About a month to the annual Egungun festival of 2022, I had information that some of my people wanted to revive the masquerade tradition of my extended and famous family, the Adégbọrọ̀ clan of Ibadan, the same Adégbọrọ̀ of Ọ̀jà’ba acclaim, located in the south east end of Ibadan municipal city. The legend of Adégbọrọ̀ is known far and wide, dating back to the second half of the 19th century and spreading across Yorubaland and westwards to present day Benin Republic. The legend of Adégbọrọ̀ has been captured in proverbs and the performances of the family masquerade, and in the meritorious escapades of its sons and daughters across generations.
The last time the Adégbọrọ̀ masquerade sailed and performed at the king’s square was in 1972, the same year that the family mosque was built and opened for use. I recall that my parents were fully involved in the mosque project with my father as coordinator and mother as part financier. This was the period when religious syncretism was taken for granted; with about a household made of Christians and all other households predominated by Muslims, everyone was committed to the annual egungun festival and the grand performance of Adégbọrọ̀ laced with songs, dance and food. Èkuru, the finely cooked paste of bean flour, was the delicacy of the festival. We had an ensemble of four masquerades in my family: Adégbọrọ̀, the most senior, patriarch and most famous; Eléékò, his acolyte and next most important; and Òwúyẹ́ and Adínimódò, both of who were regarded as playful songsters and herald of Adégbọrọ̀.
While the masquerade festival lasted, as long as I could remember, I was always part of the celebrations. Only once did I perform as tòm̀bòlò, child masquerade, alongside the other senior masquerades. I was the favourite one of the chief priest, and I saw a bit of the rituals that preceded the actual sailing of the masquerades. Only men and a few senior women were allowed into the precincts, the parlor of the rituals. The annual festival began with a night vigil of praisesongs of the clan of warriors, hunters, farmers and artisans. The constant songs were about the immaculate beauty of Adégbọrọ̀, of the escapades of the grand patriarch Abídogun (of Igboho ancestry) and of my grandfather, Òjóẹkùn the one who gave the name to one of our villages, himself famed as an expert hunter of lions and other wild animals.
So it happened that one of my nephews desired to commit a personal sacrifice to the spirit of the dead, inspired by the prophecy of a local priest who had advised him to return to the family house and celebrate his father's masquerade. Prior to this revelation and desire, the Adégbọrọ̀ masque was only a mention in family stories, meetings and daily conversations. No one of my nephew's generation has beheld the ancestral heirloom and totem of the clan. Of my older family members, only three people know where the remains of Adégbọrọ̀ masque are kept. Propitiatory nephew and his concerned friend sought the confidence of one of the keepers of the "ark". The request was to bring down the masque, make sacrifice and inspire a chasuble of prayers for prosperity and fortune. As Mọ́gàjí, I knew nothing of the mission. Were I to be around and aware, I would have done nothing to stop the rite. Perhaps I would have sought clarification and borrowed caution on the side of an heritage that had long been kept inviolate or abandoned for almost half of a century. I would have interpreted it as a sign of a cultural renaissance but I would have questioned the intent and the procedure.
On the fateful day of the ritual, Nephew Kunle, his friend, and the keeper of the masque with a few other people entered the safe room where the Adégbọrọ̀ masque was kept. The priest was in the last round of chants when the performance took a different form. As Dauda, the friend and priest, bent down to lift the age-old costume, he froze in mid-air and became a gutter of incomprehensible words. In utter disbelief and fright, my nephew grabbed and shook the priest, calling out his name. Kunle himself froze and lost consciousness. Esther, my aunt, keeper of the ark, burst out of the room in search of remedial means to save the electrocuted men. The first person she met by the gate of the compound sneered at her, saying she would not have anything to do with the boys’ waywardness. Help eventually arrived, with palm oil and a live cockerel. The young men were fed with a mixture of blood and oil before they came to. Aunty Esther burst into songs of relief and went quietly into the night. The news took wings and other rumours.
Beyond the rumours, all I had to offer were questions. Did Kunle actually vomit blood? Did he really faint at the peak of the ritual? Was Dauda fortified enough to touch the ancestral costumes of my family masquerade? Did Esther do wrong in leading the young men to the door of the ancestral masque?
Now I have a brickwall dividing opinion into two strong views: there are those who argue that it is time to ressurect the presence of Adégbọrọ̀ in the league of titled masquerades of Ibadanland; there are those who warn us that the masque belongs to the dark mysterious past and it should be retired. Yet, there are those who query the decision to allow access to the masque. They allege that the desperate request might just be a decoy to search out the location of the prized costume for a possible heist.
I tend to flow with the last sentiment about the dangers of hunters and raiders of cultural artefacts. My solace is that the masques have been accompanied by narratives of protection which have aided their preservation. A story was told of a family whose member sold about a yard of the ensemble's costumes to some foreign merchants from abroad. Soon after the enrichment of that family, some unknown ailment struck and the entire personage perished within three years. Without a survivor, the name of that family line is now mentioned as part of the urban legends of the Adégbọrọ̀ clan.
Even after sessions of direct narrations by the major participants in the event, the sequence still sounded fabulous and incredible. Like a phase from Gabriel Márquez's magical tales. Like a scary scene straight out of Steve Spielberg's Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Fifty years after its last major sail of 1972, Adégbọrọ̀ still breathes in the ancestral room where the remains of the heritage are interred. Yet, this is not the last word on this fantastic ark.
Remi Raji-Oyelade
Mọ́gàjí Adégbọrọ̀
Ibadan
August 17, 2022