From boyhood to manhood: A tale of a festival

As a young boy growing up, I had witnessed memorable occasions. From traditional wedding ceremonies to initiation into manhood, (Iwa Akwa), I could recall nearly all of them and count of with my fingers, who wore what and who ate what at those events.

But the ceremonies that really ticked me off were the wearing cloth festivals. A largely men affair and an age grade affair, to -be initiates are tested in courage and resilience in so many ways publicly and privately. In fact in one of them I had witnessed, the young men were mandated to light no fewer than four cannons with small sticks or match sticks!; a very dangerous venture, if you ask me.

But the young men enjoyed it, and nobody was hurt.

A two-day event, the neophytes are led by members of the senior age grade ( those who were initiated three years before them) to a large communal market square shared by over 15 autonomous communities, a distance of more than 25 kilometres. At night, they are meant to stay awake in an open field with their seniors imparting the ideologies of how to survive as a man in them.

The next morning, it is a carnival and merriment all the way with family, friends and well wishers joining the initiates’ train to the market and back.

I heard learnt from elders that earlier or years before I was born, during the Iwa Akwa, as it is called in local parlance, the initiates would carry dane guns or locally fabricated single barrel guns and will only shoot when they get to the market. A pointer to this fact is that a picture of a man carrying a gun on his shoulder is always used as a background of the invitation cards.

However, since dane guns were phasing out and of course risky to operate, the cannon shots took over.

As a way to test their courage they were told to light the cannons.

As a boy the sound terrified me the first time I heard it. But when my friends urged me on, I watched one of my cousins light it, the red flame I saw not only amazed me but sent cold chills down my spine.

Each of the initiates was expected to light two or four cannons and not only be there to hear the sound but also the watch the blinding flame. That was being a man. Courage.

A triennial festival that has been in practise for ages, it brought people together from different parts of the states of the federation and then from neighbouring countries.

Successful men and women who travelled to the United States of America and other countries came back with their friends from there to have a taste of our culture and they loved it.

But for us, it was a ritual that we have been accustomed to.

So, one is surprised to see young beautiful (and I mean beautiful) American lady wearing a khaki short, a cotton blouse with a camcorder recording the proceedings of the festival. That to my friends and I was the festival.

We would follow her, opt to carry her bag and table water just to be close to her and get a view (and a feel) of what she was filming.

The lady would oblige us, smile once in a while and film us. This was it for us. Our joy knew no bounds. You will be an enemy if you come to extricate us from this august visitor and her special equipment.

With time, we got used to the sound and fire associated with the cannon shots. We learnt that or rather observed that neither the sound nor the flame hurt anybody. So we only laughed our hearts out and showed bravery on seeing our lady guest  run for cover, cover her ears or crouch in a corner as the cannons were shot at the peak of the festival. We would lift our shoulders high and walk with swag across her to tell her that we were not really scared of cannons even as young boys.

She would watch us in utter amazement and would only switch to the business of filming on sighting the new initiates, gorgeously dressed, being carried shoulder high out of the marketsqaure  after the traditional blessings from the traditional ruler.

Two decades down the line, it was my turn to undergo this process. It was my turn to cross the bridge from boyhood to manhood.  I was in far away Lagos when the preliminary process started.

My parents had done the registration, but I had to be there.

As a first son, the real first stage after the registration formalities required going to your maternal home to inform them that you are old enough to be a man and will be joining your age grade in the festival at an already scheduled date. This is not done by mere word of mouth. It is a process that if you forgo it, you will not participate in the main festival.

The first part of going to my maternal home was informing members of my age grade and picking a date that is suitable for us.  This is also not done by word of mouth. Tradition demands that you bring some things ranging from kola to bottle of brandy gin among other things. I also had to provide transport for them to and from my maternal home. Above all, I had to provide feeding and you must provide them to get their support lest you are fined.

The event was a huge success. For one, I had come back from Lagos and people attached some importance to this. In fact many of the members of my age grade had specifically told me before the time that they would attend the event rather than to send in representatives as many of them did in the past.

I had to dance from my maternal home to their market square and back.  It was at their market square that I was carried shoulder high and four cannons shot in this respect.

