THE EMANCIPATION OF MIA

Author’s Note – Another vignette from my Yoruba pantheon-inspired project (if you missed out on previous vignettes, The First Journey and The Seven Cycles of Peace, click here and here)!

“HOLY GHOST… FIRE! HOLY GHOST… FIRE!!”

From the floor where she had been forced to kneel for nearly an hour, Mia’s eyes were fixed ahead, her face a stoic mask of resignation. Overhead, her mother and aunt echoed the frantic prayers, their faces taut with anxiety. The scrawny pastor, with sunken cheeks hollowed out by years of avid fasting, and wild, almost feral eyes, led the chaotic scene with fervor bordering on madness.

“HOLY GHOOOOOOST…” he screeched, gyrating his hips in an unintentionally lewd, comical manner. Mia tried not to follow his contorted movements, his shrill cries ringing in her ears. He was the latest in a long chain of obscure pastors her mother had enlisted to save Mia’s soul. 

“…FIREEEE OOOOO!” One of his acolytes screamed rabidly, hopping across the room on one leg.

“POWERS AND PRINCIPALITIES…” the pastor screeched again. In unison, his sheeples, including Mia’s mother and aunt, clapped their hands in a frenetic rhythm, shouting, “DIE! DIE! DIE!”

*

Two exhausting hours later, her salvation was concluded with a prayer of thanksgiving for broken strongholds. Mia, delirious with hunger, was relieved it was finally over. She had been forced to skip dinner and breakfast in preparation for this “serious church business.”

Once they left the roadside church, Mia imagined her first order of  business would be to whip up an obscenely large portion of her favorite meal: pounded yam. She could almost taste that first lump, rolled between her fingers, dipped in the leftover egusi soup from last night’s dinner until thoroughly coated, and washed down with a sip of water. She was nearly drooling at the thought when the pastor pulled her aside, ostensibly for some final words of counsel.

“Now that we have redeemed your soul,” his voice cracked like brittle glass, hoarse from hours of shrieking at the devil and his minions, “you must stay on guard against the roaring lion. Rebuke Satan, do you hear me? So that he will not come back to devour what we have saved, my child.”

His eyes drifted down to her chest, and he unconsciously licked his lips, making him resemble a desperately thirsty lizard. She flinched as he patted her shoulder, a venomous look flashing across her placid face. The pastor stepped back before he realized it.

Blinking, he questioned if he had imagined the expression, which vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her face as vacant as usual. Nonetheless, he escorted her back to the entrance, where her mother and aunt awaited, deep in hushed conversation, and hurriedly ushered them on their way.

*

This was just one of several failed exhortations Mia had been forced to endure since she turned five and still had not uttered her first word. Contrary to belief, Mia wasn’t mute; she simply chose silence, observing everything, saying nothing.

She witnessed her stepfather’s affair with the landlord’s daughter, his hands roughly grasping her swinging buttocks as they tussled in the dark alley that separated their compound from the next. She saw her mother pilfering from the society women’s cooperative, slipping money from their monthly collection into the folds of her faded George wrappers. She noticed her half-sister sneaking away with neighborhood touts, seeking extra pocket money to spend frivolously on gaudy, imitation-gold trinkets.

Mia also saw a neighbor spitting in the buckets of bathing water left in the sun by another neighbor, her face twisted in spiteful satisfaction. She watched the owner of the nearby beer parlor water down his palm wine before serving it to his undiscerning, half-drunk customers. She even caught her schoolteacher, highly regarded for her piety, secretly pocketing lunch money from children who hadn’t yet learned to count.

Mia saw all these secrets, but she spoke of none. Her eyes held an otherworldly, knowing look that unsettled people around her. Each day, she collected these fragments and tucked them away in the corners of her mind. At night, she lay in bed, the thin, worn mattress pressing uncomfortably against her back as she watched the flickering light bulb in the cramped bedroom she shared with her stepsister and her two younger half-brothers. Her mother had given birth to the boys in quick succession after losing Mia’s father in a sudden road accident. Each night, Mia examined the day’s fragments until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

*

“Water,” Mia’s first word at age eight, earned her a slap. She was humming to herself while washing the dirty dishes. Her mother, startled by the sudden break in her daughter’s usual quiet, spun around. “What?” She demanded sharply, her eyes all agog.

Water,” Mia answered thoughtlessly, mimicking her half-sister’s irreverent tone towards the stepmother she struggled with. Mia’s mother froze. For a moment, she simply stared at Mia, processing the fact that her silent daughter had finally spoken. Then, perceiving the tone as disrespect, she smacked Mia’s cheek.

