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Photo illustration: Aaron Leaf

Esu is Not the Devil: How a Yoruba Deity Got Rebranded

African traditional religions are widely misundertood—none more so than the Yoruba pantheon.

A striking sight greets drivers at Ojuelegba, one of the busy sites connecting Lagos Mainland to the Lagos Island. It is a small white cell with the words "Ojubo Esu" inscribed on its wall. Its presence in the middle of one of the world's most evangelical Christian countries, is a sign that traditional African religion is alive and well on the continent.


Despite its ubiquity, it's also not an understatement to say that most indigenous African religions are widely misunderstood—even on the continent itself, and amongst most "modern" Africans; many of whom shun these beliefs as evil superstitions.

From the sophisticated beliefs of the Dogon, to the sangomas of South Africa, most people have just a vague idea of these religious systems, writing them off as relics of a pre-civilised past. Nigeria, Africa's largest country is no exception to this phenomenon, and nowhere is this more notable than in the recent history of one the country's most captivating deities, Esu.

One of the principal deities of the Aborisa faith that emerged from the Yoruba society in Nigeria, and spread through the slave trade to Cuba, South America and the United States—his name has also been used since the 19th century interchangeably with the devil amongst Yoruba Christians. It's a contentious subject, and one that has increasingly sparked public debate.

The Aborisa religious system, now globally influential, is now a deeply misunderstood and widely disrespected belief system in its country of origin. In brief, this religious system is based on the idea of a supreme deity, and a number of primordial beings, called Orisa that represent elements of nature, as well as human and divine personality and ideas. The belief is underpinned by a divination system through which adherents get advice and guidance from the orisas and their ancestors.

Over the years, the orisas, the gods of this belief system have increasingly entered into the global popular imagination, most recently, Beyoncé evoked the Yoruba goddess Osun in her song "Hold Up"—some of the other gods include Sango, who is increasingly popular, and the subject of a forthcoming animated film made in Nigeria. Another goddess, Oya, is partly the inspiration for storm in the popular X-men series. Less represented is the Orisa known as Esu—which is weird given his prominence within the aborisa faith.

Beyonce in Lemonade.

Simply put, in aborisa faith, Esu is the intercessor god, that devotees of all the other orisas have to pay homage to. But nowadays in the religion's native Nigeria, Esu is misunderstood as the devil. "Na devil do am" is a popular saying in Nigeria when someone does something wrong that they can't explain, or wish to disown. In essence, many believe that Esu is the devil that pushes people to do evil. But, according to devotees and most scholars, in the original Yoruba cosmology this wasn't quite the case – Esu was and is a much more complex figure and concept.

Christians argue he is the devil but the Yorubas just didn't know it, until the bible landed in their hands. How did we get here? In 1821, a young boy was kidnapped from a Yoruba town, Osogun in present day Oyo State, Nigeria, along with his mother, sister and baby brother. His name was Ajayi, and his story could very easily have been like the millions of other Africans kidnapped from their homes and sold into slavery in the 19th Century, but a twist of fate changed his fortunes. The slave ship taking Ajayi and other slave to the new world was boarded by British troops. Ajayi, later baptized Samuel Ajayi Crowther was rescued, and became one of the leading missionaries promoting Christianity in West Africa, and crucially, one of the leading figures translating the bible into local languages, including Yoruba.

When it came to finding equivalent names for Satan and Jesus in Yoruba; for Jesus, the name was Yorubanized to Jesu Kristi, but for the devil, the translators of the Yoruba bible chose an existing god in Yoruba belief, Esu. That fateful decision has haunted the understanding of Yoruba beliefs to this day. In an article for Sahara Reporters that sparked furious rebuttal, the journalist, Remi Oyeyemi, argues that Crowther did it on purpose, deliberately slandering and misrepresenting one of the crucial figures of Yoruba belief in an act of revenge against his people for their role in the slave trade.

