I’m from Mobile, Alabama. Gulf water, red dirt, and church bells that never asked if you belonged before they rang. By 7th grade I was in Catholic school. Plaid skirt, rosary beads, Our Father like a rehearsed mantra. And in every hallway, every classroom, every textbook: Jesus. Blue-eyed. Thin-lipped. Thin nose. A stranger.
They handed me a Bible and told me it was the truth. Then handed me a mirror that erased me.
That’s the violence nobody names. You can colonize a child with a picture. You can make her doubt her own spirit before she even learns to spell ancestor. I did. I loved God with all my heart and still went to bed wondering why He never made anyone who looked like me holy. Not the saints. Not the angels. Not even the demons. Everybody in heaven and hell was white except me.
I remember Sister So and So told me “we’re all made in God’s image” while standing under a white Christ nailed to a cross. Don’t insult me. If we’re all made in His image, why did His image never look like my mama? Like my grandmomma or my granddaddy? Like the men on MLK or in Prichard? You taught me shame and called it salvation. You taught me exile and called it gospel.
So yes, I grew up Christian. I also grew up spiritually starving. I could recite Bible verses but couldn’t name one spirit that claimed my blood. I knew Revelations but not the revelation that my people had divined with 16 sacred nuts before Alabama was even a state. I knew about manna from heaven but not about Oshun’s honey. I knew about parting seas but not about Yemoja’s tide. You gave me Daniel in the lion’s den and stole Shango from my mouth.
You told me my ancestors were heathens. LIES.
My ancestors read the sky better than your priests read Latin. They spoke to God without a middleman, without guilt, without needing to bleed to be worthy. You called it witchcraft because you couldn’t control it. You called it darkness because it didn’t reflect you.
I didn’t leave the Bible. I set it free. I stopped reading it through the eyes of empire. Now I see Moses and recognize a priest at the crossroads, staff in hand, negotiating with Eshu. I see the Psalms and hear Yoruba oriki. I see Elijah calling fire and know that’s not a miracle — that’s Shango. The book was never empty. The room was. You cleared out everybody who looked like me and then asked why I couldn’t feel at home.
Well, I’m home now.
IFA didn’t convert me. It remembered me. The Odu speak like my grandmother after she’s been reading you for filth: proverbs with teeth. The patakis don’t ask me to worship suffering. They show me Orisas who bleed, love, fail, rise, and still rule. Obatala didn’t need to be crucified to prove compassion. Oya doesn’t need permission to bring the storm. Ogun clears paths without asking Rome. This is not mythology. This is my bloodline with a voice.
Mobile knows about memory. Africatown is still breathing. The ancestors didn’t drown. They became the water. So no, I won’t sing Amazing Grace and pretend I was the wretch. The wretch was the system that tried to orphan me from my own spirit.
Catholic school gave me scripture. IFA gave me myself.
So let me be clear: I don’t serve a white God anymore. I serve the God that looks like me. The God that speaks Yoruba. The God that lives in my Ori, not on your wall. My altar doesn’t need your approval. My spirit doesn’t need your translation.
From the pew to the mat. From the crucifix to the opon Ifa. From begging to belong in someone else’s story to knowing I *am* the story — born of Orunmila, child of the Odu, descendant of people who were never lost, only stolen.
You told me I was grafted in. No. I was the root.
And I’m not whispering that anymore.
TO BE CONTINUED……
10 comments
So heartfelt and well-spoken! Thank you for sharing this with us Iya. You are a such true blessing and inspiration to not only the local community, but the ATR community as a whole!
As her Baba from Nigeria, I am proud of the growth, humility and sincerity I continue to see in my adorable and chosen Iyanifa. She carries herself with respect, wisdom and a true desire to learn and serve. Not everyone understands the discipline it takes to walk this path, but she has shown dedication and good character. May IFA continue to guide her steps, strengthen her Ori and open greater blessings before her. Keep shining and keep growing. Ase.
I pray this blog doesn’t just get read — I pray it recognizes somebody. I pray it finds the ones who sat in pews feeling like strangers, the ones who were told their ancestors were lost, the ones who never saw their own face in the holy. If you’ve been spiritually homeless, I pray these words feel like a key. If you’ve been carrying shame that was never yours, I pray you lay it down here. This ain’t for likes. This is altar work. May it touch you in that Authentic, Sacred way — where your spirit exhales and says, “There I am. I’ve been here the whole time.”
This hit so hard as someone who left the church and found God within self thanks to IFA this journey is so beautiful gratitude for sharing your story 🙏🏽🫶🏽✨
Whew… this touched something deep. As someone from Mobile too, I understand that feeling of loving God but still feeling unseen in the images we were given. My journey has been about remembering my ancestors, remembering that spirit lives in nature, in our Ori, and in the wisdom our people carried long before we were taught to forget it.For me, learning about the Orisa and walking a path of spiritual alignment has been less about leaving something behind and more about reclaiming what was always inside of me. Truth has a way of finding us when we’re ready to see ourselves clearly.
Thank you for sharing your truth. 🌿✨ – Shun Da Guru