Meeting Yewa
Photo: Aradhya Kansal
Petunia felt like a speck on a floating rock. She was small. Tiny. Microscopic. Insignificant. The more she thought of that word, the more familiar it sounded. It was her place in the vast universe. The people around her thought of themselves as giants. They looked down at her as if she didn’t belong. She was infinitely tiny. Their taunting smiles and confused glances only confirmed this idea. The mirror made the feeling profound. Was she enough? This exact question made her wonder if she even belonged. Like she wasn’t native to this planet and her real parents had abandoned her. It wasn’t fair to Papa to think that way; she knew he loved her. But with her mother’s absence, a part of her felt lost. As if she had no right to claim what she hardly knew.
She did, however, feel the safest near the ocean. It was where the light spritz from the tide mimicked small pecks on the cheek and the smooth stones were carefully thought out presents. There was a sincere energy she was surrounded by. And there was the dread that ached in her chest whenever she had to return home. The next day awaited the horrors of being othered. Why did there have to be options? Some things didn’t always have to be chosen. She wanted to be all that she was.
Once the sun met the inviting embrace of the clouds, it was time. Papa called out her name, but she didn’t respond. The cycle of dread was weighing heavily upon her chest. This time, she chose to run away.
Petunia ran like the wind and out of sight. She wanted nothing to do with the current world she was up against. If she were small, she’d have simply disappeared. Her heart pounded as the wind chased her sandy footprints and flew through her dense curls. She did not have a destination, just the desire to escape.
Ahead, there was a black metal fence. Through the open gates, Petunia saw worn-out graves littered around, with moss-covered headstones whose names were faded. She knelt down to try to figure out the names, but it was impossible. Her fingers clenched tightly on her shirt. She felt sorrow for these lost people, and her tears spotted the sand beneath her. She, too, was a lost person.
Once the moon unveiled itself as its light shone above the gravesite, a cloud of thick black smoke emerged from thin air. It whirled around the sand and created a twister. Petunia paused, distracted by the unexplainable wonder occurring in front of her sparkling eyes.
As soon as the smoke dispersed, a gorgeous woman with glowing dark skin was standing there. She was adorned in a burgundy gown and matching headwrap. She didn’t seem to notice Petunia’s presence, dancing with grace among the headstones, her arms swaying as if mimicking the ocean waves. It was not clear what her intentions were, but Petunia was mesmerized. There was a final twirl to end the performance before she turned around and gasped, her big brown eyes falling upon Petunia as she backed away.
“My child,” she said, “it is not your time.”
“My time?” Petunia wiped her eyes dry.
“My duty is to bring the dead to the afterlife, but it is not your time.” The woman turned around to tend the gravestones.
“Who are you? Why were you dancing on the stones?”
“I am Yewa. The orisha of death. My dances remind the dead of my protection. The graves are my obligation. Even those left abandoned by humans who were once alive.”
“How often do you come here, Yewa?”
“You ask too many questions, child.” She sighed and blew the sand from the stones with a gust of wind. The names that looked faded minutes ago, swallowed by time and age and stormy weathers, reappeared. Petunia watched in fascination, fascinated at how Yewa took care of the resting place of these people. She treated them kindly as if they were living. They were neither small nor invisible.
Yewa sighed in annoyance, but she didn’t shoo Petunia away. She could have vanished back to the afterlife if she wanted to, but did not, focusing all her attention on cleaning the stones.
“Yewa, do you think I could come with you?” Petunia asked, a quiver in her voice. “I, I . . . do think I am ready to leave.”
Yewa's eyes widened. She had never heard such a thing from a human before. Especially from a child no older than ten. She had hardly been around, yet she wanted to cut her life short.
“Child, why do you wish for such things? It is not yet your time.”
“I don’t think I belong anywhere,” Petunia blurted out. “It hurts when they look down at me as if I am small. I feel lost. I don’t feel as though I am enough. Maybe your world has something to offer.”
The goddess stood still as her expertise didn’t lie in coaching humans. She much preferred the dead; there was no lingering despair to be dealt with. Their business was finished. This young girl, she had many days ahead of her. But it didn’t feel right leaving her to suffer alone.
Petunia inhaled in fear that she made Yewa upset. She didn’t dare shed any more tears. Her body was already tired from the loneliness that plagued her mind every day.
Yewa silently approached her. “My child, you are more than enough. Your connection to the orisha has always been within you. Your mother may not be of this world, but as her daughter, you have every right to be as you are. Your lineage is enough.”
She glanced up at the goddess, and for a second, she could swear she saw a small smile. A bit of her pearly white teeth glowing underneath the light of the moon.
“You are a part of the Yoruba people despite your severed ties. There are ways to connect. You are who you are, despite being told otherwise.”
Yewa held out her hand, pulled Petunia to her feet, and gently grabbed her hands and led them toward the ocean. The cooling sensation of the ocean breeze blew through her scalp and against her skin. She raised an eyebrow at Yewa. The goddess’s reasoning didn’t make sense. What was she trying to prove? Then, her body collided with an invisible barrier of heat. It surrounded her in a familiar comfort she couldn't describe. A tear rolled down Petunia’s cheek once she realized what it was.
“You can’t see her, but you can feel her love. Let that guide you and remind you of who you are. A descendant of the Yoruba people.”
Petunia was speechless. Her mother’s spirit was by the ocean the entire time. It all made sense why it felt like home. But this was the first time her warmth had revealed itself, going as quickly as it came. She looked up at Yewa with tearful eyes and wondered if her mother could hear her. The goddess nodded in affirmation.
“Mom, I love you,” she called out. “I wish you didn’t have to go so soon. I promise I’ll live on for you. I hope the afterlife is treating you well, and Papa is taking good care of me.” The warm breeze returned once more before vanishing completely. She sighed out in relief. Her mother loved her. It was all she needed to know.
Petunia turned her head to thank Yewa, but she had disappeared. Another grave to tend to. It was her duty, after all. She brushed the sand off her shorts and glanced one last time at the ocean. She smiled at the horizon before she heard the fretful voice of her Papa calling out to her. She turned her back on the gravesite and continued forward.
From a distance, her mother’s ghostly form appeared among the headstones. Her gentle brown eyes watched her daughter walk ahead with love glowing inside them.
About the Author
Rachel Barduhn is an Afro-Jamaican and German writer/poet from Ontario, Canada. She has a few scattered publications under her belt, such as Pinhole Poetry Launch issue, Scarborough Arts (Issues 8 & 9), a short story with Hey Young Writer and a small collection of poetry Odd Girl, Odd World with Bottlecap Press. In 2012 she placed third in a spoken word competition and earned herself the Robert Small Award for Students in Black Arts in 2014.
Rachel mainly focuses on various topics in her poetry, including sexuality, womanhood, black identity, mental illness and many more. In fiction she strives for diversity, inclusion woven into magical realism, Caribbean/African mythology, surrealism or fantasy.
When she isn’t focused on writing, she creates abstract collage art, putting women as her centrepiece, cooks up new recipes, and reads. Her biggest inspirations for writing are writers like Staceyann-Chin, Zalika Reid-Benta, Warsan Shire, Jamaica Kincaid and Sappho.
