Ofo na Ogu (Justice and Honesty): African Mythology, Igbo deities, Igbo Ofo, Igbo Mythology, Anyawu, Onwa, Ani, Ikenga, Masquerade, Amadioha, Ifufe, Ekwensu, Akwete, Dibia, Free Short Stories, Drama, Thriller, Fabling, Pam
“Dum dum dum, ku Ku lu Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku, cha cha cha”—the frenetic drums pounded in a relentless rhythm as the masquerades whirled around the prostrate, tear-streaked girl.
“Awoo wu wu wu oooo,” the largest masquerade’s muffled voice intoned, the other three joining in a haunting chorus.
Nnukwu Nwoke, the Great Man, stood imposingly, a towering figure clad in a five-foot-tall black wooden mask. The mask was adorned with a short raffia skirt and lean, ebony legs. It leaped and spun through the air, its movements a tempest of power and grace. The others followed suit, twisting and somersaulting like vengeful spirits. Abali, the lone female masquerade, outpaced them all with an almost frantic energy. Her mask, though smaller, boasted a prominent rhinoceros horn jutting from its brow, and she wielded a short Ogu staff with fierce authority.
A throng had amassed around the square, their anticipation palpable. The men and boys crowded near the circle, while the women maintained a respectful distance—traditionally barred from such rites where the ancestors, in the guise of masquerades, enacted divine judgment. But today, they were summoned to witness the ritual cleansing, a grim reminder etched in the fate of the scapegoat.
“Umu Agwu!” Nnukwu Nwoke’s voice thundered as it drove its metal staff into the earth. The bells atop the staff rattled with a fierce clangor, silencing the drums. A hushed stillness fell over the crowd before murmurs began to swell. With another resounding strike of the staff, silence reasserted itself.
“Umu Agwu!” the masquerade’s voice boomed once more. “We are gathered here for a reason. Men of Agwu, you know why you stand here. We have judged this woman guilty of defiling the earth. She has committed a grievous sin, besmirching her husband’s honor through adultery. As our customs dictate, she must face the consequences.”
At the edge of the crowd, Okafor, the wronged husband, lounged on his stool, a gourd of palm wine in one hand and a goat’s tusk in the other, seemingly indifferent to the drama unfolding before him.
Nnukwu Nwoke launched into a harangue directed at the women, admonishing them to safeguard their husbands’ honor, to remain humble, and to remember their place. As the masquerade delivered this scathing lecture, the others—bearing the short Ofo staff and Abali—took their positions beside the kneeling girl. To her right lay a small claystone strewn with scrap metal and twigs; to her left, an empty black pot. Her face was a cascade of tears, the weeping of a woman who could see her future dissolve before her very eyes.
“Please,” she whispered to Abali, her voice laced with a knowing desperation as if she could pierce through the mask’s enigma. The masquerade hesitated, then slowly lifted the black clay pot, holding it aloft with the Ogu staff for the crowd to see. The other masquerade ignited the fire within the pot, and as the flames flickered, the crowd chanted fervent prayers. Abali remained motionless beside the burning vessel, Ofo staff raised high. When the fire blazed stronger, Abali placed the pot on the girl’s head and turned to the crowd, unleashing a piercing cry. The crowd responded with another round of prayerful chants, and Abali resumed the position with the staff raised above.
“As our customs dictate,” intoned the masquerade, “we shall present her to the Gods. They may choose to show mercy, to spare her and send her back to her parents, or they may choose to exact their judgment upon her.” The girl fought to steady herself, her trembling form weakened by hunger since her hearing two nights prior. She felt on the brink of collapse, knowing that if she fell, her next breath would be in the realm of spirits.
A rustling sound surged through the crowd, parting to reveal a group of women clad in white akwete skirts, their bare breasts bared to the sky and their hair disheveled.
“What do we have here?” demanded the smallest of the masquerades, who stood beside Nnukwu.
Ekwu, the formidable leader of the Umu Ada, strode forward with her followers. She stopped before the head masquerade and spat with contempt.
“Abomination!” the crowd erupted in shock, an act unseen before.
The masquerade’s hand rose to strike, but one of the women brandished a spear, aiming it menacingly at the mask’s eye socket.
The crowd’s gaze was now riveted on the women, though the girl remained focused on the pot balancing precariously on her head. She needed to hold it steady until the flames were extinguished.
“People of Agwu!” Ekwu’s voice rang out with conviction. “A grave injustice is unfolding before us!” The leader addressed the male-dominated crowd, her powerful rhetoric cutting through the murmur. The women listened in tense silence as some burly men began to shift behind the crowd. “Yes, our daughter has committed adultery and deserves punishment, as all women before her. But must this rule apply only to women?”
Her words caught the attention of the men. Ekwu, a renowned orator and wife of Chief Agwunechemba from a neighboring town where women were known to fight fiercely, commanded the crowd’s focus.
