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AUDIO: The Drowned God and Werewolves by Osaro

By September 19, 2020No Comments

Osaro is a DJ and performer who creates Black-focused community events like the award winning punk gig Black Jam with Dublin Fringe Festival and Nu Roots with Live Collision Festival.  Osaro also performed in THISISPOPBABY’s 2018 theatre show Mouth of a Shark. 

She shares two audio stories with us. The Drowned God looks into the varying roles of motherhood, both absent and present, and Werewolves is about a fictional village called Yaeg which is ruled by the Rat King. Mayhem prevails…





I am descended by women abandoned by their mothers

My mother’s mother walked away, she bore three children

Time to walk away, little one. Time to grow

Time to mother your siblings

Mother your Father

And eventually mother me

To cook, clean, wash the dishes (hide from spirits)

All by the age of ten. No time to finish school

Before she’s blessed with a new day again

My mother peeters to bed in agony over her lost mammy

Village spirits would swim through walls

With their faces Old, Black and Weary

Would peer over my mother’s sleeping body

Until she cried out. Unable to move

New stepsiblings, old troubles remain

So who will be champion to a motherless child?

Ye Ye Omo Eja

Mother whose children are fish

Protect the lonely and the barren

Will you hear our wish?

Ye Ye Omo Eja

One thousand years of river stones and cowrie shells

Wrapped around your Black breasts

like a newborn clings

Yemoja. Yemaya. Ishka

The drowned God of mermaids whose cervix contorts open

And out pours the seas, trawling behind the first humans into this New World

Our La Sirene. Our Mere De L’eau

Black Madonna will you be champion?

At night, I’m visited by sharp claws digging into my neck

And talons scratching at my thighs

And through her cooos and her clicks *click* *click*

I hear her. I hear her shriek;

I demand new blood and old memories

Give me your truth. Who are you? Where are you from?

I tell the phantom Queen

I am descended from women abandoned by their mothers

And their mothers’ mothers weave cowrie shells that wrap the hands of Papa Legba Himself



This is my village, for better, for worse. I’ll stay here blessed I’ll stay here cursed

The smell of burning lavender and murder is in the air

Our favoured Rat King has devoured freedom, Barricading our village shut 

Until the enemy is caught. Werewolves. Who slithers in daylight
Haunting parks at night? All beware
Our favoured twins Suspicion and Superstition is in the air.
People masks to don off evil. Eviiiillllllllllll

The first to choke back on purple fumes will be up for execution

Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Nothing could stop the Midsummer festivities so soon

Especially now as we are being punished by wanton gods for abandoning them

One hundred years ago. 

We will seek divine safety in our most ancient Temple 1666

Where Mummers delight in warning

This day will be remembered. This day will come.

Fionn Mac Cumhaill will

Want your mother.  She will bear him a son

We will seek Divine Aid from Yemaya if her She-maids pull you into their watery haven

So stay wary!  Stay alert. Their many tongues will caress you until it hurts

Until you cream gratitude, a riverbed of foam

Look no evil in the eye if accused of being a spy
By the one you can talk to, the children of Lír
We call our Bean Feasa

Are you a villager? Are you a werewolf?

Pray the Rat King grants you asylum from loved ones

If bloodlust turns them into vigilantes by dawn

For children have been ripped to shreds. 

Children have been abducted. Devil babes run with wolves 

And even the Dead rattle their rotten jaws at the Living
Somebody must pay for our wretched village

Who is a werewolf? Bean Feasa tell us

Tell us already! Hmm? Is it you?

He, She, or They? An army of Night Lovers won’t stand in the way

You kill one you kill them all.  Love isn’t dead after all

Exquisite corpses of villagers are strewn around a public well

Just over a purple hill. 

Which is more than enough proof that war wages between 

Werewolves, Villagers and even the Dead who only 

Desire a stake in claim of Land

This is my village for better for worse
I’ll stay here blessed I will stay here cursed
This is somehow my home and here I’ll keep
Until werewolves harp on my bones

The Rat King is dead! 

Thrown into the coldest waves of earthly blue

A bloated sight. Killed by none other than his seven children who commit taboo for power

For better for worse this is a most opportune time to speak riddles and rhymes into law

There is shrilled talk amongst the living that 

One of his offspring is apparently a werewolf in disguise.  A renegade bitten by an Original

The Rat King is dead now and he laughs in silence at the organic mayhem left behind

He rattles and prattles any pots and pans at his seven children

A royal poltergeist, yes, yes he can!

I believe that if these circumstances were different
The people would vote to elect his ghost for he was a good King

Our Ratty Boy, he was sometimes romantically known as

Our people grow mad with handsome fear to shooting, hexing, shirking and stabbing

Anyone in sight with the slightest whiff of wolfish behaviour.  How am I still alive? 

I ask myself this question every year and not only because it is mandated by 

Village doctrine that we must always ask ourselves this every year to ensure that the village is under constant humility. 

But this year, more than ever, this moment, more than ever
As neighbours jump from me, fear from me, more than ever. 

How am I still alive? How am I walking? Running? Sweating? Aching? Howling?

This is my village for better for worse
I’ll stay here blessed I’ll stay here cursed
Bean Feasa tell us
Who is a werewolf? 

Because this is somehow my home and here I will stay and keep.