Cartagena de Indias, 1715. The air was not just air, it was a dense, heavy soup, a suffocating mixture of Caribbean saltpeter, the sweet smell of sugar cane rotting in the sun, and the metallic smell of dried blood. In the kitchens of the mansion of Don Rodrigo de Armentia, a wealthy Basque, this miasma took on an even more grotesque texture.

Here the greasy aroma of fried foods clung to the stone walls like a shroud, mixing with the sweat of African bodies marked with fire. Scars that told stories of ghost ships and distant coasts in Benin and Senegal. At the heart of this domestic hell was Lucia. She wasn’t just a slave, she was an epicenter of colliding worlds.

Her eyes, an unusual amber color, did not reflect the submission expected of her. They glowed with the intensity of embers, as if containing the fire of ancient rituals celebrated thousands of miles away, captured in a Congo village, where drums were the voice of the dead and Inquisi spirits demanded tributes of flesh. Lucía had been stripped of her land, but not of her essence.

His lips, often silent, moved constantly in an inaudible murmur, weaving prayers to forgotten deities as in Sambi and at the same time cursing curses with the same devotion. She carried with her small amulets hidden in the folds of her threadbare clothes, little cloth bags containing monkey bones, soil from her village and Malagueta peppercorns, whose ardour, she said to herself, was more powerful than the equatorial sun, which punished the walled city. The night was his personal ordeal. Don Rodrigo,

A burly man whose obesity was a testament to his gluttony and power, he saw her not as a person, but as a vessel for his darkest and most forbidden desires. Night after night he wore it, his body becoming a cauldron where he poured out his lust.

From that violence three children were born, hybrid creatures with mulatto skin and, according to Lucía, cursed souls from their conception. Major Rodrigo Jr. already showed his father’s greed, his small hands, always looking to grab, to possess. The two twin daughters had a high-pitched and disturbing laugh, which resounded in the corridors of the house, like the echo of fullness in a distant savannah.

They were living proof of his subjugation, a constant reminder of his captivity to the outside world, to the Creole society of Cartagena. Lucia was a luxury possession. Don Rodrigo boasted of his skill in the kitchen, of how his hands could transform the local fish and the viands into delicacies worthy of a birrey.

He displayed it at his parties, where the colonial elite gathered to drink cane wine and talk about business and slaves. he ignored or chose to ignore the malaria fevers that consumed Lucia periodically. In these feverish delusions, the line between the physical and spiritual worlds dissolved. He saw the ghosts of his ancestors, warriors with their faces painted for battle, devouring the hearts of white men in a banquet of cosmic vengeance.

Their voices whispered in his ear like the rustling of dry leaves, recipes for oil servants capable of dissolving colonial sins, of purifying the world with fire. The kitchen was his domain and his prison, a large and cavernous space, with high ceilings from which iron hooks hung and a brick stove that burned and night.

In the center of the service courtyard, in the open air, was the large iron paila (iron pan). It was a monstrous piece, so big that a man could curl up inside. It was used for large fried foods, to prepare the food of all the servants or for Don Rodrigo’s parties. For Lucía, that pan was more than a kitchen utensil. It was a potential altar, an instrument of retribution.

Every time he cleaned it he felt the weight of iron, the history of past fires. He imagined palm oil imported from his own African land, not only frying fish, but purifying injustice. The plan began to take shape not as an act of cold logic, but as a feverish vision that refused to go away. Revenge would not be an outburst of anger, but a meticulously orchestrated ritual, a final banquet.

The perfect opportunity presented itself with the arrival of carnival, that time of the year when Cartagena was immersed in a controlled chaos of music, dance and masks. Leather and cardboard masks hid identities. The cane brandy flowed like a river of oblivion. And the boundaries between the Lord and the slave, while never disappearing, became momentarily blurred in the collective euphoria. For weeks, Lucía prepared.

