The Gods of Africa

"Ah, the Netherworld," I sigh, pondering my Fate. I've been locked in here for several centuries. Once upon a time, I was worshipped as a Deity in ancient Africa. to the Yoruba people of West Africa, I was Olokun, the Spirit of the Seas. Of course, that was before Christianity and Islam made their way into Africa through trade and colonialism, and I was all but forgotten by my people.

What happens to a God, Goddess or Deity of old when their believers stop believing? Two choices, folks. Either you fade into nothingness, or you go for a permanent timeout in the Netherworld, where at least you have sentience and awareness, and some limited form of agency. That's just the way it is. The Norse Gods, the Olympian Gods, the Aztec Gods, and many others have all faded into nothingness.

"Olokun, you must survive," said Adeyemi, a tall, stoic, dark-skinned man of about fifty, as he clutched my statuette to his chest. Made out of obsidian stone and raw ivory, it represented me and had been praised by the Yoruba people of West Africa for many centuries. I was worshipped by fishermen and their families. They prayed to me for safe passage during storms, and for the bounty of the seas. I was their god, and they loved me wholeheartedly.

The British Army marched into the City of Lagos, Nigeria, and annexed it, and thus, Colonial Nigeria was formed. The British brought Christianity to West Africa, with their missionaries who looked down on the animist faiths, the Islamic faith, and most of all, the African deities which the locals firmly believed in. They destroyed our shrines, our temples and our sacred places, and compared our worship to that of the Devil of Christian lore. Such a wicked bunch, aren't they?

Now, please understand the relationship between Man and Deity. Neither can exist without the other. When I walk among mortal men and mortal women, I look like a tall, handsome black man in a fisherman's shawl. That's how the Yoruba people, my first worshippers, envisioned me. The powers which I possessed, such as superhuman strength and speed, regeneration, sharp senses, the ability to control marine life, and control over the sea itself, were attributes given to me through psycho-materialization by the minds of human beings.

For over a thousand years, I lived among the Yoruba people, and I dwelled in the ocean, as well as in their hearts and minds. When they praised the name Olokun, they granted me power and agency, and I came to their aid in difficult times. When the British crushed the African shrines, they tainted the minds of my Yoruba worshippers with their malignant Christianity as the Arabs had tainted the minds of Africans with Islam. I was lost, and so were my people.

Adeyemi hid my statuette in a secret underground chamber in what would later become the University of Lagos. The old Yoruba priest had faith that someday, I would return and once more inspire Africans everywhere to be proud and strong again, and fearlessly challenge their enemies. Adeyemi's loyalty touched me, folks, it truly did. The old man needn't have worried, though. I am not bound to the statuette. It is a mere representation of my power. Representation is important, very important, let me get to that.

Every culture produces its godheads, and the adherents of that faith draw power from their beliefs. One cannot remove the white male as the image of the godhead figure in Eurocentric Christianity, nor can one separate the Arab's ethnic and cultural ways from Islam. That's why Europe and the Arabian world are leading powers today. The African will never be powerful as long as he or she clings to the religious ways of those who oppress Africa. Come on, black folks from all over the world have been passionate Christians and passionate Muslims for centuries, and where has it gotten them?

I remained trapped in the Netherworld and watched helplessly as West Africa was conquered by the Europeans, and the sons and daughters of Africa embraced every religion except that of their ancestors. When the African prayed to a Deity who was dark of skin, and imbued with raw, primordial power, he had strength and dignity. You're probably wondering what I mean by that.

Don't speak to me of political power, economic power or military power as the elements which indicate who rules and who is ruled. A far greater power is the power of belief. A man driven by belief can slaughter ten men by himself and laugh in the face of death, to the everlasting horror of his enemies. Once, the African commanded power and respect. Nowadays, the African is a shell of his former self. He continues to be mocked and oppressed by the European, the Arab and the Indian and the Chinese, all of whom draw power from religions whose godheads resemble them. Will the African ever see the light?

From the Netherworld, I watched the African diaspora around the world. I smiled as the black men and black women of Saint Domingue rose against the French colonial masters and slaughtered them before creating the Nation of Haiti. I watched as the French and the other European powers vowed to punish Haiti economically and politically for generations to come. I have much love for the people of Haiti, and in many ways, Africans everywhere are in their debt.

I privately wept as the descendants of Africans living in North America continue to be slaughtered by racist police, generations after their heroic forefathers fought a Civil War and led a Civil Rights Movement for freedom. The American police system, and its close cousin, the Canadian criminal justice system, deliberately target black men and black women. How else would you explain why black folks are killed for the kind of infractions that cost their white counterparts next to nothing? If you haven't noticed that, you're either a fool or a bigot.

I resigned myself to the confinement of the Netherworld. One after one, maddened Deities who'd fled there escaped to the planet Earth, only to die upon realizing that the power granted to them by their believers was no longer there. I held out, believing that someday, my worshippers would return. It was inevitable. The humans always have faith in their Gods and Goddesses. I'm ashamed to say that most Deities don't have faith in their humans. I was the exception to the rule.

As black men and black women across America and Canada and even Europe protested against police brutality, I began to feel a change in the ether. In places like Nigeria, Ghana and even Ethiopia, there were vestiges of the old African religions, the ones predating Christianity and Islam. That's not what I was feeling. In places like Morehouse College and Spelman College in Atlanta, Georgia, and Howard University in Washington D.C. young black women and young black men were researching and exploring African mythology.