Before Mia could react, her mother grabbed her, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, thank you, thank you, my God!” Her voice was a mix of joy and disbelief. “What a mighty God I serve!” She began dancing around Mia, whose cheek was still stinging, as she gave thanks for the broken curse of silence, her movements manic and uncoordinated.

The euphoria didn’t last long. Mia still spoke very little and only when spoken to, turning her mother’s initial joy to frustration as she realized that the curse was not entirely broken. And soon after, the bed-wetting began, a stubborn pattern that would plague Mia’s childhood nights. She would observe the peeling paint on the walls of her room until she slowly drifted off. Then came the dreams.

*

The dreams would start off ordinary. She would be sitting on the living room floor, the rain pouring outside, leaks in the roof forming tiny rivers on the floor. She traced their paths with her finger, as if sketching out a language only she could speak. Suddenly, the rush of roaring waves would echo in her head, as though an angry ocean were boiling within. Just when she thought she would go mad from the endless noise, a quiet whisper would cut through.  Miannaya. Wake up. Come home.

She would wake up in a pool of urine, her half-sister screaming blue murder. There would be the usual gleeful scampering to report Mia’s misdeeds, followed by the inevitable whipping. Her stepfather would pull out his belt and dole out lash after lash, trying in vain to elicit at the minimum a whimper from Mia. Her mother would stage-whisper about what sin she could have committed to be cursed with such a child. Frustrated, her stepfather would finally fling her aside and storm out, his wife trailing behind, pleading unsuccessfully to placate him.

Her face impassive as ever, Mia would clean up, drag her mat out to dry, and then wait for the sickening cycle to repeat itself the following night. So vivid were the dreams, Mia could hardly shake their residue so that it felt as though she was spending almost all her waking moments in a dream. Miannaya. Wake up. Come home.

*

A strip of gray made its ominous presence known at the top of her forehead when she turned ten. Over the next year, and then the next, more strips of gray appeared. By fourteen, the bed-wetting ceased, but not the dreams. Almost all her hair had turned silver-gray by then, a startling contrast to her black hooded eyes and ebony skin. It was when her mother accepted that her daughter was transforming into a demon before her eyes. Recruiting her sister, Mia’s aunt, they embarked on the search for a solution before this demon grew too powerful to handle. Thus began the running from pillar to post for a successful exorcism.

With first the history of silence, then the bed-wetting, and now the hair of a hag, seventeen-year-old Mia was the neighborhood curiosity. She cut a striking, yet unsettling, figure, her long silver-braided hair flowing like undulating water against her startling ebony skin, which glistened in the sun. The silver streaks were jarring amidst the field of matted black plaits. Her hooded eyes, heavy with untold secrets, were cold and haunting, as if they could freeze you from within. She still only spoke when spoken to, and on the rare occasions she did, her voice sounded like ancient, rusted gates, slowly creaking open.

She was the subject of many speculative conversations. Of course, never directed to her face. The gossipers were cowards content with whispered murmurs just within her hearing, cuttingly referring to her as Mrs. Daddy Long-Legs as they sniggered at her too-short skirt and long legs. Witch, they whispered loudly, as though she were deaf in addition to being mute. She paid them no mind.

She dutifully accompanied her mother to be scammed by an eclectic variety of self-proclaimed prophets. She skillfully avoided her stepfather during his drunken rages; the last time she didn’t duck his tirade about her being bad luck, a beer bottle left a gash and scar on her right arm. She resolutely ignored the sidelong glances and muted tones that came her way when she was out and about. Her world was a patchwork of shadows and whispers. But one day soon, she promised herself, she would leave home and be free. She would outrun these shadowy dreams of roaring waters and eerie whispers. Miannaya. Wake up. Come home.

*

It was all over the news—in an unusual occurrence, the ocean surrounding the city had flooded its banks, leaving hundreds of sea creatures stranded on the sands. Mia was on her way to the fish market to buy periwinkles for her mother’s evening soup when she heard passers-by excitedly discussing the strange event. Curious, she drifted over to the shore to see for herself.

As she stared at the mass of unmoving sea creatures—fish with gaping mouths, crabs frozen mid-scuttle, starfish splayed like discarded ornaments, and even an octopus whose tentacles lay limply across the sandfish—an unexplainable wave of sadness washed over her, followed by fury, and then a profound helplessness. The scene was a riot of shimmering scales and lifeless eyes. The pungent smell of salt and decay filled the air, mingling with the cries of hovering seagulls sensing easy prey.

A frantically flopping fish caught her eye, and without thinking, she reached down and picked it up. She could feel its desperate, jerking movements in her grip. She walked slowly to the water’s edge, her feet sinking into the wet sand with each step, and bent over to release the fish. It swiftly darted into the waiting waves.