Bishop Samuel Ajayi Crowther, 1867 Via Wikimedia

As he explains, "Esu, in Yoruba cosmology is not the Devil or Satan as has been and is being portrayed by Euro-Christian religious school of thought. Esu, in the authentic Yoruba concept, is the enforcer of the Will of Olodumare and not the equivalent of the Euro-Christian Devil/Satan who is out to undermine the work of the Almighty God." In a riposte, also written for Sahara Reporters, Ayo Turton argues that Esu is the devil, and what Crowther and other missionaries did was to supply the missing link. Crucially Turton suggests that like Satan, Esu was cast out of heaven—but that's not part of Yoruba cosmology.

Whatever interpretation one accepts of Crowther's intentions, the case remains that the introduction of this Yoruba god into Christian theology, led to a misunderstanding of his function in Yoruba belief, leading many people to believe that aborisas venerating Esu are essentially devil worshippers. In concrete terms, it has set up a conflict for many Nigerians between ancestral beliefs and Christianity—rather than viewing both as distinct religious traditions, many see traditional beliefs as the devil's work being done on earth.

Yet, in recent times, it seems people are starting to reject this distorted interpretation and interact with Esu and Yoruba cosmology on its own terms. A group of cultural activists have a launched a campaign, complete with a hashtag, #EsuIsNotSatan; aborisa practitioners are also increasingly vocal and digitally savvy about discussing their faith publicly to challenge distortions. Whether these developments will lead to a better understanding of Esu and aborisa beliefs in Nigeria, only time will tell.

Dele Meiji is a writer. Follow him on @delemeiji. He also runs the blog: www.jebujene.org

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Photo courtesy of Sam Soko.

Interview: Sam Soko is the Kenyan Director Behind Sundance Hit, 'Softie'

We meet filmmaker Sam Soko who has made a stirring documentary about the Kenyan protest leader Boniface Mwangi

Filmmaker Sam Soko didn't intend on making a documentary about Kenyan photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi.

The original idea he had was to make a manual of sorts, a short video guide, on how to protest, the do's and don't's. Soko, himself an activist artist who cut his teeth convincing friends to let him create political music videos for their apolitical songs, knew Mwangi's experience on the streets both photographing protests and staging them meant he had a lot to share with others.

But then came the blood. A thousand litres of it, to be precise. And the pigs. Dozens of them, with words like MPigs written on them. Like the graphic photos Mwangi had become known for taking—it was a sight you couldn't look away from. It was a protest Mwangi organized, in 2013, to decry corrupt members of the Kenyan parliament who had decided to increase their salaries, 2 months after taking office. And at his side, through the thick red liquid of it all, was Mwangi's wife, Njere, ready to be arrested with him.

"Once I was witness to his relationship, I started seeing him as a family man," Soko tells OkayAfrica. "Because he's planning a protest and all, but when you look at the footage, you start seeing the kids and you start seeing Njere. That's when it started hitting me, in the sense, that she was with him in such a crazy space."

Soko formed a creative and activist hub, called PAWA 254, with Mwangi, as they became part of the groundswell demanding democratic reforms in a country still left scarred from the division sewed between Kikuyu and Luo people by British colonizers. "We had a new Constitution at the time, and there was this hope that we finally could picket without being tear-gassed or being beaten, Like, our civil liberties could be held up." Instead, the government strengthened its police force into a notorious organization condemned by human rights activists. "That's very salient in the film," says Soko. "If you see how the police dress, for instance, at the beginning, it's very different; they become more militant towards the end."

Soko's debut feature-length documentary, Softie, which became the first Kenyan film to ever premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, earlier this year, is at once a love story between Mwangi and his wife and their three children, but also between Mwangi and his beloved Kenya, under president Uhuru Kenyatta. Central to the film is the tussle between how these different loves bump up against each other: what comes first — love of country or love of family?

We spoke to the Nairobi-based director about making the film, which opens in virtual cinemas, starting this Friday, September 18th.