"We should go back to our old belief systems, the Arabs and the Whites have their beliefs, we black folks should do our own thing, have our own African gods," said Christina Albright, speaking to fellow students at Howard University. The six-foot-tall, curvy and sexy young black woman is a business student and the captain of the Howard University women's swim team. She was as bright as she was beautiful, and something to behold.

"I second that," said Christina's girlfriend Adele Brown, a tall, slim young black woman originally from Macon, Georgia. Adele came to Howard University to become an engineer, like her father, former Macon Mayor Adam Brown. Adele and Christina are an item, in case it wasn't obvious. The two of them met at a campus rally against police brutality during freshman year and hit it off. Two young black women who happened to be lesbians, and very Afrocentric. Not something which you see everyday.

Folks, contrarily to what some close-minded fools believe, in pre-colonial Africa, human sexuality and its diversity were celebrated. There were black men who loved other men, black men who loved both women and men, and black men who only loved women in places like Nigeria, Ghana and Senegal long before the Europeans and Arabs tainted them with their worldviews. By the same token, black women who love women, black women who love both women and men, and black women who only love men existed in those places as well.

Sexual flexibility among black people is nothing new. I wish black folks would let go of the puritanical bullshit fostered onto them by the Europeans and the Arabs, two of the most depraved and yet repressed groups on earth. I firmly believe that when Africans rediscover their true religions and spirituality, their connection to the land and the world of the spirits, and their connection to their ancestors, they will reclaim their sexuality as well, and it will be a beautiful thing. Of course, it's going to take a while...

"Let's talk about the Yoruba Gods, like Aganju, Lord of Volcanoes, Otin the Goddess of the Hunt, or Eshu, the God of Crossroads," said Christina, as she scoured the web for information. On that particular evening, Christina and Adele entertained fellow students such as Howard University football stud Jamal Hayes, his girlfriend journalism student Shamika Jones, and his good buddy, Howard University track and field star and aspiring medical student Vincent Johnson. These five sat in Christina's living room, discussing the Gods and Goddesses of West Africa.

"Christina, you should look up this guy, Olokun, the God of the Seas, according to the Yoruba religion, he'd probably like a swim star like you," said Jamal Hayes. Christina looked at Jamal and smiled, then she began to read about yours truly. From the ether I felt a stir as Christina began chanting my name, and her friends did the same, at first jokingly, but then they did it with utmost seriousness. If I still breathed, I would have held my breath. What had these mortals done?

In the Netherworld, I am but an invisible force, a being without a body, though I have sentience and some agency. I found myself twisting, changing. I was brought out of the invisible and into the visible. I gained form again, for the first time in centuries. I became a tall, handsome young black man, one endowed with immortality, and extraordinary powers. I materialized out of the Netherworld, but instead of appearing in Lagos, Nigeria, I found myself on the streets of Washington D.C. In fact, I found myself right in front of the Howard University campus, stark naked on a Friday night.

"Great, another drunk student," said a female voice, and I turned around and found myself facing a tall, attractive older black woman in a security uniform. That's how I met Howard University campus security guard Sholonda Odoms, formerly of Miami, Florida. I smiled sheepishly as she got out of her security vehicle and shone a flashlight on my face. Young women walking by gawked and pointed. Young men walking by laughed. I was embarrassed, and about as shocked to be in such a state and location as can be expected.

"Good evening, madame, I am Olokun, and I seem to have misplaced my attire," I said about as politely as I could while covering my genitals. Security officer Sholonda Odoms and her colleague Burt, a burly white dude with a buzz cut, escorted me to the security office, where I was furnished with a faded old T-shirt and shorts from the lost and found locker. They thought I was a drunk student, or perhaps on drugs. I needed to disabuse them of that notion.

"Young man, you want to explain what you were doing naked in front of the campus?" Burt asked, looking annoyed, while I sat on a chair, looking uncomfortable. Sholonda Odoms and Officer Burt looked like the type of folks who had seen just about everything and knew every excuse known to man. I wouldn't gain much by lying to them, nor could I tell them the whole truth. In the twenty-first century, secularism is the order of the day for the most part. Folks don't believe in the supernatural...

"Sir, ma'am, I am but a humble learner, here all the way from Nigeria, and I made a mistake tonight, please forgive me," I said, trying to sound sincere while being quite creative with the truth. Sholonda Odoms and Officer Burt exchanged a look. I reached out with my powers, wondering if I might mesmerize their minds, as I'd been known to do to mortals in ages past. I couldn't, for my powers weren't back at full force yet.

"Hmm, another dumb freshman, let's get you home," Sholonda Odoms said, rolling her eyes, and I smiled. I was escorted off campus and put into a cab. When the driver asked for a destination, I indicated a hotel. Once we got there, I slipped away, and went inside. I tried to mesmerize the hotel clerks, a middle-aged white couple named Liam and Karen, and I was successful. I booked a hotel room for a week, and then went straight to bed.

I, Olokun, am a being on a mission. Washington D.C. is a mostly African American metropolis, and the presence of so many sons and daughters of the Black diaspora fuels me, even if I am not the object of their worship. I can already feel my powers returning. Lying in bed, I began to formulate a plan of action. The sons and daughters of the African diaspora cry out for direction and salvation, and neither Christianity nor Islam, the religions of pale people who hate Africa, can help them. No, the Africans need their own Gods. They need me.

I will return to Howard University and pose as a mortal. It might even be a good idea to forge an identity and enroll as a student. I need to learn more about these strange times, and the modern world, before I can take it over. I will seek out Christina Albright and her little group, for they have freed me from the Netherworld. They will be my African priesthood in these strange new times, and I will help them in their struggle against institutional racism and police brutality with the power of a God at my command. Africa will be great again, and I will be its God...