Diverse Voices Quarterly Issue 1 & 2

STORMS OF THE ORISHA (An Excerpt)
Diverse Voices Quarterly, Vol. 1, Issue 1 & 2
by
Oloye Karade
“Charlene, girls, the limousine is here.” Mrs. Helen’s aged voice echoed throughout
the house inhabited by ghosts and living souls alike. Gusting unfelt winds carried her
lamenting timbre to all who could hear. The currents of a life gone by allowed her
strained words to lightly mount them and they drifted, as if moved by an unseen hand,
up the spiraling stairs. Her bereaved daughter-in-law, Charlene, and her two saddened
granddaughters Natalie and Latoya, had been duly summoned.
She had buried her father, her husband, and now it was time to bury her son. Like
a veteran of a long, terrible war, she suffered through the hardships without showing
any weakening emotions or probable breakdown. With the experiences of death and
caring for the dying and 74 years of walking through the tribulations and trials of life,
she unabashedly took charge of the emotional well-being of the family—even if she,
from behind the illusion, was decimated.
As she waited for the family to gather, she gazed into the huge wood-framed mirror
that hung on the wall in the foyer. She saw her reflection and was held motionless as
if under a spell. She beseeched the omniscient glass to divulge its insight regarding
her apparel and overall condition. The soft-spoken response directed her to the blacknetted
hat upon her head. It was tilted a little too far to the left, exposing bald spots
inside of her matted white hair. She could once brush and comb the remaining fluffs,
but now there was nothing but spotted discoloration. What remained of the thinning
strands, pulled by life and the advancing of old age that accompanied it, hung over the
sides of her wrinkled brow.
She reached up to fix the metaphoric cowl that served as a barrier against demons
that sought to take away essence and spirit whenever death occurred—demons that
always managed to break through guarded gates conjured and reinforced by means of
ritualistic magic—demons that always found a way to shatter the fortresses of light set
by mystic incantations of gods and humans who, misguided by arrogance, claimed
dominance over all things.
The seasoned elder attempted to fix herself up a bit by shifting the corners and
pulling the thin rim to the front and to the back until the hairless circles were hidden
from view. Her frail wrist ached under arthritic pressure. But pain, no matter how
severe, was something to bear, especially if it meant getting one’s hat on straight.
The reserved chauffeur drove the shining limousine down Broad Street and veered
off onto Martin Luther King Boulevard. Charlene shed endless tears all the way to the
tabernacle as the endless flight of deepening sorrow carried her far away. The
distraught mother lost herself inside the darkness of her black dress and black-netted
hat that hung a little tilted. When Charlene reached the pit of her suffering, she called
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