Still, it was just one sea creature out of so many others stranded. Overwhelmed by another wave of helplessness, she stared blankly at the unending expanse of water stretching before her. Suddenly, she was gripped by a powerful sense of urgency that she needed to remember something ancient and forgotten, as though she was the answer to a lingering question.

Miannaya. It was as though the wind was whispering to her. Wake up.

Unthinking, she slipped off her shoes, feeling the gritty sand under her feet. Come home. She took an unseeing step, then another, and another, each step a feeling of coming home, of destiny unfurling. The wind picked up its pace, howling furiously as though appalled by her audacity. But the water remained still, holding its breath. Distant yells erupted from people in the background, their voices blending with the wind’s roar, yet she kept moving. 

*

Suddenly, the waves surged into a raging surf, leaving her adrift in a furious sea. The water churned around her, the once calm ocean now a writhing mass of angry waves. She struggled against the frothy water, limbs flailing as she tried to stay afloat. Her clothes clung heavily to her, cold and dragging her down. She reached out, trying to grasp onto something, anything, but her hands met only water.

She was sinking. No, drowning. Panic rose as she realized she couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth to scream, but the water rushed in. Salt burned her throat, and her chest tightened as if ready to explode. The world around her blurred, the surface light growing dimmer and dimmer. She fought to stay conscious, but her strength waned, the water’s cold grip pulling her deeper. 

And then, it was strange but as she sunk further into the depths, the panic ebbed away as she recognized that the water was welcoming her, embracing her even as it filled her lungs. Miannaya. Home. Home. Home. The next thing she knew, she was on dry land, sputtering and heaving up water. A lean fisherman stood over her, while bystanders gathered to gawk.

“Na she waka enter water by herself, I see am! Why you wan kill yaself? You sure say you dey okay so?” the fisherman scolded, his voice rough and incredulous.

Once she caught her breath, Mia got up and pushed through the crowd, her errand long forgotten. It wasn’t until she got home that she realized she had been grasping onto something so tightly it had cut the skin of her palm, which was now stinging. She opened her hand, revealing a seashell—an ugly, dirty white oval with jagged edges. It felt strangely significant, a reminder of her inexplicable journey into the depths and her miraculous return. Without understanding why, she slept with it under her pillow.

*

The night following the incident at the shore, the dreams were different. She was once again beneath the cold, shroud-like waters from earlier, drifting towards a throne of blue-black rock encrusted with pearls and corals, anchored in the deep, an impenetrable abyss where light dared not shine. Mermaids, water sprites, and nymphs moved in a slow, undulating rhythm around the throne, upon which an imposing figure sat regally.

A chant of praise echoed through the depths.

Orisa ti n gbe’ nu omi… the god that lives in water

O te ara re ka gbogbo aye … she spreads herself all over the earth

Orisa ti ko l’owo … the god that has no hand

Orisa ti ko l’ese … the god that has no leg

Ko s’eni t’o le r’opin Okun … nobody can see the end of Olokun

The figure turned, its silver-gray braids whipping to the side, and gazed at her with hooded eyes that held the weight of countless secrets and the fury of untamed oceans. Wake up. Come home.

From the mysterious, dark unknowable deep, a figure gazed out with hooded eyes taking in the world her uncle had created—a gift of love bequeathed to him by her father. Now it swarmed with ungrateful, frail mortals who desecrated her once-secluded domain with flimsy boats and ships, who littered her pristine waters with unimaginable filth and debris, and who, worst of all, no longer rendered homage to the old gods who had given them breath.

She vowed to reclaim her breath. In response, the waters of the deep surged forth, infinite and immense, watery mountains rising and running with relentless fury towards every corner of this damned world. They were heedless of her uncle’s defiant order to stand down and consider the sudden remembrance of the fickle humans now that they faced certain death. But for the intercession of her mother, the world would have been swallowed up and buried by the wrath of the deep.

A meeting of gods. There stood her uncle, Obatala, once again advocating for the redemption of a world that deserved no mercy. A partial fool, he was beseeching them to unite once more to enact the age-old reincarnation ritual—spirit bound to flesh by soul—to salvage the world he had made, now inexplicably falling apart. Elegbara smiling his usual enigmatic smile. Osun beaming vainly at her reflection in a handheld mirror while Sango looked on in devoted adoration, and the tendrils of Oya’s hair danced in the wind stirred by the ugly glower on her face. Oba watching the triad with a sneer while Yemoja stroked her hand in quiet understanding. Ogun and Osoosi debating Obatala’s proposal, likely the only ones taking him seriously. And who was the stranger beside Orunmila, draped in the colors of the rainbow?

