Will of the Mischief Maker by Antoine Bandele

Author:Antoine Bandele [Bandele, Antoine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781951905088
Publisher: Bandele Books

And so the Orishas played their game. The rules were simple: two rows of six holes filled with four cowries each. The objective was to “sow” more “seeds” than the opponent. First to twenty-one won.

The game was a simple one, but one of Eshu’s favorites. On the surface, it was an elementary game for children, but in reality, it was a trickster’s haven.

And Eshu loved setting his opponents up to make poor moves.

At that moment, however, he made sure to let Obatala win a few rounds. This was key. Of course, Eshu didn’t let him win so many rounds—or so easily—that his ruse would be uncovered. Just enough to make Obatala think he had the edge. And for added distraction, Eshu peppered in some light chit-chat.

“You really gotta come down to the Mortal Realm with me sometime,” he said after a particularly daring play. “They’ve got this thing called social media. Complete waste of time, but oh so fun.”

“Oh yes.” Obatala made his next move and smiled. “There’s this one, erm, application the mortals keep dreaming about… it’s called Insta-Spam? No. Insta-Lamb? No, that’s not right. Insta-Yam? Something along those lines.”

“Close enough.” Eshu clutched his stomach. “Oh, some yams sound great right about now...”

Orisha couldn’t eat food in the same way mortals could. Sure, they could pass meals across their mouths, but it was like tasting the ghost of something, not the full thing. One couldn’t fully enjoy the flavor of mortal food unless one had a mortal body. That was something Eshu was looking forward to. He just needed to keep his wits about him, and a mortal body would be his.

As they got deeper and deeper into the game, floating in the middle of the chamber cross-legged, Eshu caught Obatala’s gaze slipping to the palm wine, which hovered at their side. The trickster had deliberately taken swigs from it after each of his losses, smacking his lips so that the sweet tang could waft between them—and hopefully ensnare Obatala.

“How about we make this next game a bit more interesting?” Eshu finally asked. “If I win the following round, we will take a drink together. A little taste.”

“And when I win,” Obatala said, “What do I get then?”

Eshu stroked his chin. “If you win the next round… I’ll lighten your load a little. I’ll promise to come visit at least once every decade to help with your dreams. A thousand mortals for each of your victories. Directly, that is.”

Obatala ran his hand over his bald head as though flipping back long strands of hair. “I would benefit from the help,” he intoned. “Okay, Gatekeeper. You have a deal. But you’ve lost most of your games. Your victory seems… unlikely.”

Not as unlikely as you think, Eshu thought, but what he said out loud was, “That’s because I wasn’t properly motivated before, old friend. On this next round, you had best come correct.”

Obatala tilted his head. “Come correct?”

“Some more mortal-talk. Don’t trip—I mean, don’t worry yourself.”

And so they continued their game, and Eshu handily won round after round.

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