The Cemetary As An Oya Devotee
Throughout the diaspora, the Orisa Oya is associated with the graveyard for various reasons. As a practitioner in the Isese tradition of Ifa and daughter of Oya, it’s been incredibly fasinating to encounter endless stories about initiates or folks enamored with her energy doing some wild ass shit at a cemetary in the name of ritual. Even through a non-spiritual lens, cemeteries have this scary, ominous connotation that people will avoid at all costs or allow them to be the backdrop to their shenanigans.
For example, one of the fun facts my alma mater uses during orientation is that there are a total of three cemeteries on campus. It was a small town, and with the campus being central to its location, this meant many were associated with the campus in some shape or form. This also meant cemetery parties in the woods were a thing, but since Black folks were two percent of the campus when I attended, this definitely became a marker of which crowd to mess with vs not to mess with. No, we were not going to no cemetery party, ESPECIALLY at no midnight. This was not my rodeo, though, as my relationship with the cemetery started way before that.
Growing up, it was like someone was always dying.
My Grandma loves her people fiercely, so on Saturday mornings, maybe once a month, my sister, grandparents, and I would get up and get ready to go tend to our folks.
We’d head out to Glendale, hitting the flower shop first. The shop owner knew us and smiled, always giving my sister and I suckers or some kind of sweets. It was our favorite game, deciding the bouquet arrangement for each of our loved ones who transitioned.
Five bouquets in hand, we headed across the street and began the scavenger hunt to find the hillside, row, and exact locations where everyone rested. We would laugh, make jokes, and kiki with our people in the morning, Southern California sun. Especially once my brother Terrance died, he’s buried on a hillside with such a beautiful view of the palm trees and blue skies.
Once everyone had their flowers and we made our way back up to the top of the hill, Grandma said her goodbyes, and we packed up the car. We headed down the street to initiate the second part of our Saturday morning ritual, which was getting Baskin-Robbins. My sister and I would always get the same thing - two scoops of wild n reckless, which was like a better version of sherbert, while my grandparents got butter pecan.
And then we went home.
This was an important part of my upbringing because it taught me to respect the dead. You don’t step on headstones, don’t turn your nose up at how other people grieve (this came into play when we saw different grave decorations), always make time for honoring our people as well as those who are still with us, and the duty of keeping legacies alive.
My parents weren’t with the shits. Especially my mother. She had a the dead are dead, so leave them dead type of policy, let me take care of the living. My dad would go if I wanted to go see Terrance for his birthday or a holiday, but not much outside of that.
So this became a sacred ritual for me personally: going to see family and honoring our dead whenever I step foot in California, at least just to sit with my brother. You can have your different opinions about the dead and where our spirit goes when we die and whatnot, but any time I step foot in a cemetery, all I feel is peace.
It’s quiet.
The settled souls. A cemetery can be on the side of the busiest road, and yet when you enter its vortex, it’s an energy of respect. It’s like the dearly departed said don’t come in here acting crazy! Act like you got some sense lol.
I carried this knowledge into my Ifa and Orisa practice, making me curious about how Oya, in the diaspora, has become the Orisa of the graveyard. As a daughter of Oya, knowing that she gave birth to Egungun, Ancestors, it made sense that my childhood was full of taking care of our dead. They take care of me, I am their baby girl, so it’s the least I can do. After years of sitting with my Grandma and hearing about her relationship with our dead, as well as her supernatural experiences, I realized that she may not have had the specific language of African Spirituality to articulate this same sentiment, but this too was her experience. She found comfort in the energies of our dead, especially of my great-grandmother, who raised her and would frequent her dreams often. This was not something that we talked openly about in our family because of our Christian background, but as I shared my dreams and experiences with her, she would often repeat to me that these experiences were nothing to be afraid of. I really do give thanks for how normal my Grandmother made the relationship with our dead because it was an unknown introduction to the vital heartbeat of ancestor veneration.
Dying is something a lot of folks are still trying to wrap their heads around, if they’re brave enough to get to that point, so to venerate our ancestors is like wisdom on how to make that shit easier.
Not easy—just easier. So when it comes to the cemetery and being in this divine relationship with Oya as an initiate, all I can do is respect and try to learn from this vast energy about her commitment to duty and responsibility. Someone’s got to keep these gravestones clean and names alive. Someone has to make sure Grandma gets to the cemetery because she can’t drive (read, won’t, lol). Someone has to sit with the grieving while keeping the energy moving. Keep the bills paid, dinner cooked, and the house clean.
Someone has to suggest getting ice cream afterward to balance out the heaviness. When all is said and done, I feel an extreme honor and joy to be the one to do that.
I have a certain cousin who said he can’t look at me without thinking of my brother who passed, especially when I laugh. Someone has to know how to transmute that energy. Being scared of our dead, of dying, puts all that energy into a box waiting for judgment day. This puts all this grief in our hearts in a box, stuffy and decaying our insides.
We spend so much money on dying that it's now a bajillion-dollar industry that can make or break the experience of how a family ushers in the transition of a loved one. Cemeteries and ancestor veneration have given us the ability to let that energy live and flow as it needs to. The funeral is not the end all to be all, so no performance needs to put on - we can be more realistic about navigating this transition. So, I encourage you to sit with your own feelings of cemeteries and how they relate to your spiritual practice and God.
Because anyone scared of death, but supposedly solid in their faith - I got some questions. But that’s for another time.
As always, this is your prompt to sit at the feet of your elders and talk about:
How and why did folks in your family pass? Was any of it health-related? If yes, it’s time to check for hereditary diseases and schedule your routine doctor appointments. THIS INCLUDES PASSED DOWN HABITS, UNHEALTHY TRADITIONS, AND STUBBORN WAYS OF LIFE. It seems like nowadays, because of our quality of life, we’re susceptible to diseases and cancers much earlier. Men are being suggested to get their prostate checked earlier, women are now being advised to get mammograms at 30, AND that’s still relying on research that probably didn’t include or publish any information specific to Brown folks.
How do you want to be celebrated and honored when you transition? Watch this video here for context.
What could a possible family tree look like? Both digital and physical media to be considered. Old folks had family bibles passed down from generation to generation full of names, marriage information, and more. Saving funeral obituaries is a practice that allows us to keep the dates and stories of those who have passed, so how will you keep track of family names and important dates?
There is so more to be said on this topic, but until next time.
Janiece Ifasooto