THE JOURNEY FOR AFRICAN MASQUERADES, page 3 of chapter 4

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Page 3 of chapter 4

And then, they moved.
The Eyo masquerades glided forward, a tide of white surging through the streets of Lagos. The crowd followed like bees to nectar, entranced. The drumming intensified, its cadence merging with the very breath of the city. The chants deepened—threads of memory weaving ancient spirit into modern moment.
This was no mere festival.
It was invocation.
It was ancestral return.
It was Lagos remembering its soul.
At the ceremonial grounds, the Oba—king—and the chief herbalist emerged to perform the sacred rites. The Oba, resplendent in regal fabrics, stepped forward with a white cockerel in his hands. With solemn deliberation, he drew a blade across its throat and raised his voice in prophetic prayer:
Oba: “May this year usher in peace and well-being.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.” (Amen)
Oba: “May all expectant mothers give birth in safety and strength.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
Oba: “May no household know the sorrow of premature death.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
Oba: “May the rains come in their season—gentle and life-giving.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
Oba: “May our farms flourish, and may our granaries overflow.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
Upon conclusion, the king handed the cockerel’s remains to his chief servant. Then the babaláwo—the chief herbalist—stepped forward. Before him lay a modest yet potent tableau: kola nuts, bitter kola, and alligator pepper.
He broke the kola nuts with deliberation, raising them skyward before invoking:
Herbalist: “May Lagos never fall to ruin.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
Herbalist: “May chaos never reign in our land.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
Herbalist: “May every expectant mother birth with joy and safety.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
Herbalist: “May the barren rejoice in new life.”
Crowd: “Àtùsé.”
With ceremonial flair, he tossed a kola nut into the air, caught it deftly, and bit a portion, chewing solemnly. The remainder he distributed among the drummers and singers, an act symbolising communal blessing and ritual harmony.
Instantly, the drums surged.
The singers lifted their voices once more, and the Ìyál?jàs—the revered market queens—broke into dance, their hips swaying in jubilation, their arms raised in thanksgiving.
They sang with uncontainable joy:
“Eyo has heard our cries.
Our fears have vanished; poverty is no more.
Eyo has answered us.”

End of chapter 4

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