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THE GODDESS OF DESIRE
DYWANE D. BIRCH
RAGHABA
WHO BEHOLDS ME, BEHOLDS THE DESIRES OF THEIR HEART
Curvaceous, perfectly formed, I was masturbated into existence by my father who took his engorged phallus in his grasp and repetitiously stroked so that he might create an orgasm. And so I am that which men and the gods crave. I am the longing that slips into their dreams and settles into the basin of their loins, then erupts into delicious pleasures. Alluring, enticing, I am she who breaks their resolve, fulfills their wants, and leaves them longing for more. Though I will never be spoken of, or listed among the goddesses of ancient Kemet, which will one day be known as Egypt—the mother of civilization—I do exist. And my story—yesterday and today—along the edges of the Nile, during the rule of Ramses II, shall be written on the papyrus by the scribe of cunning fingers who will attempt to bury my treasured memory into the earth. Yet, he will fail. For it will be during the Akhet, season of the flood, when the Nile rises and swells across the land that I will be uncovered. And all that I am, all that I shall be, will be filled with tales of lasciviousness and reckless abandon that will extend across the continent, and throughout the universe, spreading into the hearts and minds of mortals for centuries to come.
And just like the gods and goddesses before me who guide and direct the natural forces of the mind and body, these mortals shall bear witness to the carnal aching that consumes them and causes them to act out deeds that may fulfill them, or become that which destroys them. They shall be driven by desperation and obsession which shall poison their will to deny themselves, and they shall seek out enjoyment anywhere, anyhow, anyplace—by any means necessary; for I am all things that will manifest themselves in good, bad and indifferent.
Until such time, I shall sit before you and bring forth the pleasures of all whosoever might yearn. Without fear, without regret, I share with you bountiful fruits of passion. Come… breathe in my intoxicating beauty, savor my scented womanhood, and relish in the joys that overwhelm and stretch the imagination. Behold, I am Raghaba…the Goddess of Desire.
“Raghaba…Raghaba…Raghaba…come to me, my love. I am restless with a fire that flows through my being, causing flames to erupt from the eye of my loins. Only you can quench these embers that threaten to ignite and spread. I awake craving you…”
It is this voice, crisp and clear, that stirs me from a peaceful slumber. I open my eyes and stretch. It is the awakening of another day as the sky opens up to receive the sun on the eastern horizon, its brightness shining the promise of another glorious day.
I rise early, eager to greet Horus—son of Osiris, the god of the dead. He has summoned me in his dreams for two seasons, and I have ignored his prodding. In my mind’s eye, I have seen him stroke himself and spill forth the milk of his loins in hopes that I shall greedily lap it up and become full with his seeds. But I have not been keen to satisfy his carnal urges…until now.
It is the dampness between my thighs, and the intense desire that spreads through my body and consumes me, enticing me to slip my fingers into the center of my being and lightly brush over the front of my vagina—awakening my clitoris, that brings me to the decision to have him. And today, as he has dreamt and fantasized, I shall bring him into my home, spread open my legs, and welcome him into paradise.
It has been almost six seasons since his return to the Upper Nile from the Nubian Desert in the land of Kush—which shall be called Nubia. And, though he has kept his distance from me, his roaming eyes have been filled with adoration each time he lays them upon me. But I am not amused with such lustful stares. He has not gone without the pleasures of
other goddesses who have thrown themselves at his feet and have allowed him to suckle at their breasts and journey through their womanhoods, whetting his sexual appetite. His seeds have been planted deep into the womb of plenty. Yet, he still remains unsatisfied, thirsting for more—for none have been able to feed his insatiable hunger for sex. And because I have not given into his persistent imaginings, his urges have intensified.
But tonight, when the sun greets the moon and kisses the points of each star, Horus will be granted a taste of what he desires. And to ensure that he does not weaken when the time has come to roll down the bed coverings and take to the bed, I will prepare him a hearty meal of roasted hyena seasoned with sesame and fennel (along with antelope that has been lightly brushed with fenugreek) and he shall be served bread and hummus while I eat my dish of bolti and lentils with onions.
