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I was visiting a forest in Ouidah (pronounced Who-Wee-Duh). I can already see your raised eyebrows and perplexed looks. Oui-what? Ouidah is a historical coastal city in Benin, West Africa. It is widely recognized as the capital of Voodoo and is a major former slave-trading port from which over one million enslaved Africans were forcefully exported during the 17th and 18th centuries. 

It is also where my grandmother on my dad’s side of the family is from. Ouidah offers multiple historical and cultural sites to visit, such as the temple of pythons, the Voodoo (pronounced Vu.Du) center, and where I stood that day: the sacred forest of Kpassè (pronounced Pa.Sea).

All around me, tall trees stood their ground like old sentinels, bearing witness to ancient history. Many Voodoo statues lined the passage, and out of respect, maybe reverence or measured fear, I didn’t dare stare. As I wandered deeper into the various paths ahead, a sudden fatigue washed over me. 

The sun was high, and a tree nearby lured me with its refreshing shade. I promptly sat down, instantly enjoying the cooler wind gliding through my face. Following the rhythm of the swirling afternoon breeze, the weeping willow branches and leaves gently swayed in a graceful dance. Hypnotized, it didn’t take long for my eyes to grow heavier. When I couldn’t hold them open anymore, my head fell back against the tree trunk. 

“Welcome,” a voice said.

Hum? Who said that?

I jolted up!  As my senses settled, the space's unusual brightness piqued my curiosity. As I frantically scanned my surroundings, I noticed my body was as light as a feather, almost weightless. That’s odd. The energy surrounding the forest had turned mystical: colours were brighter, a subtle pressure hung in the air, and I sensed the very essence of time itself slowing down.

Where am I? I must be dreaming… 

“Not entirely, but something like that,” the voice added.  

A knot tightened at the pit of my stomach. My gaze lowered when a wave of sadness washed over me. I should be honest: shame also appeared. You see, the words from this strange voice came out in both Fon (or Fongbe) and Dendi: two popular languages in Benin that I could partly understand but not speak fluently, as my family immigrated to Canada when I was nine years old, a country I now wholeheartedly consider and call home.

By the time they fluttered to me, they had magically translated into French, my predominant first language. This simple phenomenon had already highlighted my deep-seated internal conflict of being born into and from particular cultures but not possessing the vocabulary to fully participate in them.  These are more than words: they are a bridge to connection, and sadly, mine felt quite frail with a few pieces missing and many loose screws. Over time, I learnt to tiptoe and still make my way to the other side, but each creaking sound would whisper to me that one false movement, one wrong step and it could all fall apart, leaving me stranded — away from the very lineage that gave me existence. 

The voice echoed around the spiritual plain: “You carry many questions and conflicting emotions in your soul, Vǐ tché (my child - in Fongbe).” 

 In a whisper, I inquired: “Who are you?”

“We are a whole. A collective manifestation of those who came before you. You called us.”

I sat back down and took a long breath. Although not menacing, the pressure around the air grew heavier. It became clear to me that I was in a spiritual plane. Well, there’s no doubt. This is indeed a sacred forest. I probably don’t have much time.

I began without additional prompting: “I feel fragmented and quite frankly incomplete. I find pieces of myself in many homes across this world, but never all of me. Where is home? Where am I from? Which cultures do I truly belong to?

The voice replied, “You belong where and with who you are with. That will remain true no matter where the winds of life carry you.”

I exclaimed, “I don’t know… I feel a responsibility to preserve this connection to you, with this country,” I pulled my hair, “Ugh… but I also have to participate and embrace these new communities and homes I now belong to.”

“Do not fear. Your connection with us is eternal. It goes beyond rites, practices and customs. You don’t have to earn it. You are because we are. You will be, because those after you will continue to carry this cycle.” 

I exhaled: “How do I find that balance? How do I know when and where to lean into the various parts of my identity? What to preserve and prioritize? What is ok to leave behind, so it carves space for what is and will be?”

The ancestors solemnly imparted, “Let curiosity be your guide. Channel the essence of curiosity where you are as we did before you, with all our hopes, dreams, and desires of a good, meaningful and better life… in spite of fear, doubt and hardships.”

A spark appeared in my eyes… I suppose that’s what my parents did. Immigration is an incredible act of courage and faithful curiosity without the safety net of certainty. I opened my hands, eyes fixed on my palms. I understood the responsibility I held: my ancestors held memory and guidance, but I was nurturing the wisdom of tomorrow: for those coming after me who will hear this same voice speaking to me now.

As if they read my thoughts, my ancestors added: “Over time, we lost pieces of ourselves, our cultures, but never in vain. Each generation, each decision adds to the ever-evolving web that makes up our lives — past, present and future.  The turmoil in your heart has been felt by us before you, and it will still exist after.  Your responsibility is to make the most out of today, as honestly and with as much curiosity as possible.”

As gratitude and love welled up in my heart, a silent stream of tears flowed. I gently wiped them and, with a lighter heart, expressed my gratitude. “Thank you.”

In a kind yet commending tone, the voice concluded, “You’ve slept long enough. It’s time for you to wake up.” They added: “Continue ton chemin…” (Continue your journey - in French).

“... Biné yéîlo” (... with peace over your heart - in Dendi).

“Wake up!” A guard vigorously tapped on my shoulder and instructed me to exit the sacred forest. “You cannot be here once nightfall!” he added, a slightly worried tone in his voice.

I bowed my head as a sign of respect. I apologized and promptly went on my way. In the sky, the sun had turned into a gigantic orange ball sinking lower into the horizon. I must have slept for a few hours.

As I stepped away from the main entrance, those words imparted earlier rose from the depths of my spirit: Let curiosity be your guide. Channel the essence of curiosity wherever you are, always.

I took a deep breath. The street was filled with a sea of Zémidjans (characteristic motorcycle taxis found in Benin). On the side of the road, the smells of grilled meat and traditional street food snacks enticed me: Tevi kpo Atta (fried yam and bean fritters), wêli (fried sweet potatoes), and talé talé (overripe banana or plantain fritters). My stomach growled, making my next priority crystal clear!

I smiled, appreciating the moment a little longer. It was one of many now, and the ways I relate to it had changed and would continue to, but without a doubt… 

I’m home.

--

O’Nell Agossa’s debut novel, Curiosity and I (Let Curiosity Guide You), is now available worldwide on Amazon and across other platforms (ex: Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, etc).