Animal Sacrifice and High Heels

“To fi sa lo, kiyakiya, to fi sa lo, kiyakiya” is sung repeatedly as the drums pound in the small, tiled room. The sound ricochets off the walls, it feels like pressing your ribs against a concert speaker blasting bass, every strike of the drum an extra heartbeat wired into your chest, the vibration sinking low in you, making you dizzy, almost sick.

Cigar smoke clings to the ceiling mixing with the smell of rum and coke being drunk from red cups. Plastic chairs scrape as people shift, fans whir uselessly against the heat, outside you can hear the echo of a domino game being played amid raucous laughter. The singers keep the chant going switching fluidly between Spanish and Lucumí.

White plastic garden chairs line the walls, some occupied by older women in bright dresses, their fans snapping open and shut with the rhythm of the drums. Others sit cross-legged on the tile floor, swaying. People slip in and out constantly drawn by the music, stopping to chant along, dropping an offering at the altar before drifting back outside to the yard to smoke, drink and gossip.

On the back wall, three towering icons of the Orishas preside like royalty. At their feet lies fanned and crumpled American bills, pyramids of mangoes, plantains and various fruit stacked carefully, hard candies gleaming in their cellophane, bottles of rum and aguardiente with their caps already loosened. The smell is sweet, smokey and sensual. There’s so much to look at and focus on that you have to be careful to mind yourself.

We spill out from the cramped little room, slipping past the steady gaze of the statues. Outside, the air feels crisper, though it’s only marginally cooler. The Babalawo steps forward, cradling the chicken against his body with practiced hands. Its wings are pressed firm, just enough to keep it still. He rocks it slightly, murmuring, until the bird goes slack, lulled into that trance Santería priests are known for. There’s no panic in its eyes. It doesn’t see what’s coming.

The cut comes quickly across the neck, right above the statue of Shango, the thunder God, Lord of drums and lightning. The bird convulses once, twice, then is still. Blood spills fast, streaking down Shango’s carved face, red against black varnish. It can shock some the first time that they see it but it’s not cruel, it’s a better life than being a miserable factory farmed hen. The liquid gathers in a dark pool at the statue’s base, reflecting the moonlight. A woman in sequined heels, glamorous even here, takes two delicate steps back, the sharp tap of her stilettos against the concrete cutting through the drumbeat still echoing inside.

Later, the chicken won’t go to waste. Its body will be cooked on the BBQ and eaten. The leftover blood is caught in small enamel cups and carried back inside, still warm, and smeared across the other statues. The Orishas glisten with streaks of red, their faces transformed, it looks as if they are breathing. The metallic scent mixes with rum, sweat, and smoke. Then, through the doorway, I see one of the Cuban women I know, beautiful in her party dress, tilting her head, and with the smallest flick of her wrist, gesturing for me to come back out and rejoin the party.