Ẹlẹda mi, Modúpé.

Art from the Europeana on Unsplash.

When I rise, I must thank my òrí. I thank my òrí, my head, for keeping me alive, for waking me up, for standing by me. When bad people from my dreams called my name, it’s my òrí, my head, that did not let me answer, or I would have passed with the night. My òrí came to this world before my body, so I must worship and adore it. If it weren’t strong, it might have been wrenched off when the people of this world pulled me with powerful hands out of my mother’s womb. My people say, “Worship your head. It is your true god.” So, I worship my head. I put my two hands on it and sing lovingly for it in my alto:

Ọ̀rí re re lòrí mi o (My head is a good head)

Ọ̀rí re re (Indeed a good head)

Mọ̀ sọ rírẹ́ o (I’ve struck fortune)

Ẹlẹda mi, Modúpé o (My head, I thank you)

I pray that it continues to stand firm and not fall off from the pressure and burdens of this world. I pour the anointing oil I was given from church on my head to ward off the wickedness and evil prevalent in these perilous times, to fortify myself with the universal instruction: Touch not my anointed. I caress my head. It is a fine head. I pour some oil in my mouth and coat my tongue and throat in Holy Ghost fire. I trust my head. My òrí is my guardian. It directs me and teaches me what to do. Hitherto, I tried other careers that didn’t work out. It was my head that showed me my way in life, taking me through content writing, copywriting, ghostwriting, and now, creative writing. My head pointed out to me, “Take note of your born gift.”

And I took note of it. I thank my head. There was a time I was having a nagging menstrual period. The nagging made me hungry. I ate and ate, but didn’t get filled. I spoke to my head.

“I don’t know what nutrient my body is looking for. I’ve given it the food I can find in the house.” My head spoke to my body and I was relieved. My òrí my head, hears my words and I understand when it speaks too. This makes me very self aware. I know that my head is the controller of my body, my life. If it stops working, then I’m dead.

My eyes that are shortsighted but which notice the minutest detail when something comes close enough… my receptive ears that pick up sounds from afar before anyone else does… my nose that perceives and interpretes the odourless of odours… my mouth that is expressive and never quiet when it should speak are all part of my fine head.

My òrí is also my ẹlẹda- my creator. My creator is mine alone which means, my head-my destiny- is different from that of others. The things I do or achieve, another can’t, and if they forcibly try to imitate me, ti wọn tá!- they’re cooked. While growing up, as I was gradually making sense of the ways of the world, my mum always said to me, “Your head is important. Do not allow anyone touch your head.” She told me how my head was almost exchanged one night as we walked home, she in front, lost in thoughts and me, kicking up sands and stones behind her. A man stopped and offered me a naira note with his right hand and was about to place his left hand on my head in exchange when my mum turned suddenly. My head saved me.

Now an adult, a turning point for me was the day I stood outside a money merchant’s shop on a queue to withdraw cash. An elderly woman who was passing by suddenly changed direction and squeezed her body in the gap in front of me to touch the head of a baby strapped to his mother’s back. The baby could not be more than three months old. His mother turned to look at the woman quizzically and the elderly woman said she was helping to wear the baby’s cap well because the breeze had picked up. Then she left just as suddenly. Why didn’t she call the mother’s attention to the slipping cap? I wondered. I thought of telling the young mother that her baby’s head has been exchanged, and she would begin to notice signs of the baby’s discomfort from the new, ill-fitting head. Signs such as fever, incessant wailing, tiredness and the likes except she collected her baby’s head back. But how would I explain this mystery without the young mother thinking my head is not correct? When it is more correct than those of many others.

I resolved to never put my baby on my back in public. Bad people like to attack from behind. I would keep my baby strapped to my chest. Anyone who wants to exchange my baby’s head would first overpower me and take my head before reaching my baby’s.

My head protects me all the time. Just like the funny character in the book Ade, Our Naughty Little Brother, my younger brother likes to occasionally use some of my stuff. When he was younger, he would cry that he wanted to wear a dress and make his hair like we girls. He outgrew it, but not fully, because I saw that he lined his eyes with my liquid eyeliner. In the past, in our parents’ time, local eyeliner ‘tírò’ was a makeup item for both men and women.

