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Full
Moon Ritual
- Augustine Ohanwe
The moon has just assumed its full size and the elders of the community felt the need to continue with their old cherished tradition of full moon ritual. The town crier, a dwarf clad in leopard skin beat the tortoise shell with a bamboo stick. Sounds like a signature tune to the full moon ritual and a call for all to converge at the square.
The square is jam-packed with people but a noticiable absent is the community chief who, according to age-old tradition would be the last person to turn up. As the gathered people wait for the chief, the crickets entertain them with their anthems in a chirping form. The long awaited chief arrives. He behaves like a late-comer to the oil bean salad banquet. I watch as he mounts his royal stool flanked by the community elders in their hierarchical order. The ritual is then declared open.
Incantations and libations are two important ingredients to flavour the ritual in order to stimulate the "soul" of the square to pulsate in rhythm with the full moon's breathing. From his royal stool the chief watches as the elder of the
community pours libation. He spreads kola nuts to the north and alligator pepper to the south; to east of the square, he pours dreg of palm wine from the calabash cup; and sprinkles salt to the west. The elder then retreats to his seat and waves his hand fan,
signaling the band to kick-start the music.
Dyke pounds the drum, Chyke is on the guitar and dube on saxophone.
Andy is the vocalist and his smooth-flowing voice scintilates. The music swells in most raptuous way; lyrics and voices mesh together into a complete and harmonious whole weaving a sensuous fabric of emotion of soul intensity, charging the ether around the square as heads shake. I can feel it. Seven virgins of easy-grace tip-toe out of their mud hut, all dressed in raffia skirts, rabbit-fur headdresses and necklaces of leopard teeth. Their whole body titilate, their buttocks wiggle and their breasts and hips sway in rhythm with the melody and lyrics of the music playing.
Octogenarian shaman with a toothless gum, dressed in a monkey-fur peticoat tip-toes to the square, bows and sways front and back and left and right like an old boat in a bad storm. He is revered as the "acorn" because everything needed to create a mighty oak is within him. Hand folded and eyes well-focused, I watch as he stands still and gazes at the full moon as seconds slide into minutes till time has no meaning at all. He tip-toes back to his seat in a funny but ritualist way. A hilarious applause greets the square as the seven virgins ululate. The sharman, in a frenzy mood channels their collective feelings of exhilaration to the full moon, bringing the ritual to an amazing end.
July
2005
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Augustine C. Ohanwe writes from England. He is a
Nigerian. Augustine is a researcher, and holds a PhD in international
politics. He is also a poet whose numerous poems could be seen at www.Poemsofsoul.com
under FEATURE POETS
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