#ilekes

Objectivity is a concept that journalists - reporters, producers, and the rest - both are taught is an axial tenet of our profession, and sometimes don like a gas tight hazmat suit to preserve our ostensibly sober, unbiased vantage points. Were I producing a series on light bulb manufacturers, or America's greatest ball parks, it might be much easier to throw up that shield between myself and subject.

But in documenting traditional African religion among black Americans, I see that everyone participates, everyone is folded in, even the journalists on the outside. And so there is no "just watching;" there is no taping with remove. In a room with Ifa, the orisha make up the air particles you breathe. The tiny blasts of breath against your ears aren't paranoia, but Obatala and your egun whispering from opposite sides.

This is where I am. The daemon who still dances for the gods.

Traditionally, as a believer spelunks more deeply into faith, any faith - where the dozens of dimensions we stride daily unawares come Technicolor alive screaming thunderbolts;  the walls bellow in ancient baritones, where there is no floor, no forwards or backwards, no warmth for your shivers or breeze to stave the fire, no love and no apparent armor as you know it to help orient yourself; where you are terrified - he also get a rope.

In Ifa, your baba or godmother is that guide through the dreams that punch the air out of your lungs at night. They can help soothe the dizziness and doubt. Your ilekes and your whites and your study ward off the demons, while setting you surely on your path.

But here I go. No necklaces, no iyanifa, no warriors. Getting knocked around.