Wonder in White

I grew up in the 1980s in the same house with a sturdy man called Taju. Many years my elder, he was rich, single and smoked a lot. He was the darkest-skinned person I knew, sturdy in frame and his snarl could freeze a teenager; he had such broad and thick palms that I imagined what harm a slap by them could do. He was an Eyo 'masker', the very first I ever knew.

I still recall the sprawling white clothstained at the lower parts with caked mudfolded up and tucked behind the passage door on the ground floor of the house, a cute yellow one-storey building situated on the Lagos mainland. Beside it rested the immaculate Eyo staff (Opambata). Both were testament to a fanfare that happened the previous day, and at which Taju had played, no doubt, an active part.

Somehow, I knew that the festival involved some aggression among the active partakers. I also picked up bits of information from adults around, including brief clips on TV, from which I formed the notion that the Adamu Orisha play (as the festival is otherwise called) required stamina. Taju was well formed for the part.

Many years after that initial contact, I saw (and heard) nothing of Lagos' beloved cultural fiesta. Then late in 2000, one was organized to commemorate Nigeria's 40th Anniversary. It was, as usual, a lively procession. I was at Onikan, right in front of the Lagos National Museum. As the Eyo procession approached (and in the minutes of pandemonium that broke), passersby fled in different directions. Though we were mesmerized by the spectacle, we were also frightened. I quickened my steps and hurried into the Museumout of arm's way.

Then, I saw nothing of it againuntil July 2003, when I watched a short documentary on the subject, coincidentally also within the museum premises. “Another Eyo festival will take place in about a fortnight from now,” the man behind the recording said to his audience. My ears stretched. Memories of the ones gone by leapt at me. There and then, I made up mind to be present. Wherever. Whenever.

It took place on Saturday, 2nd August 2003, after two postponements (July 19th and 26th) in honour of Oba Adeyinka Oyekan 11, the longest reigning monarch Lagos has known, who passed on months earlier. “Eyo can't fade out. Nothing can fade it out. It has become the symbol of Lagosit is Lagos' only paramount festival,” one resident told me, “and as long as kings die the Eyo cannot, because the festival is what ushers in a new ruler [on the Island].”

Many talk of Lagos as merely a commercial city, a no-man's land without a culture of its own. Well, it so happens that at the heartland of the State lurks some of the most ravishing cultural assets Nigeria has and the Adamu Orisa play is just a single proof of these. (And there is every reason to trust that it will continue to be one of Nigeria's cultural contributions to the domestic travel trade, if and when it becomes a regular feature.)

At exactly 9.30 pm on Friday 1 August 2003, a formidable procession of bare-chested men in spotless white wrappers filed out from the Iga Iduganran, home of the king of Lagos for over two centuries. They were members of the Eyo Laba Ekun, all of them headed to the northern part the street to perform a role that custom has reserved for themthat of building a delicate, roofless and square-like contraption (with two exits) known as Para or Agodo, an important symbol of the festival.

On both sides of the road, everyone gave way. And from the time the first semblance of 'wall' went up and for five hours afterwards, when the task was completed, that part of the street was off-limits to the average passer-by. It became the playground for the five most senior Eyo groupsAdimu, Laba, Oniko, Ologede, Angerewho each took turns to dance within the walls, urged on by a band of skilled drummers.

Residents, visibly awed, piled onto their balconies and watched the unfolding action in excitement. The natives' open embrace of tradition, plus their enthusiasm became too overwhelming for me to ignore. I joined in the scramble for vantage position on the balconies. And long after the festivities were over, I continued to collect bits after bits of information about the festivalfrom preparation rituals to final execution.

Days before the D Day, I made it a point of duty to visit the vicinity of Isale Eko, the part of Lagos to which the festival is restricted. My interviews with a number of the indigenes offered me certain insightsnative knowledge, hardly known to the casual observer or tourist.

