Axe Not What Your Bashorun Can Do For You...
The following is an adaptation of part of Chapter II of the book I've been vaguely working on (though stalled for the last few months busy with other things)
Day 3 - February 15th, 2012 - Ibadan, Nigeria - The shaman exhales a fireball into the air, which curls away into swirls of dark smoke amid appreciative oohs and ahs. More than a hundred of us are crowded into the local government headquarters for the project opening ceremonies, we sit in a horseshoe shape as, in the middle of the room, a local shaman is performing a traditional dance amidst the beating of a drum, and breathing fire. He holds a metal wand with a flame on the end, his lips are thickly coated with some black substance, his eyes roll around -- he brings the flaming wand to his lips, seems to inhale it, and expels another ball of fire. Presently he grabs a small boy, who seems to be there for this purpose but still seems a bit taken by surprise, and the shaman pantomimes cutting off his head with an axe. I wonder if at some distant time in the past this perhaps may not have been a pantomime. The performance finishes to applause, and as the shaman goes around the room people shove money into his hands. The person beside me elbows me and I quickly pull out some local naira notes as well, lest the shaman choose to put a curse upon me.
Following the shaman’s performance, proceedings are opened with first a christian prayer and then an muslim one. Nigeria is officially about evenly divided between these two religions. Next there are speeches. The local government chairman, a charismatic fellow, seems to be the star of the show. Fortunately I’m just another person in the crowd, it would have been very intimidating to be thrust into the spotlight amid the overwhelming culture shock I was experiencing. After the ceremonies break up, outside under a kola tree I meet the people I will be working with: Yinka is an attractive woman in her mid thirties and runs the local non-profit development organization, known by the giant acronym PASRUDESS, which will be administering the project; and three young men in their early twenties who are volunteers with PASRUDESS: slightly geeky Hattrick in a polo shirt buttoned up too high (“not Patrick, but Hat-Trick, like in cricket”); Whale (Wah-lay), in smart business casual attire, his collar rakishly unbuttoned and sporting hip sunglasses; and Dayo with the easy unassuming self composure of a jazz musician.
We gather for photos on the front steps of the hall in various combinations of the people involved. The local government building is bleak bare unpainted concrete looking out on a dirt packed yard, in the middle of which a faded yellow construction grader sits like the carapace of a giant dead insect, with four enormous and very flat tires, weeds growing around it, a poignant monument to stalled development.
That evening I toss and turn in my bed like bacon sizzling on a grill. Without the exhaustion of a 27 hour journey which had made sleeping easy the night before, tonight the eight hour time difference has my body thinking 10pm is 2pm. The mosquito netting around the bed is gently illuminated with the dim golden glow of the somnolent city -- I always leave the blackout blinds open, preferring falling asleep in the dim glow of city light to waking up in tomb-like darkness. Finally I drift to sleep. But mefloquine, the anti-malarial medication I was taking, has among its side effects vivid dreams, and soon I find myself in 1840s Ibadan:
We are gathered in the central square. The foremost noble warriors, bound by a warrior’s code, veritable knights of the yoruba, the esos, form a circle in the middle, surrounded by hundreds of their followers.
The long wood-and-thatch houses of the chieftains surround the square, chief among them that of the Bashorun, and above them some palm trees wave at the sky. Bashorun Oluyole steps into the circle to address the gathered warriors. In my dream he is the local government chairmen, with his politician’s charisma and air of authority, but now wearing a magnificent velvet robe. “The high king, the Alaafin, as you know has charged us with defending what remains of the Oyo Kingdom and defeating the Fulani invaders,” “Eso Elepo, I would like to appoint you as the Ibalogun, commander of our forces” he says turning to one of the foremost warriors. The assembled crowd cheers their approval, but when the noise dies down Elepo is shaking his head.
“My own name is enough for me, I wish no title beyond eso, like my father before me.”
They try to convince him but he persistently says he does not want the title. In reality he is already successful and respected but is apprehensive of becoming entangled in court politics and reluctant to burden himself with more responsibilities. And so the Bashorun instead bestows the title of Ibalogun on another warrior, eso Oderinlo.
“And now my friends,” the Bashorun turns to the crowd with a smile, casually picking up an axe, “let us go down to the kola grove and make a sacrifice to appease Sango!”