Boniface Mwangi with his wife Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


OA: Early on in the film, we learn how steadfast Boniface Mwangi is — he talks about being willing to die for the ideals he believes in, which made me think of Nelson Mandela and his Rivonia Treason Trial speech. Boniface is someone in the present day who still shares this belief?

When we were working on the edit, and kind of crafting and thinking about what the story was going to be, something that we found that was really, really interesting is, with a lot of the stories, like the story of Nelson Mandela, you'd never see the other side. That's something we see later, up ahead, as a retrospective. We'd hear about Martin Luther King and then we'd read about Coretta Scott in, I think, 1990, like, 'Oh, this his was her struggle.' That sort of thing. But for me, Boniface and Njere represented a present day reality struggle that showcases what Mandela was going through, what Martin Luther was going through. That was kind of like unravelling the curtain; when you see Martin Luther marching, Coretta's at home, trying to help their kids do their homework. And this is the reality.

OA: And the film poses that question of love for your country versus love for your family, and which one should come first?

Exactly. They see it in different ways. Boniface sees it that if you improve the country, you improve the lives of those who you love. Njere's like, you have to have your family's back first. And that means everything else comes second. And she's right; she's not wrong. And he's not wrong.

OA: The film really is privy to some really private moments in Mwangi's life — how did you gain his trust?

When we started filming the short video, he was really involved with the protests, and we started doing the protests with him. So we were—quote, unquote—in the trenches with him in the protests, and somehow that's how he kind of welcomed us to his home. When you've been with someone in the streets, and you're tear-gassed together more than once, you already have a common bond. But then I started developing a relationship with him that was beyond the streets. Just checking up on him and asking, what's going on, what's taking place? That sort of thing. I think it took a while. And I think even from Njere, we kind of developed a kind of camaraderie that was separate from my relationship with Boniface, because I would actually be like, 'Hey, he said that, how does that make you feel?' And not necessarily on camera. But over time, he kind of accepted us to be there with a camera. At some point, I kind of felt like they were talking to me, and not necessarily the camera; like, the camera is kind of this thing that's there, but not there. That kind of trust, again, was built on a respect that I have for them and their values and what they're doing. I think that's something they saw. It made them trust me with their story and trust me with their family.

You're the director of the film, but you're also producer, writer and cinematographer. Did Boniface's own style as a photojournalist influence you in any way?

The film has three cinematographers, and a lot of my cinematography is within the intimate moments, because that's when they would only engage with someone they trust. But him being a photographer actually, to a point, made the work a bit hard because he's constantly looking at how you're doing it. He's in your face about the angle. He's like, 'Hey, why are you standing there, you should be there.' But in some places he did help 'cause he's been filming in the streets and filming protests for a very long time. So when you're there filming, he'll easily tell you, 'Dude, don't stand there. They're about to start tear-gassing. Go to the other side.' And it's weird, when you're on the other side and you're filming, and all of a sudden you see tear gas, you wonder, 'How the hell did he know?' You do that 234 times and you start knowing yourself, 'Oh, this is how,' and he was really helpful in that sense.

I can imagine that filming during the protests must have been one of the big challenges of making this film but what else did you struggle with? There were death threats for Mwangi, did that happen to you as well?

It's so funny, when you're filming and when you're in the protests, it's adrenaline talking. So you're not really thinking about whether you're going to be okay. This one time, I got arrested because the cop said I was a spy for the protesters. [We had everything] from cameras breaking to sound equipment messing up, but when it became a more political story, with death threats, it became scary even for editing the film. Because you don't know who's watching you. This one time, I was with him in the car, filming, and we were being followed. So we kind of had to be very careful who we are telling about the story. It was a very deep secret that we were making this film and there are people who are watching it now asking, 'How could you keep this from us from all these years?' Because we had to do that. Especially when the family was in the US. We had to do that for the sake of safety for him, Boniface, for his family but also the film team. I remember doing the pitches with different names. But then we were also lucky that we had our co-producing partner in Canada, Eye Steel Film, so they were able to house the edit there. I went to Canada to edit and that kind of also gives you a kind of freedom to think and work and create. That was the reality, and now I think we have PTSD from the film. I can't film another protest. I'm sorry. I'm out. Like, it tapped me out.

