I was as surprised as when he had said "Ochosi" to me. Oya was the wife of Shango, and though she was the lord of the winds and a fierce warrior, the mistress of changes, she also was the ruler of the dead, equated in Catholicism with the Virgin de la Candelaria and in Haiti with Ghede. This was a heavy spirit. Jenny was a ten-year-old redhead who still traveled with Chester, her stuffed dog, and had only recently given up on the Easter bunny.
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Most of the next day, driving through Georgia and Alabama and the Florida panhandle, Jenny had gone over the reading again and again. Her main concern was that the Oba had said she would become a successful business woman. For years, Jenny had wanted to be a veterinarian (as my father had been). I told her what I told everyone else new to readings: to take that which she wanted. And anyway, between Ifa and Elegba, things could change. She could still be a vet. She decided that was okay.
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She never talked about the reading much after that, though we did buy the recommended coconut shampoo, and she promised to eat more fruit, as the Oba had advised, correctly diagnosing an intestinal ailment she'd had for the last year. In the fall, she called me to say they had to do a research paper for fifth grade. She had chosen Martin Luther King, Jr.
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A little before 7
P.M
., Baba Tunde called for us all to come upstairs. As I had guessed, the room was tight quarters for thirty to forty people, about the size of a large, one-car garage. The musicians were squeezed against one wall, and had already started playing; Brad on congas, the other two rounding out the rhythm with shakeree, bells, and assorted smaller drums. Ava sat alone on a straw mat in the far corner, beneath two large crimson sheets hung as backing for her throne, a wicker chair. African masks, fresh palm fronds, orisha pots and rows of white candles were spread around her.
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