Okere Juju was nothing but display —
drums, colors, laughter, rain.
I thought it was only culture.
I did not know the shadows it carried.
They called it Ukpasha —
a rope woven from a secret plant,
with “ayo,” the raffia’s heartstring, tied to its end.
When it struck the ground — Pah!
The earth shouted like a gunshot.
My chest leapt each time,
half fear, half wonder.
And always the rains.
Heavy, unrelenting rains of July and August.
No umbrella. No hat for any man.
The water poured on us as blessing and judgment both.
They said it washed away sickness,
curses, ill-luck.
I only knew it left me shivering,
mud between my toes.
The Awankere
They said the festival was ancient —
brought by Ekpen, the warrior from Benin.
Others said it came from a woman, Mogboruko,
who pulled a strange object from Okere creek,
again and again, until the elders knew:
This was no fish.
This was Okiroro, the deity of water and life.
Awankere became the people’s covenant.
Three moons of dancing, sacrifice,
purification, cleansing.
Ajafifa. Ibiribi. Ode’ gbigba.
Rites whispered in language older than the city itself.
And then — the masquerades.
Oshogw’umale, in dazzling white — the Father.
Okpoye, in sackcloth — the Mother.
The rest — their children,
whips in hand, robes flowing,
raffia and palm fronds shaking in the rain.
I remember young ladies being pursued with male symbols . I did not know what it meant. I did not ask.
Lewd songs, phallic symbols,
men and women laughing, miming acts forbidden in daylight.
Yet to them, it was prayer,
a ritual for fruitfulness,
a washing away of evil and disease.
The rain, the mud, the splashing —
all for Okiroro, who lived in the waters.
As a child, I thought it was only spectacle.
I clapped, I laughed,
I swallowed the story like any other festival.
But years later, in the church of Ayo Oritsejafor,
I gave my life to Christ.
And then the veil fell from my eyes.
What I thought was only culture,
was also covenant —
fetish, sacrifice, old spirits clothed in song.
Still, I remember.
The sound of Ukpasha,
the weight of the rain,
the sight of men and women surrendering to rhythm.
And now I see it differently:
part history, part bondage,
part memory I cannot forget.
To my nine-year-old eyes, it was only culture —
masquerades in the rain, the crack of ukpasha,
the laughter of children splashing in mud.
But later I learned it was also covenant.
Spiritual cleansing.
A ritual to wash away sickness, curses, ill-luck.
And so I ask you,
Warri sons and daughters:
Did you know, while growing up,
that the festival carried spiritual cleansing behind the dancing and the drums?
Share your memory below. Let’s Find Warri together.
destiny.
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