I hadn’t heard of Nana before today. As a journalist I have been interviewing members of the Ilé. Baba, who will soon appear, has invited me to stay. He’s told me to bring in my heart my most impossible wish because such desires are a special province of Nana’s. I chat with Gary, who is a wiry son of Eshu (a.k.a. Eleggua) - the opener of all paths and possibilities and the consummate trickster. Gary’s Puerto Rican punk street-toughness contrasts his child-like optimism to find an egalitarian society. (It befits a child of Eshu to embody such diverse polarities.) In a conversation that has rambled between us since late that afternoon he explains why he came to a Santeria house.

"It’s a very fair, kind religion. It doesn’t discriminate against anybody," he says. "In Catholicism I would have been questioned for hanging out with certain kinds of people for the color of their skin. All that racism, I’ve dealt with it from different angles…I’ve always been the type of person who’s wanted to have a lot of different types of people around him. I have friends who are women, friends who are gay, friends who are black, friends who are white. My circle of friends is very vast. In other religions, in other circles, I feel like there’s a lot of judgment for that. Here people are allowed to be themselves and that’s the kindness of this house."

This is the statement he wants to make for the article I’m writing . His quote won’t make it in the final piece. And I will not see him again for a few years. When I do, I will not recognize him, even though he has made a friendly and vivid impression on me today.

Although, this is only my second visit– the first was two days ago – I feel at ease, bumming endless smokes and gossiping. Occasionally, I hear someone point me out as the writer from Baltimore There is not the reserve toward outsiders I expected among practitioners of Santeria with its reputation for secrecy. Instead, I am surprised at the joviality those here express, greeting one another by touching shoulders, first right to right, then left to left, and eagerly engaging a tangents of conversation, encompassing orisha, popular music and personal issues. The space of the garden has grown smaller in the past half-hour. I survey the setting. There is the main area with patio furniture where we gather and an ornamental garden against the far wall. There a tiny bird is caged beneath a towering tree. It is the tree that is becoming the center of focus.

I am not sure what to expect. I honestly hadn’t envisioned myself participating in a Santeria ceremony. Now, I have postponed my bus trip home by a day to see what will happen. I sip a mint iced tea. Like everyone here, I await Baba who is upstairs resting. He spent the better part of the afternoon being interviewed and photographed with various religious accoutrements by me. Both before and after that, there was a parade of godchildren and clients seeking him out for readings, cleansings and advice. In the course of one hour, about eight people had stopped by the temple for Baba. This included a prodigal godson, Marcel, who provoked much hostility among the ilé, even though Baba was amenable to hearing him out. His mercurial visit is a hot topic of conversation among those here, and he has been banned from tonight’s gathering by popular acclamation.

Baba enters with his assistant. Baba cuts an impressive figure. Nearly six and a half feet tall, he is broad, solid and bearded, wearing a flowing white robe. His demeanor is not far removed from classical depictions of God Almighty or Zeus. Yet he reveals a mischievous smile in greeting his godchildren – those he’s initiated into Santeria. He acknowledges me, as well as every other guest there. Baba has an assured manner of making everyone feel he’s concerned about him.

His assistant, Daniel - a Cuban of mixed race - is possessed of chameleon like good looks. In three years, I can’t remember his sometimes long, sometimes dread, sometimes hennaed hair beings styled the same way for more than a week. He is a fiery troubadour, alternately spinning folk songs and philosophical tracts – often with surprising depth – while in constant romantic pursuit. He sits on the bench strumming his guitar, while greetings are exchanged. Rather than have drum or percussion music, which is traditional for Afro-Caribbean religions, the young man and Baba will sing original folk songs.

Baba begins explaining Nana Bukuu and the purpose for tonight’s gathering. Narayan joins him at his side. I survey those gathered. A young white woman with a mane of blonde hair strikes my attention. She takes off her sparkling elekes. There seems to be more than a dozen. She presses them to her brow and closes her eyes in deep prayer, as I hear Baba talking about using the opportunity tonight to fulfill your innermost desires.

I look upon Baba. He tries to speak about Nana. His shoulders twitch, his eyelids flutter. His massive body freezes and drops. Narayan catches him. His symptoms mimic an epileptic seizure, but no one seems concerned. Instead they are eager. And El Hermano José is announced.

The person who was Baba no longer resembles Baba. A once regal carriage is bent and humble. Facial muscles sag, adding many years, and eyes have sunk away. Here is an old man. Even Baba’s great size seems drastically reduced.

Almost everyone here is glad to see José, who is a much beloved spirit guide. He takes over the salutation to Nana. At first, he speaks softly - in Spanish. Narayan leans his face close to Baba’s and translates. "Nana Buruku ["Buruku" is an appelation that developed in Cuba. It literally means evil. José died around 1915, when "Buruku" was in popular usage.] is the oldest female orisha….." He enumerates her attributes in Lucumi (a hybrid of Yoruba used in Santeria liturgy) and pours her a libation of milk and herbs over the birdcage.

Then José is helped in a chair by Daniel and a friend and begins to address us.

"You better not be recording this young man." Embarrassed, choking on my words, I fervently assure him I’m not.

He berates everyone over the situation with Marcel. The soft inflection is gone. José’s words contort Baba’s face. "You have no business telling him he cannot come. By law, this ceremony is open to all who wish to come. I would have told him what he did wrong if he’d come." He raises a clenched fist. "I’d have put my fist up his ass for one thing."

Everyone laughs. "You should trust me to do the right thing. But you need to do the right thing. If you had let him come, I’d put my fist up his ass and make you happy. Now I can’t. Are you happy?"

After some further elaboration, José talks to each of us. To a sullen, overweight young man, he says. "You have a problem with depression. You need to drink tea made with herbs sacred to Babalu Aiye and humming bird tongue."

Then he asks, who here knows someone named Ray. He explains that Ray has a stomach ailment and needs to drink chamomile tea regularly to treat the condition. No one is forthcoming, but José is persistent. Finally, someone says he works with a Ray, but he isn’t a friend.

"He’s a human being isn’t he?" José retorts. "We have a responsibility to look out for one another. Just because he isn’t your friend doesn’t mean he doesn’t suffer."

One by one José addresses those he knows with specific advice about their lives. Two new godchildren of Baba’s are presented to him. José shakes their hands. He takes time to ask them questions and prognosticates their future lives in Santo. Then he turns his attention to me.

"I don’t mean to forget our guest. One day you can write a great book, but only after you make a very great sacrifice….I can see that someone near you is touched by guilt. That’s true isn’t it."

I agree. "Tell Baba to make this person a necklace for Oshumare, so that Oshumare’s brilliance can lighten their great despair." He touches on other details of my life, some trivial, but always specific, then asks me if I have any questions. I ask about my career (or lack thereof) and he advises me that I’d be much better off if to pursue work that’s genuinely of interest to me. Overall, his observations about my situation are accurate. I am surprised at José’s lack of abstraction. I’d have expected a spirit, or alleged spirit, to talk mysterious auras and cosmic meanings. Instead, he talked about careers, stomach ailments and assholes.

José announces he will be leaving. Baba’s head drops down. Upon awakening, Baba seems disoriented for a moment and proceeds to begin the Nana Bukuu evocation. Narayan stops him, and explains that José has already performed the ritual. Baba asks how it went and what José said. He offers his own insights and elaboration on what José has said, such as what herbs to use for Babalu, etc.