That day, while reading my latest messages, I noticed an invitation sent by Babá Cláudio for the celebration of Oshum, the Orisha who reigns over fresh waters, considered the deity of beauty and fertility. It's an important event for the community, which comes from different regions of São Paulo and Brazil to gather and celebrate the Orishas. The Candomblé house is always bustling. Mother Carmen and her sons, Father Karlito and Babá Cláudio, are recognized priests and welcome many visitors for the religious obligations that punctuate the lives of initiates. "It's like recharging your batteries while honoring your Orisha," one of the family members told me, having just returned from three days of festivities in Bahia, in northern Brazil. Mother Carmen's entire family is also housed in the Candomblé House, her five children, two of whom are adopted, and her grandchildren, each with a specific role in the daily life of the terreiro.

“Herbal baths. Rooster.” Undecided, I finally decided it was best to perform the Ebó ritual, imagining I would attend the ceremony dedicated to Oshum. From a certain point of view, it was necessary for me to be “clean” in order to enter the temple and attempt to contemplate the invisible. The day before the ritual, Babá Cláudio sent me a mysterious message: “combo – egg – gin ​​– 21 coins – 21 bills.” The phone rang. “Also bring an old garment and some white clothes.”
Late this afternoon, a light rain sweeps across the horizon, enhancing the scents of the earth and undergrowth. When I arrive at the Candomblé house, I find everyone busy preparing for the day's various rituals. After handing over the items from the unusual request, Babá Cláudio tells me to keep the money and wear my old clothes. "I'll meet you later to pay homage to Eshu," he says, leading me to the temple dedicated to Oshaguiã. Various offerings are placed on a low wall, and an earthen basin is set before me. Ivan, Babá Cláudio's younger brother, is in charge of the ritual. The priesthood had already told me about him, introducing him as the Oshugum of the house, meaning the one responsible for animal sacrifices. Beside me, children had organized themselves for the start of the ceremony, one of them holding a white hen in his arms. "Think of something beneficial," the Oshugum then told me.
After sliding various plant offerings over my body, from head to toe, which he then placed in the earthen basin while reciting prayers, he took the hen and repeated the same ritual. Then, with an agile and precise movement, he bled her into the basin before opening her entrails. "Look, there are four eggs, that's good news," the Oshugum announced before inviting me to leave the patio and trample on sacred herbs placed at the edge of the stairs. Once the ritual was complete, he cut my old t-shirt and removed it.

All the dwellings dedicated to the Orishas are built along the slope below the temple. Beneath the canopy of lush vegetation, where parakeets perch, chattering in a rare cacophony, statues and other buildings complete the ensemble, including a library, a large open-air kitchen, and a bathroom. It is into this last room that the Oshugum invites me for the herbal bath. After washing with soap in the spacious room decorated with Portuguese tiles, I waited, as instructed. There was a knock at the door. On the threshold stood, this time, the Babalosaniyn, the Father responsible for the sacred leaves and their rituals.
What a strange sensation it was to find myself on my knees, head bowed, completely naked! It wasn't a feeling of vulnerability or a vain sentiment, but rather a raw, organic connection to the elements, the humid air caressing my pores and the earth's scents wafting from every direction. The Babalosaniyn then rubbed various plants on my head and back, including the combination I had brought; its viscous texture, reminiscent of aloe vera, was unforgettable. To conclude the ritual, he cracked an egg over my head before rinsing me with lukewarm water. Dressed in white, I finally left the room, as if emerging from a cave. Looking around, veils of light cast shadows that vanished just as quickly.

THE OFFERINGS

Each offering is considered an offering of energy that returns to the person making it. The terreiro kitchen is one of the most sacred spaces in Candomblé, and all offerings are rooted in the food traditions inherited from the time of slavery. For the orixás, food was what the ancestors and forebears had access to, and this tradition continues in Candomblé to this day.
The orixás' diet includes animal sacrifices, as well as the preparation of some of their meat, grains, and fruits. Flowers and candles are also part of the offerings.
Despite discrimination and prejudice, animals sacrificed in Candomblé are fully utilized. Each animal is treated with the utmost respect: the blood is offered as vital energy to spiritually strengthen the faithful; the hide is used for the atabaques (traditional ritual objects), while the feathers are used to make clothing; the meat serves as food for all members of the community.

HERBS

An original proverb from Candomblé is: "Kosi Ewè, Kosi Orixá", which means "He who does not understand the herbs does not understand the Orixá".
Herbs occupy a central place in Candomblé and are used in all rituals, in the form of baths, teas, offerings and decorations.
Each leaf has unique properties, and each Orixá has its own specific plants and leaves. With these herbs, Candomblé practitioners prepare baths, steam baths, and teas for various purposes: health, love, money, and emotional and psychological well-being. A specific prayer, called "Sassanha," was used to awaken the power of each plant.