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Let us continue with the Creation story from the book “Myths of Ífè” translated by John Wyndham from recitations by the high priests of Ífè. THE DESCENT “Arába speaks: I am the voice of Ífa, Messenger Of all the Gods: to me, the histories Are known, and I will tell you of the days Of the Descent. How Old Arámfè sent The Gods from Heaven and Odudúwa stole The bag—my King has told you. . . For many a day Across unwatered plains, the Great Ones journeyed, And sandy deserts— for such is the stern bar Set by Arámfè between His smiling vales And the stark cliff's edge which His sons approached Tremblingly, till from the sandy brink, they peered Down the sheer precipice. Behind them lay The parched, forbidding leagues, but yet the Sun Was there, and breezes soft, and yet the mountains— A faded line beyond the shimmering waste— Called back to mind their ancient home. Beneath Hung chaos—dank blackness and the threatening roar Of untamed waters. Then Odudúwa spoke: ‘Orísha, what did we? And what fault was ours? Outcasts today; tomorrow, we must seek Our destiny in dungeons and beneath That yawning blackness, we must found a city For unborn men. Better a homeless life In desert places: dare we turn and flee To some lost valley of the hills? Orísha, What think you?’ Then spoke Orísha, whom men call The Great: ‘Is this Odúwa that I hear— My mother’s son who stole Arámfè's gift, And thought to filch away the hearts of men With blessings which were mine to give? For me, The arts I know I long to use, and yearn To see the first of toiling, living men That I shall make. Forbidding is our task, You say—but think, before we return to peace And Heaven’s calm, how boundless is the fate You flinch from! Besides, is Godhead blind? You think Arámfè would not know? Has Might no bodes With eyes and ears? . . Dumb spirits hungering For life awaits us: let us go.’ […]”
