, and prosperity. One gentleman raised his voice to thank Yemojá for bringing his ancestors—African slaves—across the Atlantic during the Middle Passage, ensuring their safety and the development of the tradition that brought him to the water that morning. It was a poignant moment for those of every background to reflect on the ramifications of the transatlantic slave trade, the history of the tradition, and the miracle of survival. The sun rose higher in the cloudless sky.
As the priests sang, Yemojá arrived in the body of a young priest, whose cries soon gave way to salutations. She prostrated, embraced her children, caressed heads, faces, and burden-bearing backs, with her hands and the words, “omó mí,”—my child. Yemojá personally addressed individual children, speaking of battles that will be won but only after they are fought; letting go of bitterness, suggesting initiation in one case, and in another, not allowing the worries belonging to others to stand in the way of religious elevation. She embraced two women at once, drawing their bodies to hers, and requested ashó, or cloth, with which to cleanse them. Handed a white towel, she used it to cover their heads, and the fabric shook. After a moment of calm, she took advantage of the pause in activity to turn suddenly on her heels and make a run for the water, but was held back by priests mindful of the difficulties posed by the prospect of removing Yemojá from her element if she were to enter it.
A circle of priests formed around her as she dispensed advice, and elders recommended that everyone begin to back away from the water in anticipation of the communal meal. To their surprise, Yemojá bristled at these instructions and called them to return, protesting that the day was hers! Smiling, her children returned, and she pressed them to draw ever closer as she spoke. As if giving a master class in healing, she spoke to two devotees in full view of the gathering, counseling self-preservation through protection and offerings designed to help them achieve progress. Calling two more beloved priests to her bosom, she then delivered a stern yet loving lecture, and to have listened then is to now remember her points in a combination of direct quotation and paraphrase: Health is most important. Health is most important. Sickness is all around! Clean. Clean. Sarayeyé bó’kún ‘ló, sarayeyé, ikú n’ló. Those who have tools, use them. Those who know how to use water, clean with water. Those who know how to clean with fruit, clean with fruit. Those with orishas, take the offerings to the orishas; the rest, to ilé Eshu [the trash or the forest]. Remember egún—the ancestors—they brought you here today. Remember: family, community, and ourselves, because if we don’t take care of ourselves, no one will.
Eventually, Yemojá withdrew, and a breakfast of fruit and sweets followed for everyone else. Laughter rang out into the early morning, and mothers chided children that, as if kissed by Yemojá herself, seemed to be covered head to toe with sand.