Then I thought I should write a guidebook of this exquisite celebration, which was so significant Lagosians travelled from their bases overseas to participate, largely because I had loads of questions I wanted answered: what is Eyo? Where did it actually originate? What does the festival mean to the average Lagosian? Are there always willing 'carriers' or 'maskers'? Do parents force it on their wards? Who produced the various costumes, where and how were they made? What does it mean to “se de” or “Ko la ba”? How come only five of the masquerade groups have Orishas and the rest do not?

The very day I began the quest I walked into some fortune. A genial policeman had pointed me to the place I ought to begin. I walked into the Atiku Abubarkar Centre for Research, located inside the Iga Idunganran, where I met a journalist whose path and mine had crossed one or two times previously, the last of which was in 2002 during the Black Heritage Festival in Badagry. I decided to tell her what it was I was after. Who knows, she just might know something. Indeed, she did. A former reporter with the Lagos Horizon (now defunct), she had covered the Eyo festival more than once. “Each time, my editor made sure it made the front page,” she said, flipping through the day's paper.

She told me, rather presciently, that I would get more information than I could ever use. The Eyo families, she added, “love publicitythey are willing to tell people things about Eyo”. Later that evening, she introduced me to Deinde Onimole, who was himself a masker for years up till 1974. But for my meeting him, I may never have known how exalted (and strategic) both the Onimole Court and the Ojubo Yewa (on Iduganran Street) is to both the festival as well as every Iwuye (Coronation) ceremony that holds on the Lagos Island. It was just my lucky day.

Once in a blue moon

The Eyo festival typically does not hold on an annual basis, as most other established festivals worldwide do. Whenever it is staged, it means the good deed of a departed prominent Lagosian is being celebrated, an important occasion is being marked, or a widely respected personality is visiting Lagos. And so there have been times in the past when, for 21 whole years, the festival wasn't performed. Also, there have been years when the festival took place three (1903, 4), four (1909) or five (1906) times in a single year.

All preparations that lead up to the grand procession of the Eyo festival are rooted in longstanding lore and no one dares to alter the sequence or denigrate any. From the date choosing to the inscriptions and demarcations on the Staff; from which family erects the Para to which one has the exclusive rights to dismantle it; from costume yardage to public conduct when in uniform, every single detail is closely observed and strictly adhered to.

Before a decision is taken on when the festival is to hold, the Ifa oracle must be consulted. It reveals what sacrifices must be offered. “This year (2003), Ifa requested five rams from us,” said Chief Tajudeen Onigemo, the Alagbeji of Lagos who doubles as the custodian of the Eyo Oniko, the third in Eyo hierarchy. “And after the parade is done, we still consult Ifa and do what it says to be done before we hang our staff.”

When the date for the next festival is decided, all the participating Iga (families)sometimes numbering in excess of 80get to work. To be accepted in to any Eyo group or family, intending members go through some sort of tutoring and screening, in the process learning the Aro (chants) entirely by rote. Chants and charms are indispensable trademarks of Eyos. “The chants are almost similar and they are said to the ancestors,” one masker told me. “Each participant learns the much he can and leaves the rest to others with more retentive memories.” I heard it said that some of the charms bandied about lack potencyjust “for fancy”, according to one native.

Part of the tutoring includes practicing how to maneuver in the flowing white garment (Aropale), a skill that requires painstaking practice and devotion. On the festival day, and going by an insider report, “The performers themselves derive considerable ecstasy from their style of movement, dancing and acrobatic displays.” Members, I was also told, of a necessity have to fill forms, append their signatures and present two guarantors. Each participator carries an ID card. 'We want to be sure they are from responsible households,” said Onimole.

