2002-11-22 Yam Festival
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 Nigeria
Abia Arochukwu |
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A happy New Yam Festival in Nigeria San Diego Jewish Press-Heritage, Nov. 22, 2002 |
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2002-11-22 Yam Festival |
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| By Gail
Umeham As we approach Thanksgiving, it's interesting to note that most if not all food-producing societies have an annual ceremony celebrating the completion of a successful harvest. In my life, three such celebrations have held great meaning for me. As a Jew, I celebrate Sukkot; as an American, I observe Thanksgiving, and as the wife of an Igbo man from Nigeria, I have enjoyed the New Yam Festival. There are superficial similarities among the celebrations, but each also has an important story behind it, which is fundamental to each people's self-understanding. We Jews relate our sukkahs to the temporary dwellings our ancestors lived in during the desert passage from slavery in Egypt to freedom in the Promised Land. For us Americans, Thanksgiving represents the bountiful possibilities of America — a land freed from the old caste systems and religious strictures of Europe. For my husband Okoronkwo and his people, the New Yam Festival, known in the vernacular as the Aro Ikeji festival, is the time when the histories of the Igbo people and his own Aro lineage are told and retold by various activities . "Eat, drink and be merry" are the bywords of the festival, which is staged in Okoronkwoąs village of Ammanagwu, in the town of Arochukwu in eastern Nigeria. The Aros gather from all over Nigeria, and often more distant points, to give thanks for the past, express hope for the future and have a great time in the process. For the best part of 20 years, my husband and I lived about 500 miles from his village. To drive there took not less than 12 hours and sometimes longer. Flying there was even more time-consuming. Nevertheless, whenever we were in Nigeria during September (the month of Ikeji), we made our pilgrimage along with so many others across the country. Despite the absence of turkey, television and football, Ikeji was and still is an elaborate event lasting 25 days and generating much excitement. The festival begins with the opening of the awada, a small hut or shrine at the center of each village. Unlike the sukkah, the awada is not a temporary structure. Once built, it remains standing, locked all year and only opened for the Yam Festival. It is a memorial to one of the first settlers. Opening the awada involves the male descendants of long-dead slaves sweeping it clean. As women have no part in this ceremony, I am relying on secondhand information from men, mostly from Okoronkwo. Once the awada has been swept, village elders enter, pour libations to their ancestors, and share palm wine, kola nuts and meat. They stay in this small hut three or four hours, eating, drinking and schmoozing while the rest of the world stands idly by. They offer food for their ancestors' spirits and eventually usher in the festival by "bringing down" the spirit Nwekpe. This begins the celebration. Usually, this part of the observance happens before the hordes arrive from the cities. Low-profile but significant in the retelling of the history of the people are events that happen throughout the next three weeks. The festival's climax comes 21 days later in Amaikpe, the town square, where people of all 19 villages have assembled to watch. Everyone who can walk shows up— men, women and children. Excitement fills the hot, muggy air as they wait for the arrival of the procession of male representatives of each village. Eventually, down the long and dusty road the procession comes into sight. When they finally do arrive, they take your breath away with their magnificence. Single-file, carrying village banners and signs, most dressed in the same traditional wrapper, they arrive together quietly. There is no drumming, no singing, just quiet and some simple displays indicating the presence of "secret society" members. Hundreds of silent men stride past the Eze Aro, chief of all the 19 villages, paying their respects, and then they mingle with the crowd. As Maurice Sendak said in Where the Wild Things Are, "Let the wild rumpus begin." Out from seemingly nowhere come 19 different dance troupes, one for each village, each with its own style, sometimes including masqueraders accompanied by drumming and singing of traditional songs. Excitement runs through the crowd like a bolt of the usually nonexistent electricity. We have all grouped ourselves according to our village and we are furiously proud and competitive over the display. In bygone times— and again I am relying on witnesses— young women about to be married came out from the "fattening rooms" as visions to behold and group marriages were performed. Hungry and thirsty, we all drift back to our own homes to continue the celebrations with what many find to be the most fun activity of all. Feasting and masquerades take over the town. Fierce-looking embodiments of the spirits roam from compound to compound, dancing, drumming and making noisy, threatening appearances everywhere. Families invite them to eat and drink, which they do in seclusion, because women and nonmembers must not see them without their masks. Until you actually come face to face with an Ekpo masquerade, you just can't imagine how frightening they can be. All one's years of Western living seem to vanish before these apparitions. Fortunately, women are not supposed to look at Ekpo, so my face-to-face always involved peering out from around my husband's back, and I must confess to squealing with delight. The masquerade goes on all day, ending at sundown, when the "spirits" turn their turf over to the secret societies. The next part of the festival no woman ever sees, only its aftermath. Groups of society members roam the village playing havoc and enjoying it, I guess. The next morning the main road looks as if a tornado struck and certainly as if the "wild rumpus" had taken place. On this Day 22 of the Ikeji cycle, the elders pour one last libation, orie ubi le afo —"may next year provide us with rich crops." The awadas are closed and locked for another year, and we city folks head back to our homes away from home, much clearer about our identity and heritage. |