“Did Amaka commit adultery on her own? Is such a deed the work of a single person? Why must the woman bear the punishment alone? Where is the accountability for the man? We are treated like property, like livestock in our own community! The Gods are just, are they not? Why has no man ever been brought before the Gods for judgment over adultery? A married man can wander freely, but a married woman must remain chaste? Why is it that a woman’s honor must be preserved at all costs, while a man’s actions go unchecked?” The crowd’s murmur intensified into a roar, with the women voicing their agreement and the men reacting with irritation.
“The Gods are just and show no favoritism!” Ekwu continued, her voice ringing with authority. “Yet our men have twisted the Gods’ sense of fairness to serve their own ends, silencing us and teaching the Gods to scorn us. Yes, Amaka deserves punishment, but so does her partner!”
Abali struggled to maintain her composure, her agitation evident as she shuffled restlessly. She was supposed to remain still, but something had to be done to halt this provocateur.
“Be silent, woman!” the female masquerade thundered. “Who grants you the right to speak?” She charged toward Ekwu, but Ekwu stood firm, her stance fortified by another woman wielding a spear to block the masquerade’s advance.
“You cowardly wretch,” Ekwu sneered at the female masquerade. “If the Gods are truly just, let them reveal their justice!” Her voice echoed with defiance.
The burly men began to advance, armed with catapults, swords, shields, and spears, a formidable force of fifty against ten determined women.
“Ani, our mother! I call upon you! Anyanwu, nothing escapes your sight, and Ọnwa, even the darkness cannot obscure your gaze! Goddesses, you have witnessed all! We are women like you! Prove that you are not mere instruments. Amadioha, God of Justice, I summon you! Ekwensu, God of War, I call to you! Ikenga, God of Strength, I beckon you! Igwe, King of the Sky, Ifufe, the Free Spirit, show us your justice with your own hands! The men have sullied this land with adultery and corruption. Demonstrate your power and fight your own battles!”
Her impassioned plea to the Gods held the crowd in a stunned silence, but when no divine response came, the warriors moved in. They subdued the women and began dragging them away from the center.
“Crakalakalaak!” The sky roared, darkening to an ominous blue. The earth quaked, the wind howled, and a female voice resonated from the heavens.
“Abali! Return to the spirit world; the one who wears your mask has committed an abomination.” In an instant, the mask shattered, revealing a handsome yet terrified face. “You seduced a married woman. For this, you shall bear no heir of your own blood, and your moons shall be diminished. Okafor!”
A divine radiance descended from the heavens, a female deity bathed in celestial glory. She halted just above the ground, her presence commanding reverence as she pointed at Amaka’s husband. His tusk and guard lay forgotten, abandoned on the earth. Paralyzed with fear, he shared the same petrified fate as the villagers and the women who had invoked the Gods.
“You have abused your wife,” the deity’s voice boomed, resonating with divine authority. “You treated her as property, neglected her needs, beat her, while lavishing your devotion—blood, sweat, and tears—on Uli, a woman betrothed to another. Your frequent visits to the community brothel have not gone unnoticed. For this, you will forfeit the pleasures of the flesh. Ani will take your manhood.”
As if summoned by her decree, the other Gods materialized, each bearing their own judgment. No soul was spared. Ekwu, known for pilfering her husband’s palm wine, faced a punishment of her own: her tongue would be cursed to silence for five market days. Her husband, who had unjustly seized the farmland of a poor man—a man who had ultimately taken his own life—was condemned to have one of his hands taken by the Gods and ordered to return the land or loose the other.
When the Gods’ judgments were complete, they turned their attention to Amaka. Ifufe extinguished the fire, then gently lifted the pot from her head and set it aside.
“Amaka,” began Igwe, pausing as her sobs filled the air. “You will not die today. Within you grows our high priest, who will wield the staff of justice and the pot of fairness. No longer will justice be administered by men possessed by the ancestors. You and your husband, along with many here, have committed abominations. We do not kill for such offenses. You will live to see your son’s eighteenth moon. On the night he becomes a man, you will join the ancestors. This is not merely for your adultery, for you have already suffered for that. It is because you plotted to kill your husband in a way that would condemn his body to the evil forest. Had you not been caught for adultery; your plan might have succeeded.”
Amaka wept anew, this time whispering her thanks, while her husband remained in stunned silence. The villagers were hushed for over a week, their gossip silenced for five market days.
As the sky cleared, the events felt dreamlike, though the reality was inescapable. After five market days, some were freed from their curses, while others waited a month, or twenty market days. Those with graver sins, like the dibia, faced a wait of twenty months, or two new moons. From that day forth, the village was renamed Ofo na ogu, and it remains renowned for its justice across all Igbo lands in the Fablingverse.
This story title challenge was from Ifeanyi Namikaze Iyfe Uwasomba, Want More Igbo Myths Inspired Stories? Read Nwanyi Mmiri