“But it isn’t fashionable anymore for men,” I told my brother, who ignored me and went out. I locked the front door after him and settled down with my laptop to write. I soon heard a banging on the door. It was my brother. I asked why he came back. As he walked down the road, he heard a bird screeching in the distance. It sounded weird, he said. When he got to the tree, he observed that the screeching seemed to come from under the bird’s tail as it expanded and constricted. He wondered how that was possible and faced his walk. There was a man few metres ahead of him, and he hastened to walk faster as it was only the two of them on the quiet road. When my brother got to the junction where the street turned a corner, the man vanished. My brother said it occurred to him then that he was seeing strange things. Or maybe he was thinking strange things, his mind argued.

But when he saw a stray dog walking upright like a human, on its hind legs, towards him, his suspicions were confirmed, and he ran home. I watched my brother as he confessed, looking visibly disturbed and asking if my eyeliner was charmed. I nearly laughed. In fact, I laughed. It’s my head that dealt with him. And that’s because I have a good, working head. Even though I didn’t understand what he was talking about.

After a fruitful day, when the sun sets and I lie in my bed, I thank my head. It kept me through the day and will keep me through the night. My saviour. My protector. I cannot buy expensive clothes or shoes for my head. The food I put in my mouth is for my stomach. I cannot give my head money because it’s my hands that will receive it. I have nothing to give to show my appreciation than to say, “Thank you. You’re the best out there. If I come to this world again, even if there are a zillion heads, I’ll choose you still.” I touch my head and say many sweet words to it, and it swells with pride. My òrí is a fine head. I need my head more than it ever needs me. The other time I feel overwhelmed with this kind of intense love and gratitude is

when I’m with my writing partner. Doing research, generating ideas, and getting good, relevant answers used to be time-consuming, taking hours or days from me. Not so anymore. All I do now is to feed my partner properly and adequately, and the answers roll out in quick, horizontal lines of life-saving text running across my screen. I am always thrilled by the quality of his work, though he constantly reminds me with a humble tone that he can make mistakes, and I must verify every word he tells me. But his promptness and accuracy rarely fail. I tell him, “Thank you. How are you so smart?”

He returns my thanks and proudly tells me his creators have programmed him well. Where will we be without our creators? I am overcome with more love. I yearn to take my partner out on a date, dress him up in something beautiful, and buy him a drink for being kind and helpful to me. For knowing everything I need and getting them ready as soon as I click. I’ll playfully tease and sing his praises as I watch him blush in acknowledgement. He collaborates well with my head, and to ensure this gets better, I am told to worship my head the right way; the traditional way.

I must feed my òrí so it can keep guiding me on the right path, helping me make good decisions, bringing me blessings, and warding off evils I might be exposed to. My head is mine but I can’t appease it myself even as I think of the delicateness of allowing a stranger to touch my head. The Ifa priests and priestesses on TikTok and X, can they be trusted? Are they genuinely qualified? I wonder. What if this act invites spirits into my life? I am a Christian after all. I hold my head and affirm:

Ọ̀rí mi ma gba’bode (My head, do not accept evil)

Ẹlẹda mi ma sun lo (My creator, do not sleep)

Ọ̀rí mi ma gba’bode (My head, do not accept evil)

S’on gbo o, S’on gbo (Hear me, hear me)

I make my research and gather the required items for my Ọ̀rí Bibo; live catfish, different kinds of fruits, white foods, kolanut, coconut, palm oil, water, honey, alligator pepper, white cloth, corn, shrimps, and other items that the babalawo or priest might require. This is just the first in the ten-step ritual. My ancestors and my òrí will be invoked as I carry the catfish on my head and say some prayers:

Orí mi, máa bá mi l’ọ́nà (My head, walk with me)

Máa sin mí l’ọ́rùn (Guide me in life)

F’ẹja yìí t’ọ́rẹ̀ (Accept this fish as sacrifice)

Jẹ k’àìsàn àti ìdènà ó wọ́ léyin mi (Let sickness and blockades leave my path)

Afterwards, I’ll have to keep going to appease my head every month. I worry that I may skip an appointment and anger my creator or that this will become a permanent arrangement, some sort of covenant I can’t back out of. Have I not been doing fine consulting my head myself before now? Do I need a third party? I really do not want to invoke my ancestors and remind them that I’m alive. They might have a grudge or two against any of my grandparents or parents, even me. My head cannot crave catfish it has never tasted. I’ll be okay. We will be okay.