Culture In A Three Cycle Chukwuemerie Udekwe   © Copyright 2023 by Chukwuemerie Udekwe

Photo of the author.

The aged man with white hair was saying this with pain-stained lips and a disappointed heart. “It isn’t a must to give masquerade money.” Except for his curried expression of pity, there was nothing else convincing about him. He looked unkempt, with disheveled hair and a heavily tattered shirt. Illiteracy was apparent, and one only needed to seek refuge in the supposed wisdom of his age. Let it be said again: what an elderly man sees sitting, children cannot see standing.

But he was becoming more convincing, like one who was sure he did not need to be literate to appraise socio-cultural issues. “Eziokwu, oburo iwu na-aga eme muonwu. It’s a thing of choice,” he added, letting out his first English. Then, to remind us that he was neither a master of the language nor cared about it, he mindlessly continued. “Those boys are very wickedness (wicked.) You would have been there to see how they flogged that old papa. They are a very wickedness (wicked) set of people.”

“Exactly, no lespect for erdels,” (no respect for elders) interrupted the passenger sitting right beside me. His palpable lallation was disturbing. “Mmuonwu bu (masquerade is) when he comes and dances or plaises (praises) you, you give him money if you want to appleciate (appreciate). Now, they will just forcing (force) you like him (he) give (gave) you money to hole for him.” The ‘hole was standing for ‘hold,' but he either did not deem the ‘d’ necessary or was totally oblivious to it. Then they continued to berate the ugly development rearing its head.

I never joined conversations on public transportation. No matter how comic, irritating, or exciting the topic. The only exception I can recall happened months ago on a bus heading from Agulu to Awka. A young man had told his partner at the other end of the phone that he was just arriving in Lagos and would call him back whenever he returned to Anambra. While others ignored the blatant lie, the young lady beside me could not.

“That is uncalled for,” she rebuked in well-cooked English. “When will people learn to stop lying over the phone and stand their ground in truth?” But since the young man was convinced of the necessity of lies, especially in business dealings, an argument ensued, with the other passengers taking sides. Then, just as the argument was about to tilt in favour of the lady, the young man made a witty remark that left everyone toppling over in laughter.

“Will you reach Eke Awka?” the man asked, leaving the young lady somewhat offended. She had thought that the man was unnecessarily trying to take advantage of the argument. But having been convinced that it was just a harmless question that would not lead to asking for her number or a date, she answered.

“Ok. Fine.” The young man continued. “To show you the importance of lying in business, when you get to Eke Awka, you do see some people offering Glo SIM cards free of charge. Go to them, and see if money won’t come out of your purse in the end.”

At this point, I could not hold myself together. I laughed so boisterously. Shaking to and fro and wanting to fall. But all those were also in my mind since I did not let a sound or any external movement in.

But today, I was reacting to the discussion, not because of its comic nature but because of its pertinent and realistic nature. While masquerading is becoming synonymous with the quiddity of Igbo, say, African culture, it is also becoming a perennial problem, fanned by the embers of fanaticism, hoodlums, and societal miscreants.

When the driver spoke for the first time, he seemed to be picking his words from my mind’s lips. “Ndi na eme mmuonwu kita (Those who currently wear masquerade) are mainly tobacco boys. They take tobacco and Tramadol before wearing their masks. Nonsense people. Let the proverbial ants’ hill kill them there. They say that is where they come from, right?”

I was touched because just three days ago, I had been ignominiously flogged by a lad who felt he was dedicatedly celebrating the Imo Awka festival. Having alighted at Aroma Junction and paid the driver with the fulfillment of a man who just completed a business transaction, no matter how slight it was, a young lad rushed towards me with a big stick. Then, before his weapon hit the upper part of my right leg, he said, “o ka inwe ihe iga akoro ma ina” (it's so you can have a story to tell when you reach home).

He wanted me to have a story for my people at home.

With feelings more like shame than pain, I continued with my journey. That was not the kind of story I would love to tell. Stories of a culture that inflicts pain and impedes human rights and freedom Stories of a culture that forcefully stifles economic activities for days, whereas at the very heart of an Igbo man are tufts of several economic ambitions waiting to be explored.

But my people seem to have left hoodlums—those who do not know where the rains started to beat them nor the times when the air was land for the squirrel—to snatch our culture from us, tearing every piece of it that binds us together. Today, Chinua Achebe’s Okonkwo would not have to battle the European Missionaries, but his very own kinsmen.

In the stories I would like to tell, I would not like to include the many unfortunate young men who claim to celebrate our culture with bottles of beer clung to their hands along the major roads, incessantly causing havoc and harassing passersby.

When did our culture become a dance one performs with snuff in the hand?

Miscreants who have forgotten that a fundamental part of ndi Igbo (Igbo people) is love for foreigners. Foreigners, whom they now flog and extort money from. Are they still brothers in a foreign land?

Nwanne o ka dikwa na mba? (Does one still have a neighbour in a foreign land?)

But these are the stories I am forced to tell today. My offensive friend with the big stick has succeeded. I still see him hitting me again and again in my dreams, with mockery in his voice and glee in his eyes.

But for how long?

How long must it take for us to realize that culture na eto eto—that it grows—and then do the needful? If I long to experience the Calabar festival and the Argungu festival, if people travel from afar only to witness them, but I cringe at the Imo Awka festival, and people refrain from ambling the Awka axes and those of other towns when my own kinsmen celebrate theirs, then something is wrong. Then we must act quickly. Lest our precious culture a na ka nayi (dies).

Lest we end up empty-handed like Aaron.

We do not want to be part of a culture that is alien to life, inflicts pain, and celebrates it. We do not.

Oh, we do.

What do I know?