Nefer…nefer…you capture me with your eyes…
“Beautiful, beautiful,” the voice in his dream is calling. And in the eyes of the gods, I am beautiful. I smile as I head to the flat, thatched roof to light the cylindrical clay oven before the sun’s rays blaze down onto the earth, and it becomes too hot to bear the oven’s heat.
I busy myself around my modest mud brick home with the double-thick walls. I sweep the clay tiles in the central room—the room in the center of the house where it is most protected from the heat—shake out the reed mats on the floor, wipe down the area for eating, fluff and shake the mattress made of woven cords, then sprinkle jasmine and rose petals over the linen sheets. I draw the net covering around the rectangular wooden bed to keep the gnats and mosquitoes from pestering the space that will become drenched with the sweat of passion upon the fall of the sun.
I glance out of the open window along the length of the north wall. It is still early enough for a breeze, which blows from the north, to air the house. The rest of my windows are close to the ceiling to maintain the cool temperature. But as the sun rises to its resting point, so shall the heat and its burning strength. I try hard to block the thought of the looming high temperature out of my head, but its presence is all around me.
I sigh as my eyes fix on the sand dunes slightly to the right of the house, erected as barriers from the Nile’s floodwaters, and think about the water that flows from the heart of the tropics—which begin to rise at the summer solstice as a result of the rainy season of Ethiopia, and continue to do so for one hundred days, before it recedes. It is the rise and fall of the waters that holds the fate of our land. Too little, or too much, could mean sad devastation—the loss of crop and famine. I imagine myself naked splashing about in the waters, alongside the banks, and chuckle at the thought of wrestling crocodiles in the nude and riding the backs of muddy hippos.
Then, somehow, I imagine myself climbing, naked and free, traveling the distance of the framed rocky walls that form cliffs which dip down to the Nile’s edge, then shoot up with covered tips of fine white limestone, to rich yellow sandstone, then higher up to red granite and black basalt—all these cliffs forming the horizon of all landscape views in beautiful Kemet. Then I imagine lying under the stars with my legs spread wide—the sand beneath my bare bottom gleaming like endless diamonds—exposing the golden brown lips of my smooth vagina as I pull open its slit with my fingers and wait for probing fingers, lips, and tongues to explore its sweetness. I can hear the low roar that escapes me as I lift my hips and grind and grind and grind against the sensations until I start to shake, then explode in ecstasy. From whence such thoughts originate I am unsure, but they amuse me, nonetheless—at least for the moment.
The sight of two lion cubs playing catches my attention, and pulls me from my daydream. I inhale a deep breath, close my eyes, and silently pray to Min, the god of fertility and sexuality, asking him to keep the blessings of my sexuality and high sex drive bestowed upon me in this life and in the afterlife, so that I might continue to engage in sex as part of the joys of paradise. Even as gods and goddesses we are earthy enough to copulate, and to enjoy the pleasures of sex. And I want to be able to satisfy and indulge my libido here and into the world beyond.
When everything is finally prepared, I place a clay jar of beer and of wine on the table. Though Horus will not need libation to be in the mood, it will loosen his tongue and allow him to speak out to the heavens so that the gods before him might hear his moans of unadulterated and uninhibited ecstasy. Tonight, there shall be no line drawn in the sand; there will be no boundaries. And I shall quench his thirst, and my own, for sexual pleasure.
I burn kyphi, an assortment of myrrh, henna, cinnamon and juniper, and allow its fragrance to soften the staleness that has lingered in the air while I bathe. I enter the washing area—a recessed room that has a square slab of limestone in the corner, for standing—and oil my pubic area. I will shave to ensure it is smooth as silk. Next are my eyebrows. Removing body hair is not only for beauty, but it rids the body of lice. Though I shall not ever shave my head, I have been fortunate to not be visited by such nuisances as fleas, bedbugs or lice.
