THE JOURNEY FOR AFRICAN MASQUERADES, page 2 of chapter 4

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Page 2 of chapter 4

Janet: “Where can I obtain one?”
Ifày?mí: “See that two-storey building just ahead? That’s the administration office.”
Janet: “Thank you. I’ll head there now.”
She moved swiftly to the designated building, determined to legitimise her presence.
Janet: “How much is the permit for video and photography?” she asked the attendant at the reception desk.
Attendant: “Fifty thousand naira. With the permit, you’ll receive a festival vest clearly marked ‘Photographer,’ a cap, and an official badge. These will grant you unrestricted access along the parade route, including proximity to the Eyo masquerades, drummers, and performers.”
Janet: “Excellent,” she replied, producing the fee without hesitation.
Vest, cap, and badge in hand, she changed quickly, slipping the vest over her T-shirt. She now bore the insignia of official documentation—and was eager to wield the privilege.
It was time.
The Eyo masquerades were about to make their grand emergence from the Ìlè Òrì?à—the House of the gods. Janet stationed herself among the cadre of accredited photographers clustered near the sacred gateway, camera poised.
Then, one by one, the masquerades began to appear—each an embodiment of ritual splendour, until the final figure stepped forth and the crowd exhaled in hushed reverence.
Janet (murmuring to herself): “These costumes are nothing like the ones in my village. Ours are made from palm fronds, with simple carved headpieces.”
What she witnessed here, however, defied all comparison.
The Eyo were robed entirely in spectral white. Towering cylindrical headdresses—almost double the height of the wearers—crowned each figure. Wrapped in layers of pristine cloth, the headpieces shimmered under the sun. Each layer overlapped by half a metre, descending in sacred folds that numbered seven or eight depending on the wearer’s stature. The effect was hypnotic—otherworldly. Celestial.
Janet stepped forward, recording every moment. Her camera trembled slightly—not from instability, but from awe.
The drummers, singers, and dancers took their marks with the poise of veteran performers. Then came the first percussive thud—a heartbeat in rhythm with the divine. From deep within the ensemble, a chant emerged, rising with fervour and precision:
“Eyo ti dé, Eyo fún mi, Eyo fún ra rè.
Eyo òní ò ní lé òlá, Eyo èmi bàbá,
Eyo ó, Eyo ó, Eyo nítìwá.”
Translation:
Eyo has arrived—Eyo for me, Eyo for you.
Today’s Eyo shall not fade—Eyo, spirit of our forebears,
Eyo is here. Eyo is ours. Eyo belongs to us all.

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