She picked herbs at the times when they were sent to the market. Not the common species he used in his stews, but secret ones, lemon verbena leaves with a potent sleeping property, if properly concentrated, roots that, according to the old stories, confused the mind. He watched the family with a new intensity.

I studied their routines, their weaknesses, Don Rodrigo’s gluttony, the son’s arrogance, the cruel laughter of the twins. He did not see his children, he saw extensions of his oppressor, branches of the same poisoned tree. The chosen night was the culmination of the carnival. The city vibrated with the sound of drums and flutes.

Don Rodrigo and his family, having returned from one of the street parties, were elated and exhausted. He asked Lucia to prepare a late dinner, something special to crown the night. Her famous fish fried in palm oil was the sign she was waiting for. “Yes, my master,” Lucia replied.

His voice strangely calm, a stillness that contrasted with the chaos of the city and the storm brewing in his soul. A dinner they will not forget. As the family relaxed in the main hall taking off their sweaty masks, Lucia moved with ritualistic precision. He prepared an infusion of lemon verbena, much more concentrated than normal, sweetening it with honey to hide the bitterness.

He served it to the family as a refreshment to soothe the heat of the night. They drank it greedily. Then he went out into the courtyard. The large iron pan was already on the mangrove wood stove. It began to feed it, the wood crackling, sparking into the night sky like malevolent, shooting stars. The sound was like bones breaking in a hellfire.

He emptied several jars of palm oil into the pan. The thick, reddish liquid captured the dancing reflection of the flames. The air was filled with the familiar smell of his land. An aroma that that night did not bring nostalgia, but the promise of a trial. Waited. The silence inside the house deepened as the drug took effect. First, the yawns. Then lethargy.

Soon, all four bodies lay in a deep, unnatural sleep. The time had come. The cauldron of whispers was ready to receive its guests. The silence that took over Don Rodrigo’s mansion was dense and unnatural, a sonorous void in the midst of the din of the carnival that still roared outside the stone walls.

Lucía se movió a través de ese silencio como un espectro. Su primer objetivo fue don Rodrigo, quien roncaba pesadamente en su sillón, su voluminoso pecho subiendo y bajando con dificultad. El veneno de las hierbas lo había sumido en una inconsciencia total. Arrastrarlo fue una tarea herculia.

Lucía, aunque fuerte por años de trabajo incesante, tuvo que usar toda su energía. Lo jaló por los brazos. Su cuerpo obeso era un peso muerto que se resistía a cada tirón. El sudor perlaba su frente, pero su determinación era de hierro. Lo arrastró fuera del salón a través del patio interior, dejando un rastro en el suelo de baldosas. Cada metro era una victoria.

Lo llevó hasta el borde de la gran paila, donde el aceite de palma ya emitía un suave murmullo calentándose lentamente sobre las llamas crepitantes de la leña de Mangle. Con cuerdas que había escondido previamente, lo ató. No luchó. Sus ronquidos eran la única respuesta a su destino inminente. Lucía trabajó con la eficiencia de un carnicero preparando un animal para el sacrificio.

Desnudó su cuerpo blanco y flácido, exponiéndolo al aire nocturno. La piel, normalmente oculta bajo capas de lino fino, parecía pálida y vulnerable bajo la luz parpade del fuego. El horror comenzó con un acto de inmersión deliberada. Lucía, con la ayuda de una polea rudimentaria que a veces usaban para levantar sacos pesados, lo levantó y lo sumergió, vivo, pero inconsciente, en el aceite que ahora comenzaba a burbujear.

El primer contacto del aceite caliente con la piel provocó un siseo violento, un sonido agudo que cortó el aire de la noche. El cuerpo de don Rodrigo se convulsionó instantáneamente, un espasmo reflejo que lo despertó de su letargo inducido. Sus ojos se abrieron de golpe, la confusión inicial rápidamente reemplazada por una comprensión de puro y absoluto terror.

