by CP Patrick
Many may question my decision to relinquish my immortality, but only I know the true depths of my motivation. Even today I do not regret the decision. But I do somewhat regret choosing Awiti. Perhaps if I had waited for a better host, a less worrisome subject, life would be different. But alas, I cannot turn back the hands of time. It was Awiti who was there that fateful day the rain came. And so it was Awiti I chose.
Even after she settled in Oyo and our relationship grew closer, Awiti never spoke of her past. She refused to answer any questions regarding her people, her village, her not-black-enough skin. While I could have used my powers to find out this information—looked into Awiti’s memories and saw what brought her to Oyo—I did not. It was impolite to examine others’ pasts without their permission. Although, I often wonder what I would have seen.
Naturally Awiti and I became lovers. And when I say naturally, that was how it came to be. Like a flower must have time to grow and flourish. Its bulb cannot be pried open for fear the blossom be destroyed. We did not force or rush our love. We fell into admiration for each other, and admiration turned into a longing that had to be fulfilled.
There was a current in the air that caused Awiti’s nipples to harden and me to rise in my loins. We would look at each other and smile. The anticipation of new love. Nipples hardened more, loins rose higher. It went on this way for some time until we could no longer resist the obvious attraction and desire we had for each other.
“Oranyan, is this what it is to be in love?” she asked. “I feel as though I cannot breathe unless you are near. And then, when you are near me, I am breathless.”
“Yes, Awiti, this is love. Well, a small part of the vastness of love. For love is so deep and so wide, it extends beyond the heavens and beneath the earth. It cannot be contained to just this moment, or to us. Or even to life. For even in death, love exists.”
“Well, for me, whether to the heavens or beneath the earth, in life or in death, I love you, Oranyan.”
“And I love you, Awiti.”
When we first lay together, Awiti was not yet a woman. Although I looked not much older than her, I was. By hundreds of years. These were the difficult moments of immortality. In my lifetime I had been with countless women, had many lovers. But even with all of my experience—and Awiti was not the first virgin I had encountered in all my years—she was different. Everything with Awiti was different. More beautiful. More meaningful.
We were beneath Oyo’s full moon. The night air a thick blanket of warmth over us. A playful wrestling match had ended with us rolling about the grassland like children. I stroked Awiti’s brown skin under the moonlight, held the soft, dark ringlets of hair in my hands. I took Awiti in my arms, and her body relaxed. She was eager for me to please her. She was not afraid. For I was made for Awiti, and she was made for me. That was how we fit together. Awiti and Oranyan.
Our bodies bound together, the closeness continuous. Nothing between us but the longing to please each other. Awiti was the only lover who ever caused me to lose myself. The willowy, brown legs controlling me as they wrapped around my waist. Her dark eyes searching. A simple moan from Awiti’s full pink lips, or the deep, dark waves falling over me. Why, even now, the mere memory causes my loins to rise. We were uninhibited lovers. And I relished every moment.
Perhaps it was because I knew of my plan to become mortal. And once I achieved mortality, I would have to choose a respectable life. I would marry, and my wife would come from a family of wealth and influence, and we would have many children. And I would marry more wives who would do the same as my first wife. I would choose wives based on mundane things. What she cooked and whether her figure was one of a woman who could birth many sons. Awiti would be the last lover I would have for passion rather than practicality.
So it did not matter Awiti could not cook as well as the other women in Oyo, or that her hips were not wide enough to bear children with ease. Nor did it matter her skin was so stark against my own black flesh. I did not care that her dark eyes held secrets from her past.
What was of importance was the way Awiti kissed me with her full lips. Her hair falling over my face as she straddled me. Our bodies arched, skin wet with the evidence of our passion and determination to please each other. I loved not knowing where the dark waves would fall next.
We filled our nights with love just as we filled our days with Awiti learning Yoruba, exploring Oyo. Togetherness. We were complete. Always undivided and present with each other.
One night, as Awiti lay in my arms, I decided to tell her I was immortal. This was a great risk. The revealing of a secret I had never shared with another.
“Awiti, I am not the same as you,” I began hesitantly.
“What do you mean, Oranyan?”
“I appear as flesh and bones as you do. And I live and breathe. But…” I was uncertain how to continue.
“Yes?” she pressed.
“But I will never die. I am immortal.”
At first Awiti did not believe me. She laughed, throwing her head back and opening her mouth wide. The full lips and straight teeth mocked me. Her laugh was always loud for a woman, and I attributed it to her youth. But when Awiti looked into my eyes and saw I was serious, she lay quiet for a moment.
Then she asked, “But how can this be? Everything that is living must die.”
“That is not true. There are those who walk among the living with powers bestowed upon them by the Great One. Some are even unaware of their gifts. But I am very much aware. And I assure you I am immortal.”
Awiti stroked my arm, as if to test my authenticity.
“I know it is hard to believe, Awiti, but it is true.”
I told Awiti of the many times I had tempted death knowing it would never come. That I had lived for centuries. That I would never die.
