Bird Flu and Yoruba cultural practices

At 9 o’clock in the morning, only few traders could be seen at bird market in Oja –Oba, Osogbo, Osun State. And those ones were only around to throw banters and share gossip. They usually do before the market becomes full. The gist this time around was about yesterday trading activities: the customer who wanted to pay same amount for eggs laid by local chicken as the one laid by cageling; a broiler that refused to grow fast like others in the brood, and a sundry of old wife’s tales. The women sat close around one another unmindful of the feathered creatures peeping from the hand-made cage littering everywhere in the market. The cages were in different sizes, and the biggest ones took an average of 15 to 20 adults birds. It was obvious the poor birds are not having a swell time in there. Such was the scene that evokes a sense of déjà vu in Africanists, especially those weaned on the diet of flicks like Root.

Other listeners to the early morning conversation of the poultry retailers were a number of goats sharing space with domestic birds in the market. The ruminants in their reclining position appeared to be enjoying the cool breeze of the September morning. And nobody cared to send them away.

Traditional market in Yoruba land is for everyone, man and animals alike- and the spirits. That is why Oja-adie in Osogbo is a place for everyone. Even chickens and pigeons that are ordinarily kept separate in the house, except for the exigency of rain, share cage at the market. Not necessarily because the market operates by a special rulebook but for the simple reason that the two types of bird are prized choice of customers.

True, pigeon is not in high demand like fowl, but it has greater ritual value. Virtually every woman selling in the market would not exchange her pigeon for chicken.”Not everybody partronises pigeon, but those who buy it do it for special reason” one of the women explained.

She however added that local chicken is equally cherished for ritual. “It is Oyibo chicken that is not good for rituals. It doesn’t make ritual to be potent”

But there are different ritual performances in Yoruba, for which of those ones is bird considered suitable?

Chief Priest IfaYemi Elebuibon, the Akoda of Osogbo explained the significance of using birds as ritual sacrifice in Yoruba communities.

According to him, blood of animal is a potent offering to the gods. “But the blood of chickens and pigeon are precious to Ifa divinity.” He said Ifa otherwise known as Orunmila the ancient philosopher expressly commanded his devotees to be worshipping him with fowl. The myth had it that domestic birds betrayed the divinity and sniggered on him back in time. And the pronouncement on her by Orunmila subsist till date. And that is the reason domestic birds are favoured as sacrifice.

Thus, during the Ifa festival in October at Osogbo, several birds were slaughtered, not in the way the ordinary consumers of birds are used to. The birds had their heads yanked off before they could protest long. The spluttering of the blood was controlled into a stainless bowl placed by a set china wares which contained other ritual items. The blood was later poured like libation on the ifa object as the chief pries render long ifa corpus by rote.

Each person who wanted to show gratitude to Ifa for whatever blessing received during the year had a chicken slaughtered on his or her behalf. The young man assigned to take off the bird heads had blood on his hands everywhere. And after drawing the blood, he invited the owner of the sacrificing bird to touch his or her head with a drop of blood before s/he gave way for the next person.

AI? Nobody seemed to be worried about Avian Influenza here or its threat to human health . Does Ifa take any bird, AI or no AI? Not a chance, the priest said. Chief Elebu-ibon explained that Ifa does not accept sick bird or one with infection or any disability. The bird must be whole before Ifa could accept. Once Ifa rejects your offering like Caine’s, you can still bring another.

The market women interviewed at the market assured the Guardian reporter that local chicken is not easily susceptible to “strange disease”; by strange disease, they mean AI. “They rove everywhere and feed on whatever they see on the way, yet they hardly become infected. Local birds are much stronger than their machine-made counterparts.” And this is no sales talk, it is a fact established by long history of adie-okoko, the traditional name for local chickens. Okoko traverses everywhere including mountain of filth and still comes back home safe.

According to Chief Ogunshina Adubuyinbon, Apena of Aborigine Ogboni Fraternity in Lagos who is also an Ifa priest, there is also a myth that explains why local fowls goes about scattering heap of refuse in search of God-knows-what.

Long ago in the past, Okoko and Refuse made a vow that the former would be seeking out for food deliciously prepared by people in the community and would jump on it. Seeing that the food is already contaminated, the owner would have to throw it out to the Refuse, and the two would share the spoils as soon as the owner turns her back. Perfect plan that guarantees daily meal for the two conspirators. But Adie -okoko ran out of luck on a fateful day when she did the damage to the food prepared for wedding ceremony. Yes, she succeeded by making the celebrants throw the food out to the refuse, but she was captured and held days without food. By the time people remember to release Okoko she was almost fainting for lack of food. And when she managed to get to her buddy for her share of the spoils, she got a cock and bull story instead. “And right there, Okoko vowed to always scatter Refuse to the barest level, no matter how high. And no amount of repository of dirt in a refuse heap can infect Okoko” Apena concluded.

If Chief Apena’s tale by the moonlight is true, how come many fowls were dying in drove during the outbreak of bird flu? “No”, the priest protested. “Those birds dying then were not local chickens. Government gave the impression that the bird flu affected every domestic bird, but that is not true. It was only the agric fowl that were affected”. He said with the confidence of a medical expert.

Interestingly, his view was not different from the poultry retailers’ at Oja-oba market.

The women indeed were not saying the local domestic birds are invincible, but that they survive better than poultry-bred. “And that is why their eggs are also good for sacrifice.”.