Un grito gutural, inhumano brotó de su garganta. pero fue ahogado por el crepitar del aceite. La piel comenzó a derretirse. Capas de epidermis y grasa se deshacían en burbujas que estallaban en la superficie, liberando un olor nauseabundo a carne quemada que rápidamente dominó el aroma terroso del aceite de palma.

Su grasa corporal explotaba en pequeñas llamaradas, convirtiéndolo en una antorcha humana que se retorcía y gritaba. Sus ojos fritos en sus órbitas estallaron con un sonido húmedo, liberando un pus amarillento que se mezcló con lágrimas de agonía. Lucía observaba su rostro impasible, una máscara de serenidad mortal.

Mientras él se debatía, sus miembros carbonizándose en costras negras que se agrietaban para revelar el músculo rojo y pulsante debajo, ella comenzó a cantar en kikongo. Eran las canciones que su abuela le cantaba. No canciones de cuna, sino cantos de guerra, invocaciones a los espíritus vengadores. Pelo fogo dos meus, tua carne alimenta os espíritus famintos.

Entonaba su voz una melodía oscura sobre la sinfonía de crepitación y gritos. El olor a carne quemada atrajo a las moscas que zumbaban alrededor de la paila como un enjambre de almas en pena. Cuando los gritos de don Rodrigo finalmente se extinguieron en un gorgoteo final, Lucía regresó a la casa. El veneno había funcionado de manera diferente en los niños.

El hijo mayor Rodrigo estaba profundamente dormido. Las gemelas más pequeñas se acurrucaban juntas en un sofá también inconscientes. Arrastró al niño a continuación. Era más ligero, pero la tarea no fue menos sombría. lo llevó al caldero colectivo, donde los restos de su padre seguían cocinándose. Lo desnudó y, sin dudarlo, lo sumergió con las piernas por delante.

El niño se despertó con el shock del dolor abrazador. Su aullido fue agudo y penetrante. El grito de un animal joven atrapado en una trampa mortal. La piel de sus piernas se desprendía en copos como escamas de pescado podrido. Las burbujas de aceite hirviéndole entraban por la boca, abierta en un grito eterno que fue silenciado por el líquido mortal. Finalmente fue el turno de las gemelas.

Las levantó juntas, sus pequeños cuerpos inertes en sus brazos. Por un instante, un fugaz destello de algo parecido a la duda cruzó su rostro. Eran su carne, su sangre. Pero la imagen de don Rodrigo, la memoria de las noches de violación, el eco de sus risas crueles endurecieron su corazón de nuevo. Eran la semilla del opresor.

Las arrojó a la paila como si fueran ofrendas a mami, la deidad de las aguas traicioneras que tanto da como quita. Sus carnes tiernas frieron con un chasquido agudo. La grasa espirró, salpicando como la sangre en los sacrificios de antaño. Sus cabellos rizados se incendiaron, creando una aureola de llamas azules que iluminaron brevemente sus rostros.

Ahora máscaras grotescas distorsionadas por un dolor que nunca podrían expresar. Lucía se quedó junto al fuego durante horas, alimentando las llamas, observando como los cuerpos se desintegraban, se reducían a una masa informe de huesos y tejido carbonizado, flotando en la sopa rojiza y espesa.

El aire de Cartagena, ya pesado, se cargó con el humo de su pira funeraria. No sentía triunfo ni alegría. Sentía un vacío inmenso, la calma que sigue a la tormenta más violenta. Había realizado su ritual, había alimentado a los espíritus. El banquete había terminado. Las máscaras habían caído, revelando la cruda y brutal verdad que se escondía bajo la superficie de la vida colonial.

El amanecer llegó con una luz pálida y enfermiza que se filtró sobre los tejados de Cartagena. El estruendo del carnaval se había reducido a un murmullo lejano, dejando trás de sí calles sucias y eledor alcohol y sudor. En el patio de la cazona de don Rodrigo, el fuego bajo la paila se había extinguido, dejando solo brasas humeantes.