There are similarities to the Black Lives Matter protests here in the US, against police brutality and violence but the slogan takes on a different resonance in places like Kenya, where the police force is particularly heavy-handed. How do you see these protests as being similar but also different?

There are two things that you learn with the film. One, our voices can never be silenced. They will try, but I think humanity is like a pressure cooker. The more you boil us, the more you put that heat, the more explosive we become. And through people like Boniface's life, you see that there are human beings who exist, who do extraordinary things.

The other thing is the idea of activism doesn't necessarily just speak to the person who's on the street. It doesn't necessarily speak to the person who's holding the placard. An activist is someone like Njere and her life, and her family. And Khadija [Mohamed, Mwangi's campaign manager]. She's such a strong and powerful activist in her own right. She was Boniface's campaign manager for free. The work they did was so powerful. And you have these other people in the background who are doing such incredible things. The sum total of what they've done is [to] instigate… We have an election next year, but I am so sure that we are going to have so many candidates who are going to be like, 'We want you to donate to our campaign. We have these values and beliefs; this is what we want to do.' That is how we need to go about change or add on to the conversations of change.

The same thing that's happening with the Black Lives Matters movement. Yes, there are people going to the street and we should keep going to the street. But we need to push people to engage in policy and make sure these policy changes are made.

We need to stand for what we believe in, as filmmakers in spaces where we feel oppression exists. Like the rules that have come out with the Academy Awards, these are rules that should be celebrated because they add on to that conversation of diversity and representation. All these things—that sum total—is what makes the difference. It's going beyond the streets and going beyond our Tweets, going beyond our Facebook messages, making films and sharing films. We just need to keep pumping up the volume, keeping the heat up, keep pushing. It's gonna take a while, but we'll get there.


Photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi during a protest in Nairobi, Kenya Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


That's where you as a filmmaker come in—this film was the first Kenyan film to get into Sundance, where it won a special editing prize.

There's another film I'm producing and, and, yes, I had my film at Sundance, that's great. But there's this other filmmaker who's making another film, and it's so cool, and this is the thing—we need to keep bouncing off this energy and this light and this vibe, and just keep pushing and making sure that the wheels keep turning. That's what we're all about.

How do you renew your strength, as a filmmaker but also as a Kenyan and as an African?

Being a Kenyan is hard. I think being an African is hard. Like, it's hard. There's a line I heard Boniface say once: 'I love my country, but I am afraid of my government.' But the way in which, personally, I find energy is when I meet new filmmakers, or you know, people who are like starting out and they want to make films that sound totally crazy. And they believe that they can do it. And I'm like, 'yes, yes, keep going!' We are planning to do a premiere. We have not confirmed the date yet but we're thinking it's around going to be early October in Kenya, because Kenyans haven't watched it. The government gave us an adult rating. They're putting us on the same level as porn.

This is the same government that banned Wanuri Kahiu's Rafiki because of its homosexual theme…

Exactly, that's what we're getting but the lemonade that we've made out of all this is, 'Guess what? This is cinema!' We're going to take it to a cinema. People are going to come to watch it in a cinema or watch it at home or watch it in the best way possible. And the people who've watched it have appreciated it as a film and a story, and their story. They've seen a reflection of themselves. That gives me so much joy because the Kenyans who've watched it, when they give you feedback, they say, this is truth; this is our truth. And they don't see just an activist. They see a couple struggling with love. They see our history in the last 10 years. And they're like, 'What the hell, we lived this?' and they see the things that are unresolved — and many things are unresolved. Seeing that reaction gives me so much strength and hope. But it's hard. It's very hard. Because, you know, you have to wake up and see the policeman getting a bribe. And you're like, 'Homie??'


"SOFTIE" Movie Poster



Watch the trailer for Softie here.

Softie | Official Trailer | A film by Sam Soko www.youtube.com

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