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The Blood Burial
"Ogun Lakáyé!
Olójóngbòn, Olúgbónà!
Alákéde irin, Oníjà tí kò mọ̀yà!"
(Ogun of the wide earth!
Bearer of the day of battle, Lord of the forge!
One clad in iron, the warrior who knows no cowardice!)
"A kì í bínú s’ọ̀nà Ogun kó tún yí padà!
A kì í gbé idà lọ́́wọ́ kó má gbón bí ayé!"
(None walks into Ogun’s path and returns untouched!
None lifts the blade without the trembling of the world!)
"Ọmọ Ogun ti padà wá ilé!
Ẹ̀jẹ̀ ti ru sán l’órùn ayé!
Àwa wá bọ́ wá fún un!"
(Ogun’s child has returned home!
Blood has spilled into the neck of the earth!
We come to honor him!)
The night presses heavy, breathing iron into every chest.
Torches bend and spit smoke, their flames trembling like fearful children.
The men stand bare, their skins etched with white chalk and camwood, bodies thundering with the drumming of feet.
At the front, the eldest, face cracked with the maps of time, lift an ancient cutlass red with rust, thirsty with memory. He raises it skyward, then drives his gaze into the soil.
"Ogun, gba ìrúbọ wa!
A ò fi ẹ̀mí rìnàkò!
A ò fi ẹ̀jẹ̀ yáyà!
Kò ní tàn! Kò ní sọnù!"
(Ogun, receive our sacrifice!
We do not scatter the soul into nothing!
We do not waste the blood in vain!
It shall not fade! It shall not be lost!)
The ground shudders not with thunder, but with the pounding of feet.
Palm oil hisses in the fire, its smoke joining the copper scent of blood.
Machetes clash once… twice… thrice… each strike a summon.
"Olódùmarè, má jẹ́ kí ẹ̀mí rẹ̀ súnkẹrẹ-fàkẹrẹ!
Má jẹ́ kí ó sa lọ́na òfo!
Ọmọ Ogun ti dé ilé àwọn baba rẹ̀!
Ṣùgbọ́n ẹni tó pa á kò tíì gbé ojú sùn!"
(Creator, do not let his soul scatter like dust!
Do not let him wander into the void!
Ogun’s son has reached the home of his fathers!
But the hand that killed him has not yet slept!)
A gourd, clothed in the red of sacrifice, rises in the elder’s hand.
His arm, unbent by age, strikes it to the earth.
It shatters, spilling black wine into the soil that drank like a beast unfed.
"Ogun, Ológo alágbára!
Òun kò jẹ́ òkú! Òun kò jẹ́ ẹ̀mí!
Ṣùgbọ́n ẹ̀jẹ̀ ni a fún ọ̀, ẹ̀jẹ̀ ni kó gba!"
(Ogun, glorious and strong!
You do not eat the corpse! You do not take the soul!
But blood we give you, blood you must accept!)
A roar tears through the air, neither wholly human nor wholly divine. The men's voices weave into it, their cries swallowed by something deeper, something old.
And somewhere, in the place where gods and men meet, a presence turns its gaze upon the living.
The funeral was done and the blood has been accepted.
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