Una capa de grasa solidificada comenzaba a formarse en la superficie del aceite, ocultando parcialmente los horrores que contenía. El descubrimiento fue hecho por una de las sirvientas más jóvenes, una muchacha llamada Inés, enviada a despertar a la familia. Al encontrar las habitaciones vacías y la casa en un silencio sepulcral, su creciente pánico la llevó al patio de servicio.

El olor la golpeó primero, un hedor acre y repulsivo a carne quemada que se aferraba a la garganta. Entonces vio la paila, asomándose con temor. Su grito rasgó el silencio de la mañana, lo que vio la marcaría para siempre. Restos humanos carbonizados, fragmentos de huesos y trozos de carne crujiente flotando en una sopa oleosa y oscura. El escándalo estalló como un barril de pólvora.

Las autoridades coloniales, lideradas por el capitán de la guardia, un hombre severo llamado Morales, llegaron rápidamente. La escena era tan macabra que incluso los soldados más curtidos apartaron la vista. Lucía fue encontrada en su pequeño cuarto, sentada en su catre, con la mirada perdida en la distancia. No se resistió al arresto. Su calma era desconcertante, casi inhumana.

La noticia se extendió por Cartagena como una plaga. La esclava Congo que frió a su amo y a sus hijos. La historia se contaba en susurros, en los mercados, en las tabernas, en los salones de la élite. Era una mezcla de horror y fascinación morbosa. Para los esclavos era un acto de rebelión casi mítico. Para los amos la confirmación de sus peores miedos sobre la barbarie de los africanos.

Lucía fue encarcelada en las mazmorras del castillo de San Felipe, un lugar húmedo y oscuro donde la esperanza iba a morir. Fue interrogada, pero apenas habló. Su silencio era su última fortaleza. Mientras tanto, el capitán Morales, un hombre metódico y poco dado a las explicaciones simplistas, ordenó un registro exhaustivo de la casona.

No creía que la historia fuera tan simple como un acto de venganza de una esclava enloquecida. Algo no encajaba. fue durante este registro en un pequeño cofre de madera escondido bajo el suelo de la habitación de Lucía, donde encontraron el punto de inflexión de toda la historia, un fajo de cartas. Estas no eran las cartas de Lucía, estaban escritas en un español refinado con una caligrafía elegante.

Eran cartas de amor, pero de una naturaleza profundamente perturbadora. Estaban firmadas por R y dirigidas a mi querido D. Aquí es donde la narrativa da un vuelco completo. El tensuan del Kishotenketsu, la reviravolta que redefine todo. Las cartas leídas por un Morales cada vez más atónito, no eran de don Rodrigo a alguna amante.

La caligrafía pertenecía a Rodrigo Hijo, el primogénito de apenas 14 años. Y el destinatario, mi querido D, era Diego, el hijo de una familia vecina, también de la élite criolla. Las cartas revelaban un secreto devastador. Rodrigo, hijo y Diego mantenían una relación amorosa clandestina, pero el contenido iba mucho más allá del afecto prohibido.

Las cartas detallaban el profundo odio que Rodrigo Hijo sentía por su padre. lo describía como un monstruo tiránico, un hipócrita laivo que abusaba de su madre, la esposa legítima de don Rodrigo, una mujer española que había muerto años atrás oficialmente de fiebres tropicales y de las esclavas por igual. Pero la revelación más impactante estaba en las últimas cartas.

Rodrigo Hijo, desesperado por escapar del control de su padre y heredar su fortuna para poder huir con Diego, había ideado un plan monstruoso. Escribió a Diego, “Mi padre es un obstáculo, un tumor que debe ser extirpado y mis hermanas son solo extensiones de su tiranía, sus pequeñas espías. He encontrado la manera. Usaré a la Congo.