On coming back, it was refreshment all the way. There was a lot to drink and eat. This happened in September and in December, the main festival took place. This festival also recorded a resounding success.

Though hectic, I had thoroughly enjoyed myself since I knew I would come out of it a better person. My friends from far and near were there to support me

My African brothers who have continued to fight for social equality and justice were there till day break to show solidarity and also enjoy our rich cultural heritage.

When the clock ticked 00:00, the soft sounds from the African drums came alive.  Largely not a uniform sound but the lyrics evoked pan-Africans so that when the name s of great Africans and their achievements were reeled out, we go haywire with pride and praises. At this hour of the morning, sleep was afar off.

The next day, it was merriment all the way and for strong men, it continued till you left the village for the city, after all it was no mean feat to be a man.

The implication or social significance of this festival is multi- pronged. The initiate is eligible to be shown a land to build his house by his father.  He is also eligible to take a wife. The third significance of this step is that initiates are eligible to be part of the community meetings where they are also allowed to make meaningful contributions to community development.  Similarly, initiates after the festival are eligible to contribute financially when they are called upon. They are entitled to get shares of gifts allotted to the community.  The dividends accruing from this festival are numerous.

A year on, sitting in front of my laptop and typing away, pursuing my destiny, my father and mother had listed several tubers of yam, large chunks of meat and other food items they got in my name as my share but they also forgot to tell me how much I had contributed !

It was on one of these occasions I heard a ‘plop’ sound indicating an instant message on one of the social networking sites-face book.

It was a friend of mine. In fact a childhood friend of mine. We went to Imo State University Staff Primary School, (now Abia State University Staff primary school) and International Secondary school, Abia State University Uturu (the best school east of the Niger). He was from my clan. We chatted about this and that. He had teased me about getting married since I had performed the Iwa Akwa festival. I told him point blank that I would get married only after he wedded stemming from the fact that he was a couple of years older than I was but was shying away from the festival.

When I botched the topic of Iwa Akwa to him, I was surprised at his response. He is the first son like I am, and he had two younger brothers after him. His reply was simply and short:

“Some elders are proving tough and too wise”. I fired back at him immediately.

“No it is you with your too much academic sense. Do it now, you can. If you don’t it would affect your brothers in many ways”.

 But he was not convinced. I heard another plop sound. It was him. The message read thus:

“The elders in my clan claim they have sons who are older than I am”

This infuriated me. I had faced this challenge during the registration. The age range or bracket was three years. In some cases a mother would slip in a son’s name who was a year younger than the supposed age limit and a boy who maybe a year older, would swear on the grave of his dead grandmother that he would be alive to see the boy be in the same age grade with him.

This is village politics. A wise man would play it by the ear, meet elderly men in the village, talk to them in a language they would understand and the challenge is surmounted.

But the city and life there had taken up the bulk of his time that he did not even give a hoot what happened in the village.

I quickly typed a message and sent to him:

“Discuss this with your mum, it is in your interest”. She would know what to do and how to handle it. It is in your interest.

I only expected him to say alright but the next message I saw jolted me.

“It is in the interest of those who want to stay in the village. I don’t wish to.”

“No”, I started red with fury, “it is part of a process that makes you a man. Unless you are a coward shy away from it. I hope you know that it is only when you conclude this stage in your life that you are eligible to marry. Without performing this rite, you will not be given what is due for you or your family during any ceremony you undertake. It will haunt you for the rest of your life. Elders and those mates that performed the right will keep taunting you.”

Cowed now, he sent another message:

“Ok I will look into it” and he went offline.

I stopped for a thought. What is happening to this generation? Why are those who should be championing the course of reviving these cultures chickening out?

There are features that identify as one ethnic group. This is one of them.

In Africa, it is a long held belief that boys must pass through a stage or cross the bridge to become men. The bridge is the wearing cloth ceremony. It comes in different variations and colorations in all the ethnic groups in the country and continent.

The award winning movie ROOTS lends credence to this fact. Many novels set in Africa or Nigeria and written by Nigerian or African novelists also point in this direction.

It is left for us, the living top cherish that which makes us one with a view to bequeathing it to generations unborn as one of the worthy legacies that unite rather than divide us.

Chukwudi