Seven days to the event proper, specifically on a Sunday, a vital part of the Eyo script is enacted: the almighty staff goes public. Members of the Eyo Adimu (clour code: black hat on white frock), considered the most senior, go visiting around the Island community. When this happens, the residents need no further confirmation that the festival would take place on the following Saturday. The Eyos Laba (Red hat on white), Oniko (yellow hat on white), Ologede and Angere (Purple hat on white) take their turns (in that order) on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

As in all other features of the festival, the designs and motifs on the staff have meanings. “But to be sincere they don't carry the same weight as they might possibly have in times past,” masker Banji Alade told me on a side street, not too far from the palace. “There were specifications in the past. Nowadays people just do what they like. But what seem to have been retained are the demarcations permissible on the staffit must be seven or nine, never eight or six.” Most of the staff in use is sourced from Badagry, a historic Nigerian border town to the Benin Republic.

The curtain call

At dusk on Friday, Central Lagos was in animated state. Iga Iduganran Street became largely impassable, packed with several thousands going to and fro. Preparations peaked: the tailors, caught up in last-minute rushes, got down to sewing the backlog of white poplin and china material (10 yards per individual), which the owners would need the next morning; the king's palace recieved a few more visitors; celebratory banners hung about; on both sides of the street, so much buying and selling was happening (I took some time off to savour a serving of toast bread, something of a favourite among the residents); in the inner streets and households, the women cooked various delicacies, while the men in some of the compounds discussed excitedly over cigarette, palm wine and beer.

“Families gather on the Island to witness what happens in their homes. They get to know themselves more, interact more,” Chief Tajudeen Onigemo told me. The oracle, he added, is consulted one more time and the principal Eyos offer any rituals as may be directed.

Sometime after midnight, we watched in uttermost thrill as the Eyo Oniko marched flamboyantly to the Agodo to dance. At one intersection on Iduganran Street, I noticed some young men bent over colourful Eyo headgears, fashioned mainly from plywood and asbestos. They didn't appear to be distracted by the hustle and bustle around them. All that mattered at the time, I guessed, was that piece of costume, which must be ready by daylight. Occasionally, individuals dashed past wielding the Eyo Staff, which glimmered in the bright halogen light that dotted the neighbourhood. The music from nearby speakers was as loud as can be.

I stopped to observe the headgear boys at closer range and in a short while got talking to one, a civil servant. “I have carried Eyo on six different occasions,” he told me with every sense of pride. “I started with one of the Eyo Iga (family) and later moved on to the Eyo Angere (the fifth in hierarchy). It is a sort of promotion to move up like this. My next target is the Eyo Oniko.”

By morning, all the men had assumed a new identity. They were now completely robed in Eyo gear, ranting in their “ancestral voice” and wielding the formidable stick. A gentle slap of the staff on the back or staff of another meant a friendly gesture. But add a little more force, it becomes a deliberate assault.

I found a comfortable place to sit inside the Onimole Court, where the Eyo Oshas were duty bound to visit before any other place. It's just another of the enduring rules of the game. There were hundreds of us there. It was a most remarkable thing to behold the superior Eyo Adimu pay homage at the Ojubo Yewa. Then the others began to stream in and file out en route the Oba's palace. In a short time, the whole of Iduganran Street was packed with colour and pageantry. The show, eventually, had started.

It all winds down

Just before noon, I took the short walk from the Onimole Court to the Oba's palace, already brimming with a host of the masquerades in white. Further inside, the main draw was the Imoku, where a false corpse of the deceased king lay in state (in the past, City Hall was the preeminent choice for the symbolic lying-in-state). I walked into a room full sweating folks. Since there were hundreds of persons milling around showing their respect, the room was understandably stuffy.

Four Agas (Eyo hats) of different colours sat on the closed coffin, draped in an assortment of Aso Oke and white shawl. Some Aso Oke material were stuffed into some silverware scattered about the immediate vicinity of the coffin, complemented by a choice selection of decorative plants in purple and white hues. Leaving here, we all streamed to the Idumota area for the Grand Procession, where Governor Bola Tinubu led a host of local and foreign VIPs to observe. They all donned the black hat of the Eyo Adimu.

The procession over, the Eyo Adimu proceeded to Iduganran Street to dismantle the Agodo. It was the only acceptable final whistle.