Su odio hacia él es una herramienta perfecta. La convenceré. Manipularé su dolor. Le haré creer que los espíritus de sus ancestros le piden venganza. Le daré las hierbas. Le enseñaré la dosis. Ella será el instrumento, la mano que sostendrá el cuchillo. Pero la voluntad será la mía. Cuando todo haya terminado, ella será culpada, una simple esclava salvaje que se volvió loca. Y nosotros, mi querido D, seremos libres.

De repente la historia se invirtió. Lucía no era la mente maestra de una venganza ancestral, había sido una marioneta. El verdadero monstruo no era solo el Padre, sino también el Hijo, quien, consumido por su propio deseo de libertad y poder, había planeado el asesinato de toda su familia.

Había manipulado la espiritualidad de Lucía, sus creencias, su dolor, convirtiendo su genuino sufrimiento en el arma para su propio y egoísta fin. Morales se dio cuenta de que las visiones de Lucía, los susurros de los ancestros, probablemente habían sido alimentados y dirigidos por el joven Rodrigo. Él le había proporcionado las hierbas somníferas. Él había plantado la idea del banquete final.

Él había convertido a Lucía en la ejecutora de su propio parricidio y fratricidio. El horror del acto de Lucía no disminuía, pero ahora estaba envuelto en una capa de tragedia aún más profunda, la de la manipulación y la traición. Ella había creído estar llevando a cabo un acto de justicia cósmica, un ritual de liberación para su pueblo, cuando en realidad estaba siendo utilizada de la manera más cruel posible.

La revelación de las cartas cambió la percepción del público y de las autoridades. La narrativa de la esclava salvaje se desmoronó, reemplazada por una saga mucho más oscura de depravación dentro de la propia élite criolla. El escándalo ya no era sobre la rebelión de un esclavo, sino sobre la podredumbre moral que anidaba en el corazón de las familias más poderosas de Cartagena.

Lucía, la asesina, se convirtió también en una víctima, un peón en un juego mucho más siniestro de lo que nadie podría haber imaginado. La revelación contenida en las cartas de Rodrigo Hijo sacudió los cimientos de la sociedad cartagenera. El capitán Morales, con el fajo de cartas como prueba irrefutable, presentó sus hallazgos al gobernador.

El escándalo que antes se centraba en la figura aterradora de Lucía, ahora se desviaba hacia la inimaginable corrupción de la juventud dorada de la colonia. La familia de Diego fue inmediatamente puesta bajo escrutinio y el joven fue arrestado e interrogado. Acorralado y aterrorizado, Diego confesó todo, corroborando la historia de manipulación y el plan macabro orquestado por Rodrigo Hijo.

El juicio que siguió fue el evento más comentado en décadas. Ya no era solo el juicio de una esclava asesina, sino un espejo que reflejaba la decadencia de la clase dominante. Sin embargo, la justicia colonial tenía sus propias y retorcidas prioridades. A pesar de la abrumadora evidencia de que Lucía había sido manipulada, ella había cometido los actos, había arrastrado los cuerpos, había encendido el fuego, había observado mientras se consumían. Para la ley, su mano era la que había ejecutado el crimen y la ley

no podía permitirse el precedente de que un esclavo, sin importar las circunstancias, pudiera matar a su amo y quedar impune. El fiscal, un hombre ambicioso que buscaba congraciarse con la élite aterrorizada, argumentó que, si bien la manipulación era un factor atenuante, no absolvía a Lucía de su naturaleza inherentemente violenta.

He portrayed her as a perfect vessel for evil, a pot that young Rodrigo had simply filled with his poison. The defense, a court-appointed lawyer with little conviction, could barely mount a coherent argument against the enormity of the charges. Lucía remained silent for most of the trial.

When she was finally given the opportunity to speak, she looked directly into the judge’s eyes and said, “In broken but firm Spanish, he promised me the return of my gods. He promised me that fire would cleanse the land. I was deceived. But the fire, the fire was real. His words were not a plea for mercy, but a statement of fact.