I fell asleep with Awiti’s head on my shoulder, the dark waves cascading over my chest and her breath soft on my skin. The next day when morning awakened us, Awiti said nothing of our conversation. And neither did I.
Initially I thought I would have to entice Awiti with the idea of living forever. But I did not. A few days later when I mentioned to Awiti I wished to part with my immortality, it was she who was quite astounded to learn it could be done.
“This immortality,” she questioned, “it is something you can give to another?”
“Well, yes. It is called an Exchange. I can exchange my immortality with any mortal who is willing.”
“And after the Exchange, that person will never die?”
“Yes.”
“And this Exchange,” she asked curiously, “is it something you wish to do?”
“Yes. I have lived many lifetimes. And I am quite at peace with the thought of death. But the Exchange is a sacrifice. I have never found anyone who loved me enough.”
It was partly true. I had never made the offer to another. I had never found anyone like Awiti.
Awiti thought only for a moment before she told me, “Oranyan, I love you enough to give you the one thing you desire most.”
There was a light in Awiti’s eyes when she spoke of becoming immortal. The endless benefits of cheating death. Not once did she ask why I was so eager to part with it.
“I look forward to living many lifetimes.” Awiti was excited, her young mind racing with possibilities. “It seems we are both getting what our hearts desire. That is the power of fate, Oranyan. And love. I will remember and love you as I live forever.”
“And I will love you even after I die.”
Before our Exchange, I taught Awiti many things in preparation for her new life. I showed her how to travel throughout the physical realms, to journey to any part of the world she wished. She was always to travel present in history. Never backward to change it or forward to see what was to come. All those who had tried such feats had failed.
I also shared with Awiti one of life’s supreme secrets—how to acquire another’s gift or power. Initially, she was quite resistant to the idea.
> She challenged, “If I am immortal, what would I need to take from another?”
“It is important you understand what it means to acquire the gift of another. It allows you to weaken a man without touching him. To take the strongest, most intelligent being and render him weak and ignorant while granting you strength and intelligence.”
The mortal possesses this ability on a smaller scale. Have you ever spoken with someone or spent time in another’s presence and afterward feel drained? Your body weakened as if you have completed some great task? This force is called power absorption. And when performed by someone who understands its true supremacy, it can cause great damage, even death. It was necessary for Awiti’s survival, for there would be times in her life when being immortal would not be enough.
I also learned Awiti had a natural gift, although it was undeveloped. She could make the breeze change its course and rain fall from the skies. Perhaps it may have even been Awiti who brought rain the day we met, for it had fallen soft and steady like her tears.
I had heard of this gift of weather manipulation. But in all my years of living I had never met one who possessed it. I knew if not managed, like all gifts, it gave Awiti the ability to bring about much misfortune, especially as an immortal. But this too did not stop me.
Soon I prepared Awiti as well as I could. Taught her all I knew. Once our Exchange was complete, Awiti would have to leave me and leave the Kingdom of Oyo. I told Awiti our separation was mandatory when she agreed to the Exchange, but when the time came, she seemed in disbelief. Awiti thought my love for her would cause me to change my mind. But the rules were not my own.
Awiti acted as though she did not understand. But my words could not have been any clearer. She had to leave.
If she did not depart from Oyo, my vessel would try to regain its immortality. The longer Awiti remained near after our Exchange, she would be a danger to me, and I a threat to her. There was already a strong pull between us.
My body did not like the feeling of impending death. And Awiti’s body would fight to remain immortal. Surely she would grow accustomed to being eternal. If Awiti stayed in Oyo, our two vessels would battle for immortality. We would fight for what bonded and divided us.
“Please, Awiti. Let us have one last moment together. Can I hold you close so you can remember our love?”
“You do not love me, Oranyan,” Awiti challenged. “If you loved me, you would stay with me.”
“But I cannot, Awiti. Do you not already feel the pull between us growing stronger?” I knew she could feel the pain, the burning in her stomach. She could feel it just as much as I.
“I do not care about the pull. I can live with the pain if it means you stay with me.”
“Awiti, we cannot stay together. Come to me before the pull grows too strong for either of us to bear.”
Awiti would not look at me, no matter how I begged and pleaded. We still had a small amount of time. A short period for us to say our goodbyes. I needed to hold her one last time.
I longed to stroke the dark waves and kiss the full lips. I needed the not-black-enough skin burning next to mine. I wanted Awiti to remember. To know, despite my decision, I loved her. But she would have nothing to do with me.
“Fi mi sile,” Awiti yelled.
Over and over Awiti implored me to leave her alone. With each angry word, the skies grew darker and the sound of thunder closer, threatening. I left Awiti as the storm began to rage. It would be the last time I saw her.
When I came to see Awiti the next morning, wishful her temper had passed, hopeful to have a chance at a proper farewell, she was gone. I picked up one of Awiti’s favorite wraps, the silken fabric reminding me of her skin. It still smelled of her, sweet and fragrant. I held it to my face for some time.
There was no pulling from within. My body was adjusting to mortality. I was thankful and full of sadness all at once.
