from LOVE SONG OF AN INJURED FISHERMAN by Kathleen de Azevedo
Ondina’s throat was dry. She could hardly sit still on such a hard bench with the terreiro getting more
and more crowded. The plaster wall she leaned against was cool and earthy against her back. Earlier in
the afternoon, she had clutched her amulets and rosary so tight, her fingers were still sore. Flashlights
and fifó lamps smelling of kerosine hovered outside the entrance of the holy terreiro. Voices hushed
into a candomblé whisper, rustling off their shoes as they stepped onto the dirt floor. Nhá Nhá in her
white lace shirt and blouse paced the room. Ondina knew all the people who came. Their shadows filled
the terreiro as they moved to the benches along the walls: Magdalena, her husband Dorival, Jair, old
Fulô, Vavá, Zoe and her new husband from Bautista Jerônimo, and her oldest son from her first
husband Formiga. And others too, old ones who still spoke to the orixá and young women with babies
on their hips. Candles flickered on the altar as Nhá Nhá believed electrical currents would scare away
the spirits.
Ondina knew they had all come to plead with the saints for Marechal to walk. Nhá Nhá straightened the
white scarf that showed her bold cheekbones and large gold earrings that hung from blue-black holes in
her ears. She helped her beautiful daughter Zulaide get ready, twisting her long hair into a rope and
tucking it into a scarf. The drums the chants will be so loud, Nhá Nhá always says, that they can hear us
in Nhambu. Oxalá is Marechal’s protector, the creator of all heavens and earth, and of things visible and
invisible. Oxalá will bless Marechal’s legs. This is what everyone believed. They believed Oxum
impatiently cools herself with her lovely yellow fan, Oxossi tightens his bow before the big hunt, Xangô
dips his iron axe into the fire to sharpen it, Oxalá purifies himself by bathing in the river. This is what
Ondina believed too.
But Ondina also believed that when Marechal comes home, they will both look at each other and know
he is a different man and she a different woman, no matter what these saints do. Ondina knew that
something inside of her broke, like an egg maybe, or a star, its creamy eye warm and strange. She felt
restless, and her house today, for the first time seemed small and shriveled. Nhá Nhá had shelves of
medicine she recognized so well – bottles of dark yellow andiroba oil for insect bites, inflammations,
boils, and sore throats, bottles of copaíba oil for cuts and other simple dodói hurts, bottles of the milky
amapá for chest congestion, tufts of dried leafy branches tied with string, glass jars of seeds, and of
course, simarouba bark for Juliano’s stomach problems – but Nhá Nhá did not have an herb for the
deeper feeling Ondina did not know how to explain.
Nhá Nhá motioned to the drummers to get ready. Zulaide’s three pretty young daughters, dressed in
white with flowers twisted into their braided hair, went over to the altar and set a bottle of water and a
plate of bread next to the statue of Nossa Senhora de Aparacida. Zoe’s eldest daughter Marta, and Luis
Africano’s aunt Tia Sainora, and other women (Ondina’s mind was whirling so she couldn’t remember all
their names at that moment), rubbed their bare feet on the ground, waiting for the drums to begin.
Vavá and Zê Menino, sidled over to the two drums and bowed their heads. Zê Menino handed the metal
agogô to Luis Africano. Everyone grew quiet. Vavá struck his drum and rolled a rhythm with his palms.
Zê Menino responded to Vavá, slapping his thumb on the rim of his drum. Together the drums rumbled.
The women, one by one, knelt in front of Nhá Nhá, bent low in a kow-tow with a “Saravá, I humble myself
before you,” and kissed their fingers, tapped their foreheads once, and again on the top of their heads.
Then, one by one, they kow-towed in front of the drums, and Ondina with others shouted, “Saravá ”
The women got up and stood in a cluster in the middle of the room. Nhá Nhá threw her head back and
sang in a high pitched tone to the young Oxalá: “Epá Babá ” Luis Africano struck the agogô with his
drumstick. Nhá Nhá called out again: “Epá Babá ” Oxalá, saint of pure white, the patient one who
created heaven and earth, you who are both young warrior and old man, bring down your spirit See our
hands fly over the drums, see how our hearts beat in rhythm The drums are our blood, Africa is our soul
Epá Babá ”
The drumming and the metallic rapping of the agogô filled the room. The women closed their eyes and
swayed, then slowly they slipped into a circle and began to dance, undulating their torsos, their elbows
out and hands cupped, the strings of beads around their necks rattling against their chests as they
swirled. Their colorful flowered skirts make huge sweeping shadows on the walls. Ondina watched the
bodies slide in and out and her skin prickled with impatience. The drums did not soothe her though she
saw others with eyes half-closed, their lids beginning to flutter. Finally, Zulaide began to trance, spinning
faster, her bare feet scooting on the clay floor. Others followed, spinning. The drums popped and rolled,
Vavá and Zê Menino hitting the drums so rapidly their hands disappeared in air. Filomeno followed his
wife Zulaide into a trance with the jerk of his head. Nhá Nhá shouted, “Ayê Ajeumbó Atotô Obaluayê ”
Filomeno stumbled forward, squirming and itching, calling to his orixá Omolu. Then Nhá Nhá turned to
Old Fulô who was teetering in his seat, and shouted, “Axêêê Babá!” Old Fulô shuffled out, pantomiming
holding a staff, trembling like a just-sacrificed chicken. “Axêêê Babá ” Nhá Nhá cried again as Fulô’s
shadow stretched upward on the wall and his head disappeared into the thatch ceiling as spasms of old
Oxalá shot through his body, then rippled to a stop.
Suddenly, Zulaide jolted and dropped to the ground. Marta lifted Zulaide to her feet and brought her to
the altar where she crumpled to her knees, her scarf falling off her head, her long beautiful hair spilling
forward. Sweat dripped down Ondina’s neck. The noise from the drum filled Ondina on the inside and
she moaned to keep herself from crying out: “Nhá Nhá! Don’t let me lose faith!”
But in fact Ondina felt excited to be so alive. She didn’t want to feel that way, she wanted to feel
Marechal where he hurts, she wanted to say “your body is in mine”. But all she could see in her head
was his small body in the large hospital bed, covered with a white sheet, his brown face looking up at
the ceiling. She wanted to ask Doreen: how does this love work, when your husband is between life and
death? This is what I still don’t know. She heard, “Saravá to Oxalá Saravá to Jesus the Son of God
Saravá to Marechal’s goodness!” as she lifted her hands up to her face, and prayed against the warmth
of her skin.
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STUART HALL'S PIECE WILL BE PUBLISHED HERE.
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