The confession of a betrayed faith. The verdict was as expected. Lucía was found guilty of multiple murders. The sentence was death by garrote, one of the cruelest methods of execution, reserved for the most heinous crimes. After the execution, her body would be dismembered and fried in oil, a grotesque parody of her own crime.

The pieces would be hung on hooks in public squares as a warning to any other slave who harbored thoughts of rebellion. The execution was scheduled to take place in the main square, in front of the cathedral. On the appointed day, a crowd gathered. It was a grim sight. Slaves, merchants, soldiers—all were there to witness the final act of this tragedy. Lucia was led to the gallows.

Her face showed no fear, only infinite weariness. As the executioner placed the iron collar around her neck, her eyes scanned the crowd, not seeking sympathy, but as if searching for something or someone beyond the visible world. When the tourniquet turned, her neck snapped with a dry crack. Her body convulsed and then lay still. But the story did not end with her death.

The second part of the sentence was carried out with performative brutality. His body was taken down, dismembered, and, in a pan brought to the plaza, his remains were fried in palm oil before the horrified and fascinated gaze of the crowd.

The smell of burnt flesh, the same smell that had filled the courtyard of Don Rodrigo’s mansion, now permeated the heart of the city. The blackened pieces of his body were hung on hooks like macabre artifacts. They became a powerful and ambiguous symbol. For the ruling class, they were a reminder of the restored order, of the power of colonial law.

But for the enslaved population and many of the city’s poor, those charred remains represented something more. They were the relics of a martyr, a woman whose immense suffering had driven her to a terrible act, but who had ultimately been betrayed by the very system that oppressed her. The curse, however, transcended Lucia’s physical death and the execution of her sentence. The story became legend, and the legend began to manifest its own dark power.

Lucía’s death and the public display of her remains did not bring peace to Cartagena. Instead, they seemed to unleash a kind of collective madness, a curse that clung to the city like the smell of rancid grease. Lucía’s essence, her ninquisi, her wronged and betrayed spirit, found no rest.

According to the legend that quickly spread through the slave quarters and kitchens of the city, his spirit had become attached to that which had been the instrument of his crime and his punishment: boiling palm oil. The curse began to manifest itself in subtle but terrifying ways. Cooks in the large houses, while frying fritters or fish, would begin to go mad. They swore they saw things in the bubbling oil.

Some spoke of a woman’s face forming on the surface, with amber eyes staring down at them from the depths of the cauldron. Others—and this was the most chilling—claimed to see small, childlike hands emerging from the boiling oil, hands that tried to grab their throats and drag them down. Several cooks were found dead in their kitchens.

With expressions of pure terror, their bodies strangely unharmed, the hysteria grew. Cases were reported of people found dead in their bathtubs, the water cold, but their bodies scalded, their skin peeling off like old, damp paper, as if they had been boiled from the inside out. No one could explain it.

The doctors of the time spoke of malignant vapors or sudden fevers, but the people in the street knew the truth. It was Lucia’s curse. Don Rodrigo’s mansion was abandoned. No one dared to buy it, much less live in it. It was said that on sweltering nights, when the Caribbean wind blew through the broken windows, one could hear the ghostly hiss of an eternal frying pan.

Sometimes a whisper seemed to travel on the breeze, a woman’s voice saying in a mixture of Spanish and an unknown African language: “O aceite une, e devora os opresores, no calor esquecimento. Oil unites and devours oppressors in the heat of forgetfulness.” The legend of Lucía de Cartagena became a cautionary tale, a ghost story told to frighten children, but also a powerful, subterranean reminder of the brutality of the colonial system.

Her story became a foundational myth of the city’s dark side. It was no longer just the story of a slave, a master, and their children. It was the story of how violence begets more violence, how oppression can twist the human soul beyond recognition, and how injustice, once unleashed, can leave an echo that resonates through generations.