With this kind of belief reinforced by traditional experience of the local people, it might be easier for the Federal government to meet Millennium Development Goals (MDGs) before the next Christmas than to convince the people that the threat of bird flu is still as real as the sky on their head.

Before You Sign on to Journalism, Check your Courage Quotient

By Ajibola Amzat

Two years ago, there was this fellow by whom I used to sit close at my office in Lagos. The sitting arrangement was not something fixed by our organisation. It just happened that way. That is the newsroom culture we all found at The Guardian.

For several weeks we didn’t get to talk much, because he was some introvert, and I am reserved. So our exchanges were never longer than ‘hello, how are you?’.

Moreso, anytime he came into the office, he always wanted to get his stories together as fast as he could in order to beat the deadlines. That’s what we all tried to do anyway. Journalism is meeting deadline. But being on political desk makes his job more demanding than mine. He had to keep calling sources for additional information as he wrote, scanning previous editions for background for information, checking facts with colleagues for accuracy; all in attempts to get the story right. And getting your story right you must do at The Guardian, otherwise you might get some severe sanction that could make you frustrated for life.

Besides, the Political Desk he was writing for is the most interesting desk and the most dangerous too. In Nigeria, politics is as interesting a game as dangerous. Journalists on the beat are like solders treading on landmines – with no protection. Therefore, your only armour is producing a balanced story, and hoping that you are correctly interpreted.

Anyway, after some months Bayo Ohu and I began to share more sentences in greetings. Now, I could ask about his family and his blue smoky Mercedes. I even got an adaptation for his name, Mr. B.

His music flavour was traditional. I am not sure I ever liked it. But I found it interesting all the same when he played those tunes as he churned out sentences after sentences on his apple computer. Such music doesn’t feed my muse.

Many more months later, we could discuss the terrible Lagos Traffic, the shenanigans of Nigerian politicians and sundry issues of the day. He had once worked so close with the late President, Yar ‘adua when the latter was Governor of Katsina State. So he had sources in the presidency and in several other Federal agencies.

And he was a journalist with ears close to the ground. In fact, he knew too much than an average journalist. But he could communicate less in conversation than in writing. So, you only need to read his stories to realize the volume of information stored up in his head.

One morning in September 2009, five men dressed in white robes paid Mr. B a visit. It was a Sallah day on Sunday. Bayo’s wife who naturally received the visitors at the door was already away in church. The children went to the next compound to fetch water. So the visitors had to come in without encountering anyone in the yard.

And they entered, met Bayo who was already stepping out to find out who the strangers were. Then ...gboa!...gboa!…gboa!

In his pool of blood, Bayo lay dead.

Till date, no knows why he was killed. Not even the police have a clue; at least their investigation has identified no one yet. But everyone knows that if Bayo were not a journalist he probably could still be living. Quite a number of journalists in Nigeria have been killed in the same gruesome manner after then. Yet, there are many more journalists on the field reporting the good, the bad and the ugly in the polity.

For It appears that defying those with power to suppress the truth is the only way journalism can help establish a society where justice reigns. That is the duty we owe the society. And accepting that obligation, therefore, is a true test of our professionalism.

Ajibola Amzat is a Rhode student from Nigeria

Beggars are Bold Here

I just arrived in Grahamstown. Two days later, I went in search of a place for cheap grub, it is important I operate on low budget because my scholarship funding allows me Spartan living. Lucky me, I discovered Hungry Lion. And with R21, I got a sizeable meal. As I was wolving down the chicken and chips, a stranger stepped into my corner and was demanding for a ration of my meagre meal. And he was so bold about it. “Get me some”, he seemed to say in a language I cannot yet understand. What!

“If you want some, go get yourself a pack on your own account.” I shot back at him. He gave me wrathful looks and swaggered off. Jeez! Beggars are bold here.

At another time, along High street one accosted me as I was brooding over the loss of my phone. He wanted a share of my rand. And the way he approached me, you would think he is a tax collector. I was madder than hell.

Back home, at a place like Hungary Lion, a beggar would wait patiently by the door. And as you are stepping out, he will approach you timidly and appeal to your sense of charity. As he is doing that, he is offering you a litany of prayers in different major languages since he does know which of the languages you speak. And Nigerians are sucker for prayers. You could pray your way into wealth as a beggar in Nigeria. In fact, there are stories of beggars who have built houses, married wives and sent their children to good schools. Yet, while they are doing such ‘great’ things, they continue begging. Yes, begging could be a profitable career in Nigeria.

Nigerians beggars are a creative bunch. You could see them sweeping the pedestrians clean; with a big bowl for alms collection placed by his/her side. Or he is wiping the windshield of your car clean as he is stretching hands for alms. The message he is sending across is: I could stop begging if I am employed.

There are some that entertain passersby with music and dance for a gift of cash or food.

You also have those ones with different emotional stories. Today, he could tell you that he is a graduate in search of job, and he just needs N20 to take him to the venue of interview. Tomorrow, his story could change to be “I am a man of God raising money for the motherless babies”. Nigerians beggars are persuaders.

But I am yet to discover beggars of Grahamstown with such ‘niceties’. He is either rudely asking you for cash as if you contribute to his underprivileged state. Or he is just expecting you to walk up to him and open your wallet on his lap. I ain’t going to do that. You got to do some stuff to get me dip my hands in the pocket; else you won’t get no nickel from me. Pardon me please, I am a Nigerian.

Ajibola Amzat is a Rhodes student from Nigeria