In
a very real sense, traditional African theater is something done to
be seen, heard, and felt. It makes its appeal through arresting
visual modes, music, song, dance and minimal verbal dialogue. Often
staged in the form of a festival, it is intensely spectacular and
total in its modes of dramatic attack and presentation of action.
I
always looked forward with childlike glee to participating in it
while growing up in my country home in Nigeria.
I
did not have to manage my expectations for long because festivals
kept unfolding almost round the year. Especially on moon-swept
nights, there were festivals that imaginatively expressed salient
aspects of our culture.
Some
enabled maskers to bring back the spirits of deified ancestors to
physically interact with the community. Others impersonated and
invoked the spirit of children. Through this, it was believed, the
barren would receive blessings and the land renewed.
There
were also festivals that celebrated the main occupations of the
villagers, such as farming, fishing, pottery, carving, and several
other vocations. Some served to advance gender interests. Every
festival had a message that appealed to some aspect of our cultural
life.
To
us, festivals were like a lighthouse. While they basically
entertained, they also examined the course of our lives and sought to
correct deviations from the norm. Thus they brought vital balance to
communal life and helped to cleanse it from issues that invited
divine wrath and cosmic disasters.
It
was clear that the festivals were tied to various aspects of our
traditional religion. This being the case, rites, ceremonies and
rituals associated with the deities of the community were often
enacted in the course of the festivals. So apart from the delight
they afforded, the driving forces behind our festivals were to move
the communal narrative from wrong to right, from abuse to wellbeing,
injustice to justice, and despair to hope, love, acceptance and from
vulnerability to validation and strength.
Festivals
asked community members to nurture compassion and understanding for
those facing adversities or struggling with issues that went against
the grain of common acceptance. Essentially, our festivals sought to
deepen spirituality and the power of community. They tried to help
society to deal with its hang-ups, to speak to its deepest core and
tether it to its mooring masts.
However,
as we made contact with Western civilization, early Christian
converts started perceiving these festivals as pagan and idol
worship. To take part in the masking in these festivals, one had to
belong to the cult group staging them. Members were recruited through
initiatory ceremonies.
As
early converts to Christianity, my parents renounced their
memberships and forbade us from belonging. This inevitably led to a
conflict at home. Many of my associates at school and in the village
playground belonged to some of these cults. Some were initiated at
birth or by their cousins and uncles as soon as they were six years
old.
I
remember an incident that happened early in my life. It was the
season when the festival of the spirits of children made the land
ready for rebirth. It was a time that barren women and farmers whose
crops had failed or indeed anyone in need of youthful transformation
looked up to.
Boys
from age six through nineteen who belonged to the Ekpo Ntok Ayen cult
were often rapturous at this time of the year. I was about a first
grader, and the devotees who were my classmates taunted me
mercilessly for my non-membership in the cult. But my parents ignored
my misery.
However,
someone noticed and acted. An uncle who had not given in to the new
craze of Christianity thought my parents had overreached themselves
by denying me the opportunity to take part in the masking, dancing,
singing and procession. Secretly he counseled me to obey my parents’
objection while he did “something” about it.
He
assured me I would participate in the festival, though he did not say
how. To take part, one needed to be a member of the cult. One also
needed the costume and the mask to go with it. I had none of these
requirements, but since I and the uncle had pulled off many
conspiracies before now I trusted his words (though not without some
anxiety).
For
one, my mother was whip-happy and brooked no disobedience. For
another, there was no love lost between her and my favorite uncle. I
had no idea how the uncle intended to outsmart my parents and get me
into the cult.
When
the day came for the festival to start and my uncle had not showed
up, I was crushed and disappointed. I was crestfallen and about to
start crying when I heard the throbbing drumming coming from the
direction of the village square and my uncle stepped into the house.
Neither of my parents was home, and so my uncle hurriedly whisked me
away.
Though
relieved, I still could not figure out how I was going to participate
as one of the dancing maskers, being that I was not initiated, and
had neither mask nor costume. Unknown to me, my uncle had it all
planned ahead of time. When he got me to his house, he handed me a
mask he had carved himself. He
had crafted into it our family totem of a lion with a draping mane.
The
head gear that went with it was adorned with brilliant rooster,
parrot and peacock feathers. I was so instantly besotted it that I no
longer bothered what my parents might do when they found out Uncle
had sneaked me into the festival.
Uncle
immediately dressed me up in a costume of dyed raffia he had designed
for me. He painted my body with clay and native chalk. He then walked
me to the village arena.
When
we arrived the atmosphere was already suffused with heavy drumming
and excitement. Ours was a stage without curtains. The actors and the
audience melded as men, women, children and the masquerades danced
and sang away as if they had no care in the world.
The
lead drummer who played seven talking drums all by himself was also
the choreographer of action. He was supported by orchestra members
who worked at an infinite variety of instruments including slit
bamboo and metal gongs, rattlers, clappers, beaded calabashes and
assorted other drums made by stretching goat hide over hollowed wood.
The
lead drummer soon halted the collective performance and summoned the
maskers into action. Each masquerade was hailed by his praise name.
The first to be called was The Big Tree Who Sheltered Ancestral
Spirit Children.
This
masquerade sway, rolled, and towered into the dancing stage heralded
by ululations, shouts and praises especially by women in need of
children and by appreciative mothers and fathers as well. It was
followed by the Eagle, who was swift and spirited in dance steps.
Then the masker who impersonated the river — the life force of
the community — was called into action.
Its
praise name was “The River Who Drowns a Child Yet Its Mother
Drinks from It.” That masker represented the duality of life
and the contiguity of good and evil.
After
a long list of maskers, I was eventually called to take my stand. My
praise name was “Anyone Who Embraces You Finds Solutions to
Life Challenges.” The drummer, a family member, reeled out our
family history and heritage. I was the great-grandson of the warrior
who founded the village. Our ancestors had tamed jungles and the
wildlife in it, the drummer spoke through his drums.
When
he drummed how great-grandfather had crossed seven seas and beheaded
the seven-headed spirit to found our village, my kinsmen and women
exploded with applause.
Inebriated
by the cheers I sauntered in and tripped over. My folks shouted
encouragements. I quickly picked myself up and gyrated in synch with
the pulsating rhythms. Again both audience and performers came
together in an explosive dance of possession.
The
drummers, by now intoxicated by their own music, made their
instruments mimic and mime our tonal speech patterns. Others bid
their instruments speak in a manner of speech and delivery that
communicated ancient intelligence.
It
was a memorable festival. In later years when I submitted and
defended a dissertation on the interface between oral and scribal
performance traditions in postcolonial drama and theater, it was like
continuing the argument with my parents. I wondered if they were
alive if they still would have held a dim view of our performing
arts.
Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.
Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.