I use ground beans from the ricinus communis plant and oil to rub into my hair. It is what maintains the lustrous growth of my flowing mane. I let it set upon my head while I shave. When I am finished, I use a cleansing paste of water and natron to cleanse my body, then shampoo my hair. I rinse myself, watch the water empty out into a bowl in the floor below, then dry off and wrap my body in a linen towel. Another towel is wrapped around my hair as I saunter into my bedroom and sit at my dressing table. The day is quickly beginning to take flight, the sun’s rays already dancing against the brightness of the room. And I am struggling to not break a sweat. I can already feel beads of perspiration popping up against my skin like goose bumps.
I fan myself a bit so that I might cool, then pull out a solid gold hand mirror and stare into it, studying my features. I smile at what I see. Skin the color of honey, thin nose with full, inviting lips. Tall and sultry—with oval, mesmerizing green eyes that sparkle like precious stones—I am the fairest of them all. I thank Hathor—mother goddess and goddess of all that is best in women—for the blessings she has bestowed upon me. My exquisite beauty is striking, and oozes with sensuality. My presence alone announces my sexuality—free-spirited and open-minded, willing to indulge in all things pleasing to the body. And it is a reminder of why no man can deny me. It is no wonder that men are unable to resist me against their own temptations. And no wonder that I am every woman’s nightmare.
I rub myself with almond oil to keep my soft skin moisturized and protected against the harshness of the sun. Though my flawless complexion does not warrant much, I reach under my table and retrieve a jar of khol and a pencil made of reed to line my eyes and eyebrows. When I have perfected the signature lines about my upper and lower eyelids, extending to the sides of my face, I dip my thin reed brush into a jar of henna and paint my lips. While most of the goddesses don wigs made of human hair or wool, I maintain natural tresses—thick, long, shiny black hair—that falls to my shoulders—with blunt-cut bangs. From the roots, I run my fingers through my silky hair, then brush and pin it up with jeweled pins. I dab Lotus oil behind my ears, under the crease of my breasts and along the inner part of my thighs. The use of unguents enhance my khaibt—special body odor. It causes the gods to draw to me like hungry flies swarming over a rotted carcass, and I will shoo them, swat at them, but allow them to dance with their fantasies afar.
I return to the central room and lay out a bronze bowl of cactus figs, grapes, plums and dates, then wash and rinse the tall, straight lettuce and press its leaves for its milky substance. It is an aphrodisiac. And tonight, I will drink its secretions and prepare myself for the feast of lovemaking. And to prevent the seeds Horus will plant deep inside of me from spreading and taking root, I grind together a measure of acacia nuts with honey, then moisten seedwool and insert it into my vagina, covering the mouth of my uterus, to prevent pregnancy; for I am as fertile as the Nile.
And—in a land where a woman’s femininity and desirability is contingent on her ability to bear sons and daughters—pregnancy is something to be proud of, and motherhood is venerated. However, bringing forth a child is not what I crave. The thought of nursing a child for three years, its teeth sinking into my breasts, nauseates me. Where the women strive to emulate Isis—mother goddess to Horus—because she represents all that a mother should be: loving, clever, loyal and brave, the purest example of the loving wife and mother, I am not motivated by such beliefs. My womanhood, my femininity, my sensuality, is not—nor will it ever be—defined by my ability to conceive or bear children. If it were, I would have taken a mate and be in a lifelong monogamous relationship, which by custom, should have occurred around age twelve or a bit older since it is common practice to wed young. Oh, joy! I would just as well slice my wrist, then toss myself into the Nile to be eaten by the crocodiles before becoming a hemet— wife, or be saddled down with three or four children, provided, that is, they survived the birthing.
So, no, I shall not be lured into such trappings, nor shall I ever live a life of unhappiness just for the sake of conforming to the whimsical thoughts of others. And I will continue to defy all things that apply to such beliefs that have to do with marriage and children. I am young—twenty and vivacious—and full of carnal passion. And I will live my life according to my own will.