*

Mia opened her eyes with a gasp. Floating before her was the illusion of the figure from her dream, draped in many colors: Osumare, the goddess of enlightenment.

“Oju e ti l’ana,” the previously unknown stranger smiled.

“Ifalana,” Mia greeted the goddess by the name of her human reincarnation, “Kaabo.”

She sat up slowly, as the full awareness of who she was sank in. She who held the waters of all worlds in the palms. Mistress of oceans, keeper of secrets, daughter of Yemoja. She of the deep mysteries who had waged war against Obatala and his legions of insupportable creatures. She, the brooding one, whose almighty flood would have wiped out the earth had her raging temper not been tamed by the unbreakable iron chains of Ogun. She in whose amniotic womb men were born, and to whose depths they were returned upon death.

She threw a bemused glance at her reflection in the mirror across from her bed. The silver hair was a bit on the nose, but she could live with it. The ragged plaits, though, had to go, as did the woebegone eyes that called for dark kohl. She wondered briefly if this meager offering of a body she had been trapped in all this while was that fool’s idea of petty revenge—Obatala. She couldn’t believe she had let him and Elegbara talk her and the others into this nonsense.

Well, no matter. Enlightenment had come. Freedom was here. With that, she laughed loudly. Her laughter coincided with a sudden burst of all the old pipes throughout the block of flats she lived in, flooding every single room. Alarmed cries and shrieks rang through the building.

The illusion of Ifalana rolled her eyes—she knew better than anyone that the goddess Olokun could never be controlled by anyone but her mother—and disappeared in a silent shimmer.

*

Mia’s stepfather was the first to barge into her room, his bulbous eyes bulging with anger. “Witch! Is this your craft? I have always told your mother that you would end up…”

He stopped short as the door slammed shut behind him, locking out her mother and the others who had followed. He stared, stunned, as Mia threw off the covers and slid out of bed. A portentous smile spread across her face as her legs sloshed through the rising water. The room darkened around her, as if the light itself was retreating in fear, and the air grew thick and humid, making it hard to breathe.

Mia took a deliberate step forward, her gaze locked onto her stepfather, the water swirling unnaturally around her feet as it rose and fell with her breath. So, this fool her mother had married was one of many who had subjugated her human existence, was he? Serious business awaited, she knew, but how could she resist taking a few moments to play? She was very thirsty—she might begin to slake her unquenchable thirst with the torrent of blood coursing through her stepfather’s veins.

Her smile widened, baring all her teeth in pure spite, as she ignored the panicked shouts of the rest of the family and neighbors. Those who hadn’t fled yet were frantically trying to force the door open but she paid no attention. Turning to her stepfather, she taunted, her voice dripping with contempt, “End up what, exactly? You feeble mortal. Where were you when I created the oceans and shaped the tides? You dare speak to me of endings when not even the gods can comprehend my beginnings.”

She lifted her hand, and the water surged, rising in a serpentine coil that wrapped around her stepfather’s legs, pulling him to his knees. His eyes widened in terror as he realized he was in the presence of something far beyond his understanding.

“You look upon the depths of Olokun themselves,” she said slowly, her fingers trailing in the water, now up to her stepfather’s chest as he quavered on his knees. He cried in fear as the patterns created by her trailing fingers morphed into little golems, water sprites, jumping up and down in a dance of gleeful malice. “You are nothing but a speck of sand in my vast ocean, and I want my breath, the waters in your blood, back.”

*

With an inhale, she breathed in the fluids from his body and watched coldly as his form dropped and sank beneath the water, a dry, desiccated husk.

Oh, that she could return now with her golems to the bottom of the seas, made from her mother’s loam and spit. But first, a promise to be honored. She would see to Obatala’s business. And after that? Well, the seas and oceans had been calm long enough; it was time for them to dance again.

The door burst open, and those attempting to enter stumbled and slipped into the flooded room. All they could see was eerily still water, with debris floating on the surface—splintered wood, a torn shoe, and among them, an incongruous dried carcass, once human. The sight of the shriveled remains, with hollow eye sockets and skin like parchment, prompted screams and wails.

The tiny water sprites that had briefly danced on the surface had dissolved into ripples, leaving no trace of the silent violence that had just unfolded. The pipes had drained, leaving a half-sunken and badly damaged house in their wake. An oppressive heaviness hung in the air, and the strange scent of saltwater lingered. Of Miannaya, there was no trace, only a single, glistening seashell—a haunting omen that Olokun, the ancient deity of the deep, had awoken.

© Lara Brown, 2024

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