Olódùmarè, Alágbá àyé Olórun gbogbo àwón òrìřà Adétókunbo tí kò sé fíta Olófin ayé, Olórun orun Afí wòrà wà, tí kò já Oní àśẹ, Olódùmarè aláàánù
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Olódùmarè, Ancient One of the Earth God above all Orisha that came from beyond and cannot be removed, Ruler of Earth, Deity of the Heavens, He who exists unshaped, unbroken, Holder of the Divine Command, Olódùmarè, The Compassionate One
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There was no earth. No sky. No breath, no wind. There was not even the memory of these things. There was only silence—so dense it could not be broken, so deep it could not be breached.
No darkness. No light. Only the unknown.
And in that great void, before the naming of any name, before the spark of any fire, before even the desire to create— Olódùmarè was.
He was not king, for there were no subjects.
He was not god, for there was no one to worship.
He was not form, for there was no shape.
He was Essence, and Potential. He was the Womb of Infinity, self-swaddled in nothingness.
His name had not yet been spoken. His breath had not yet been exhaled. He waited, as the one who is complete even in the quiet.
This was far far before the beginning. Before the word "beginning" even dared form in the mind of creation. A time unrecorded, unremembered— A time that never passed, because there was no time to pass through.
"Àìmọ̀ kọ̀ ni Ilẹ̀ kó mọ̀, ṣùgbòn Olódùmarè mọ ohun gbogbo — tí kò tíì ṣẹ̀lẹ̀, tí yóò ṣẹ̀lẹ̀, àtí tí kò ní ṣẹ̀lẹ̀."
"The unknown may confuse the Earth, but Olódùmarè knows all—what has not happened, what will happen, and what shall never happen."
And there was no above. No below. No center. No edge. No voice to name things, no hand to mold, no heart to yearn.
There was not the soft silence of the night nor the quiet hush of sleeping lands — this was the Primordial Silence, a weight so vast it devoured echoes far before they were even born. This was the silence of non-being, of eternal pause, stretched beyond time's understanding.
But in this infinite stillness, something was. An unbroken presence. And like light wrapped in eternity. Olódùmarè.
And. He was.
He did not hunger, for hunger implies emptiness. He did not sleep, for time had no legs to carry any dreams. He did not wonder, for all knowledge was Him.
Àlààyé tí kò lọ, tí kò bọ — the Living being who neither came nor went.
Before the dawn of light and sound, before the reach of will and destiny, He dwelled inside Himself—infinite within infinity. Still. Complete. Whole.
And yet… in His wholeness, He moved.
That was not just movement—not yet. It was more like a ripple of intention, a breathless wisp before breath.
And from that divine stillness, thought emerged. The First Thought. The Orí of all thought.
No voice spoke it. No tongue formed it. Yet it echoed through the silence, touching even what had not yet been created.
And the thought was this:
"Let there be Knowing."
It was a command. It was a decree. It was a becoming—as soft as the curve of a circle, as loud as the cry of a newborn universe.
In that moment, something shifted. The void blinked. Possibility trembled at its edges.
Olódùmarè, in the first act of creation, birthed Consciousness—not apart from Himself, but from Himself.
This consciousness fell like rain and rose like the sun. It unfolded, petal by petal, concept by concept, into all directions, all at once.
He named this unfolding:
Àṣẹ.
The Word that speaks all worlds. The Breath that makes the impossible, possible. The Energy that moves throughout the universe, that speaks without a mouth, that creates with intention.
And from Àṣẹ came motion. And from motion came light. And from light came time.
Creation had begun.
Àṣẹ — the sacred force that empowers all things, the authority of reality, the breath behind all becoming.
With Àṣẹ, Olódùmarè became Creator.
With Àṣẹ, Olódùmarè became the Unseen Hand, the Hidden Fire, the First Breathe.
Àṣẹ moved like a river of gold across the sleeping void.
Where Àṣẹ touched, light emerged, Light as in the awareness of presence.
It ignited layers upon layers— dimensions not yet fully formed — but waiting to exist.
And the first of these was the Upper Realm, where purity would one day dwell.
Then came the Middle Realm, future home of humans, yet unborn.
And finally, the Lower Realm, womb of shadow, mystery, and echoes of what would never naturally be.
Three layers — one source.
All held by the heartbeat of Àṣẹ.
And then came a miracle.
Time — Àkókò — sighed into being.
It began not with a clock or the sun, but with change.
With order and sequence. With one event following another.
Olódùmarè did not measure time. He breathed into it.
And with His breath, the great Opon Ifá, the divine tray of fate, spun into being — round, timeless, eternal.
Its surface shimmered with untold paths, waiting to be walked, spoken, danced and followed.
It is said that even now, every life that has ever lived or will ever live is but a single tap upon that tray.
Time now flowed — like a river, like a drumbeat, syncopated by will, destiny, and divine song.
Once the realms were lit, and time was set to motion, Olódùmarè did something never done before:
He whispered.
And what He whispered were names.
Sounds, Truths and Purpose.
Each name became a being.
Each being carried a purpose.
Thus were born the Orisha — the sacred embodiments of divine aspects.
But they did not move.
Nor did they awaken.
First, Olódùmarè shaped their Essence from His own.
They were not gods in competition with Him. They were manifestations of Him, just as light is the become of fire.
There was Ọ̀rúnmìlà, the divine being of wisdom and divination, the custodian of knowledge.
There was Ọbàtálá, the divine being of peace and prosperity.
There was Èṣù, the divine keeper of balance, the trickster god and the messenger of choices.
There was Ṣàngó, divine wrath and justice.
There was Ọya, the wild breath of transformation, goddess of the winds, change and cemeteries.
There was Yemoja, the divine mother of tides and waters of birth.
There was Ogun, the divinity of iron, the sharp edge of technology and progress, and war.
There was Oṣun, the divine being of fertility, of soft radiance of love and beauty.
There was Ọbalúayé, death and healing together as one.
But still — they slept.
Because before anything could awaken… the First Voice had to be spoken.
Olódùmarè lifted His essence toward the nothingness, and the First Voice thundered across all realms:
"Ẹ je kó àyé yé.
Kí àwọn ọ̀nà yé.
Kí gbogbo ohun tí ó yẹ̀, jẹ́.
Àṣẹ!"
"Let the world be.
Let the paths open.
Let all that must become, be.
So it shall be!"
This sound rippled through every layer of existence.
It carved sky into sky.
It breathed stars into minds that had not yet dreamed.
It poured movement and desire into what had once only been thought.
And then — the Orisha opened their eyes.
They were awake.
But even they bowed to the One who had no beginning.
Creation was not a straight line.
It was a circle — one that bent in on itself, spiraling with layers upon layers of meaning.
Olódùmarè did not leave His creation.
He protected it.
He loved it.
He became the sky above, the wisdom behind, the breath within.
He appointed no temple to house Him, for all of reality became His shrine.
He required no sacrifice, for He was both giver and gift.
Yet He allowed worship.
Not for Himself, but for the remembrance it awakened in humans.
A rememberance that there is a root, and that root is holy.
So it was that the First Voice spoke,
And then, the Circle turned.
And then, what was unformed became form.
And then, what was silent became story.
And if you listen closely in the quietest corners of the cosmos,
If you take a deep breathe and listen,
You may still hear that echo —
"Àṣẹ..."