Louisiana, 2007-Present Era

I still hear Oya’s voice from time to time, even now, even in this modern world where the old systems of belief have been buried beneath new religions, new philosophies, new distractions. Her voice does not thunder the way it once did, does not shake the earth or split the sky, but it lingers like a soft wind brushing against the back of my mind, a reminder that the bond forged between us centuries ago has not faded, even if the world around us has forgotten the Orishas entirely. The United States has come a long way in blending cultures, traditions, and values, African, Caribbean, Indigenous, European, Asian, all mixing together until the borders between them blur. Yet despite this blending, despite the pride many feel in reclaiming fragments of their heritage, the way of the Orishas has all but slipped from the minds of the descendants of those Africans brought to this land in chains.

It saddens me, though I understand it. Time erodes memory. Oppression erases lineage. Survival demands adaptation. The children of those who once called upon Oya, Ogun, Oshún, and Obatalá now walk through life unaware of the divine forces that once guided their ancestors. They know the names of celebrities, politicians, and influencers, but not the names of the spirits who carried their bloodlines through centuries of suffering. It is an unfortunate truth, one I have had to come to terms with, even as I continue to feel the Orishas moving through the world in ways subtle enough that only someone like me, someone who has lived long enough to remember, can still sense them.

From time to time, when I cross paths with Africans who have immigrated to the United States men and women whose accents still carry the cadence of home. I slip into my native tongue without hesitation. The words come easily, like water flowing back into a familiar riverbed. I greet them as I would any of the Black men and women on the streets, but there is always a moment, a spark of recognition, when they hear the language of our ancestors spoken by a stranger. Their eyes widen, their posture shifts, and for a heartbeat, the distance between continents disappears. I still see them as my brothers and sisters, even if they do not know who, or what, I am. Blood recognizes blood, even across oceans and centuries.

Louisiana has changed, just as Harlem did, just as every place eventually does. The neighborhoods I once walked through in the 1930s have been rebuilt, repainted, repurposed. Mama Cleo’s old shop, once a cramped little room filled with herbs, bones, candles, and secrets, has been transformed into a bright flower shop with pastel walls and soft music drifting from hidden speakers. The sign above the door reads Cleo’s Blossoms, a name chosen by someone who clearly had no idea what the original Cleo had been, what she had done for the people who came to her in desperation. I stood outside that shop for a long time, watching customers walk in and out, carrying bouquets instead of blessings, unaware that the ground beneath their feet had once been a crossroads of magic.

For several years after returning to Louisiana, I lived quietly, drifting through New Orleans like a shadow who had forgotten how to haunt. I watched the city rebuild itself after storms, watched new generations rise, watched old traditions evolve into something softer, something more performative, something meant for tourists rather than spirits. I let myself adjust to the modern era slowly, observing rather than participating, learning the rhythms of a world that had grown louder, faster, and more restless than the one I had left behind.

But I had grown used to being a businessman, to building spaces where people could gather, where community could thrive, where joy could take root even in the darkest times. The quiet life of an observer could only hold me for so long. By 2010, the urge to create something new, something mine, something that belonged to this era, had become too strong to ignore.

So, I opened The Grove.

A bar, a lounge, a sanctuary. Not as grand as Duke Ray’s, not as loud, not as steeped in history, but warm, welcoming, and open to all. I chose the name deliberately, a nod to the sacred groves of my homeland, places where spirits walked and ancestors whispered. The Grove became a place where anyone could sit, drink, talk, laugh, cry, or simply exist without judgment. Locals came. Travelers came. Musicians came. Elders came. Young people came. And I watched them all with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had finally found a new rhythm.

The old anger I once carried, born from centuries of loss, betrayal, and violence, no longer weighed heavy in my heart. Time had softened it. Experience had reshaped it. The world had changed so many times that holding onto that anger felt like clinging to a shadow. I had learned to let it go, not out of forgiveness, but out of necessity. Immortality demands adaptation, and I have adapted so thoroughly that acting human has become second nature.

I have long since given up drinking blood directly from humans. The hunger still existed, of course, it always would, but I have learned to control it, to quiet it, to let it sleep for months at a time. I often went long stretches without drinking any blood at all, relying instead on the strength that centuries had carved into my bones. I do not need to eat or drink, but I do so now and again when in the presence of mortals. Lifting glasses, tasting food, laughing at jokes, all to blend seamlessly into the world around me.

Pretending to be human had once been a necessity. Now it has become simply who I am.

And in the soft glow of The Grove, surrounded by the hum of conversation and the warmth of community, I found something I had not felt in a very long time.

Peace.