I looked at the fresh dew drops on the grass and remembered how rain fell the day we met. I reminisced on the black waves and small dark eyes that searched me. Awiti, my indigo bird. I thought of the softness of kissing her pink lips and the beauty of her brown skin.
I would never know what would become of her. But I knew of the pain and suffering she would cause and endure. Awiti would forever question my love for her. The truth is, I did and still do love Awiti. And how I did cry that day.
“Yoo dara o, Awiti.”
Good luck, Awiti.
3
white faces, black faces
Central Africa (1742)
At first the stories were few. But in time we began to hear of more sightings of White Faces. Wild kinsmen. Evil beings who haunted the land. They did not behave like men. White Faces were always awake, always hunting. They came without warning, day or night. Leaving villages in ruins. Burning every home to the ground with sticks of fire.
They preyed on men and women to cook and eat. To satisfy their insatiable taste for Black flesh. They left the elders and young children only to return when the men were no longer there to protect them.
“White Faces love the fat on children and the bones of the old. They use them to make their favorite stew.”
These were the stories we heard from neighboring villages that they had heard from neighboring villages, from those who had seen the destruction of White Faces.
“What do White Faces look like?”
We wanted to know everything about them so we could be prepared.
“They do not look like men,” our neighbors warned.
“Their eyes are the color of the sky. And their skin has no color at all, their blackness taken from them for being evil. Even their hair is wicked, unable to curl.”
I tried to imagine such a being, but I could not.
“Has any man ever captured one?”
We were told, “Never.”
And with strong warnings, we were cautioned not to be the first village to try.
“By the time you see White Faces it is too late. For if you see them, they have seen you. And once they see you, they will feast.”
While we did not necessarily believe these stories, they were useful. The children were cautious when fetching water and herding cattle, always concerned White Faces were nearby. Wives lay closer to their husbands at night, scared at the thought of wild creatures who craved Black flesh to eat. Although we were told White Faces hunted all across the land, we never imagined they would come to our village.
The day they arrived, I lay with Leza talking in the early morning. Our bed was large enough for both of us to rest comfortably apart, but we lay in the middle, limbs intertwined. We were always touching, even in our sleep.
I stroked Leza’s skin, soft from her nightly ritual of covering her dark flesh with fragrant oils. Her black hair hung in long, tiny braids. And her brown eyes smiled even when she was angry with me. I loved everything about Leza and still could not believe my good fortune. Leza belonged to me.
It was often I imagined her belly full with our first child. A son. This thought gave me joy, and that morning, unaware White Faces were hunting nearby, I placed my hand on Leza’s flat, smooth stomach. Our bodies became one as we prayed our love would create a new life.
And afterward, I shall never forget looking at Leza’s beautiful face. The long lashes as her eyelids closed. Sweat on her ebony skin. Her perfect wide nose. Soft lips barely open as she lay in my arms resting.
Then there was a stench in the air. Like something rotting or sour meat. The smell came through the window and filled our home with its putrid odor. I heard the cries of women and children. Shuffling and movement. Sounds of chaos. I jumped up from our bed and looked out the window. And I saw them.
Pale skin. Eyes like the sky. Strange fabric covering their bodies. Their hair hung limp as unbraided twine. White Faces. They were more frightening than our neighbors foretold.
“White Faces are here!” the women yelled. “White Faces are here!”
They carried powerful weapons we had n
ever seen. Loud bangs echoed throughout the village. Birds flew from the trees, and our men fell to the ground with holes in their flesh.
Ropes rattled as White Faces bound their prey. Their voices were possessed with craving. They were eager to feast.
I stood at our window watching in disbelief as White Faces hunted my village. As our neighbors had warned us, they captured the healthy and strongest of our men and women. They ignored our elders and kicked small children out of their way. I imagined White Faces returning to cook them for stew.
Upon seeing the mayhem, Leza screamed.
“Ansa,” she cried out. “White Faces!”
Announcing White Faces seemed to be the only words the women could say. Leza’s arms wrapped around me, her nails digging into my skin.
“You must hide, Leza,” I told her. “You must hide quickly!”
I realized I had never seen Leza afraid and promised to protect her. And then, understanding what I had to do as a man, Leza ran to hide. I grabbed my weapon and ran outside to save my people.
White Faces were everywhere. We tried our best to defeat them, and many of our men died with honor. But there were too many. Their weapons were greater than our strongest efforts. More and more of our men fell to the ground, and even more were captured, bound in the rattling ropes. I did not know how afraid I was until I felt the hands of White Faces on my skin.
I cried out with my people, our voices filled with the fear of being eaten. White Faces put heavy ropes on our hands and feet and placed thick burdens around our necks. I was bound together with others from my village as White Faces led us away to prepare for their feast.
“Leza!”
I prayed she hid herself well or escaped.
I shouted, “Did White Faces find you?”
But my voice was lost amongst everyone calling out to those they loved.
Perhaps Leza had run to a neighboring village. And their warriors, upon learning White Faces were hunting, would set out to rescue us. We would be forever indebted to them, but that would be a better fate than being eaten.