Over time, the historical details faded, swallowed up by the myth, Rodrigo Jr.’s manipulation, the letters, the trial. All of that became a footnote to the main story, which was most powerful in its simple, brutal form: the slave who fried her master. But the truth of the manipulation added a layer of tragedy that made her curse all the more comprehensible.

It wasn’t just the spirit of a murderess; it was the spirit of a woman who had been robbed of everything, including her own vengeance. In the kitchens of Cartagena, for centuries, cooks would eye the pans of boiling oil with suspicion.

And on hot nights, when the air is thick and the past feels close, some still swear they smell a faint scent of burnt flesh on the wind and hear a whisper promising that oil binds everything together and that in the warmth of oblivion, debts are always paid. Lucía’s story became an indelible scar on the soul of Cartagena, a perpetual reminder of the price of cruelty. Centuries passed, and Cartagena de Indias was transformed.

The walls, which once enclosed a society of masters and slaves, now surround a tourist treasure. Its cobblestone streets are strolled by visitors from all over the world. The colonial mansions, once symbols of power and oppression, have been transformed into boutique hotels, luxury restaurants, and museums. The house that belonged to Don Rodrigo de Armentia, after more than a century of abandonment and ruin, was finally demolished and rebuilt.

Its somber history, buried beneath new foundations and whitewashed walls in vibrant colors. Yet some stories are like oil; they seep deep into the wood, stain the stone, and never truly disappear. The legend of Lucía de Cartagena survived. It ceased to be a scandalous news story and became folklore, a whisper in the city’s collective memory.

The story was told by grandmothers not only as a horror story to discipline children, but as a complex parable about pain, injustice, and the terrible forms that revenge can take. The figure of Lucía became an archetype.

For some, she remained the fritter woman, a nightmarish specter associated with the smell of hot oil and the crackling sound of frying. Street vendors of arepas de huevo and carimañolas, while handling their large pans, sometimes made the sign of the cross, half in earnest, half out of tradition, to ward off her spirit. Spilling oil was believed to be a bad omen, an invitation for Lucía’s sorrow to visit the kitchen.

For others, especially in circles of scholars of Afro-Caribbean history and among practitioners of African-derived religions that secretly survived, the image of Lucía was more complex. She was seen as a tragic spirit, a tortured soul whose immense spiritual strength was perverted and manipulated.

She was not a demon to be feared, but an ancestor to be understood. Her story served as a brutal reminder that resistance, when stripped of its own agency and truth, can become just another tool in the oppressor’s hands.

The revelation of the cards, though often omitted from popular versions of the tale, was at the heart of its tragedy. The woman who sought cosmic justice was reduced to a pawn in a sordid family drama. The curse also evolved. It no longer manifested as unexplained deaths or literal apparitions. It transformed into something more subtle, a cultural anxiety.

The hiss of oil in the pan on a silent night. A shadow dancing strangely in the light of the stove. The feeling of being watched in the solitude of an old kitchen. Lucía’s curse became the personification of the city’s guilty conscience. The tacit acknowledgment that Cartagena’s vibrant beauty was built on a foundation of unspeakable suffering.

In modern times, the story took on new forms. Visual artists portrayed her not as a monster, but as a figure of pain and power, with amber eyes ablaze. Writers and poets reclaimed her voice, imagining the songs she sang, the prayers to Ensambi, the curses woven with allspice; she became a potent symbol of female resistance and the brutality of slavery.

A somber counterpoint to the romanticized image of the colonial past. Such is the story of Lucía de Cartagena, the slave who fried her master and his children in palm oil in 1715. It is finished, but not over. It lingers in the salty breeze that carries the smell of fried food from the Getsemaní market, in the dryness of the stone walls of the historic center, and in the depths of the eyes of a people who have learned to live with their ghosts.

The oil that united and consumed the oppressors in 1715 continues to bind the past and the present, ensuring that in the warmth of memory, oblivion is never complete. The oily scar on Cartagena’s soul has never truly disappeared; it has only learned to shine under the Caribbean sun.