Travel Notes: ÒGÚN FESTIVAL .

Travel Notes: ÒGÚN FESTIVAL .

A NOTE BEFORE THE NOTES: These reflections composed in 2023, constitute an attempt to apprehend a cultural phenomenon through the dual lenses of phenomenological description and ontological inquiry. The subject is a festival, but also a mode of Being that reveals itself through ritual, temporality, and communal memory

Travel Notes #01: Dasein in Motion

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I have been working on this project for about six years now. The book of poems Go Home, which would be released in 2026, and a follow-up novel shortly after.

Recently, I realized the missing piece of the puzzle was experiencing Ondo City in festive season, firsthand. So, I said to my woman, "Hey, I'm going to the Ògún festival. Wanna come?"

She replied, "Hell yeah!"

Then, we asked our buddy Efe. He's an award winning filmmaker and photographer. His response was equally enthusiastic.

And just like that, we were on a wild road adventure!

The drive from Lagos to Ondo was fast. Zero traffic. Fuel prices would do that. My woman was working on her laptop because Nigeria's number one Publishing House doesn't take a break. Efe was sitting in front, Beats by Dre in his ears, phone in hand, chuckling to jokes inaccessible to us.

I wanted to listen to Matosan's new EP, but didn't trust Spotify, so I watched "How to Become A Cult Leader", a show I had preemptively downloaded on Netflix against the anticipated failure of network connectivity.

In 4hrs we were there. I've spent more time in traffic on 3MB before. My Goodness.

I got a bunch of messages from the dogsitter confirming Rain’s well-being, they were planning to go to a dog park. That made me smile. Owner dey do festival, dog too dey do hin own.

By the roadside, we were already seeing men covered in white powder and blue dye and holding palmfronds, yelling "Ògùn Yee!!" You responded by giving them cash. Some were endearing and full of smiles, but others were super aggressive and reminded me of Lagos Agberos.

Another thing that reminded of Lagos was a kid calling out to his friend "Omo Yahoo!" I was like, Mmkay, they do that here too. And with pride. The young 'uns wear it on their sleeves. All the swagger of $200 gift cards, sagging shorts and loud talk.

They feared Amotekun, though, and I thought that was interesting.

Emmanuel—our man on the ground—proved taller in person than photographs suggested. His afro, framing his face, provoked a mild envy. 

The Hotel was magnificent. My partner loved it and I was happy to see her smile so much. She finally put her laptop away and we rested.

When we wanted drinks we went downstairs and found the bar. A group of Brazilians were chilling near the pool but as soon as we walked in, they paused what they were saying in Portuguese and started staring.

Me, I was feeling myself thinking it was my hair. I would later find that one guy in particular was enchanted by my Lady's backside.

The next day, Sunday, we hit the streets.

Oh, what fun we had! We paid homage to the Osemawe—the paramount ruler. I interviewed Chief W?lé Benson, a suave gentleman and topshot in Media Comms and Branding. We went to see the Ògún shrine. Then Efe took drone shots of the throng of celebrants. Jesus, they were legion. Even in Ekiti, where it is said Ògún disappeared into the earth, they do not have numbers this deep.

Brazilian, Venezuelan, Cuban, African American and Caribbean contingents. The Portuguese people were annoying though. They sat under canopies like they were on a safari, watching the wild animals. If na to look woman nyash now, you go sabe.

Generally speaking, it was an incredible experience. The streets I walked, Ògún once walked. Ògún, the God of Iron, Ògún the God of tech. Ògún the God of Innovation and Justice and War. My uncle Bryan once said to me "This is time traveling."

I learnt a lot about what makes a man a god, the power of memory and oral tradition, and all my questions about the significance of the blue and white were answered.

Also, as you know, I am a dog owner. So I was mighty pissed by tradition demanding canine sacrifices. Boy, was I ready to throw hands! After a while however, my brain resorted to creating elaborate bits of lore explaining the origins. (I would come up with a good one years later involving Èshù and social masking). I was also thinking about the Euthyphro Dilemma, from Plato: is something good because God commands it, or does God command it because it is good?

Was there a time these sacrifices were human beings? Will there come a time when it will be cryptocurrency or something?

As a time traveler, it is tempting to want to change events on the timeline.

Sometimes we are stuck both asking why, and suspecting that only from observance from afar can we see what else is really happening.

"Why are you doing this?"

"We like meat! We're big meat eaters!"

"OK. Oh, wait, if I step back enough I do see you've got some resource challenges that make meat a more stable source of protein than the local plant life that can grow here..."

And you developed enough rituals to agree on that future. Most people will just accept that this is the way, that there's something holy or taboo if we don't live with what we've got.

The old man at the shrine did say they didn't eat the dogs though. That they were reared just like goats and cows, and only the best were sacrificed to Ògún. Whether or not I believed him was immaterial. I understood how ritual sacrifice functions as a way societies channel guilt, fear, gratitude, or communal tension into symbolic violence considered holy.

So I said simply, "Look, we are not here to judge. Let's just dance."

And that's exactly what we did. The live bands were marvelous. There was one on every street. The masquerades added an extra layer of excitement to the whole thing. Families with deep roots tracing back to Ògún Làákàyè himself, proudly showed up and put on spectacular displays. It was a vibrant explosion of spectacular colours everywhere you looked.

We left early because we still had to resume our 9-5s on Monday, and capitalism no be anybody mate.

Emma called to say when we left, the Ògún festival just reached the sweetest part, because now it was evening, and the alcohol people were drinking was turning them into fantastic storytellers and dancers.

I promised him I'll be back for the next one. And this time, we'll ensure it's bigger and better.

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Travel Notes #02: The Dialectic of Tradition and Cosmopolitanism

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Ondo City is full of sophisticated scions. A lot of whom are now in the diaspora.

I found it fascinating, how, despite being Princeton-trained and Cambridge-trained, the Crème de la crème came down for the Ògún festival.

Now, Ògún is not your run-of-the-mill Òrìshà. He is the Hermit. The one who lives in the bush, away from his subjects. (I suspect that's where Soyinka got that from.) Wild hair, war paint on his face, hunting but also caring for the forests. Not necessarily the best dressed. But everyone who came to celebrate baffed up, until they were baptized with powder and blue.

Also, the ‘Priest’ is a diminutive, rather pleasant grandma who blessed us in her rapid-fire Ondo dialect! 

It was nice to see that in such a traditional setting—celebrating a warlike God, no less—there was no patriarchal nonsense.

There's a lot of things I learnt about this Òrìshà that I am still processing. And in the process, I am learning about myself.

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Travel Notes #03: Ontological and Aesthetic Investigations

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Ògún is the Òrìshà of technological innovation, metallurgy and hunting. Hunters see all kinds of inexplicable phenomena (àbàmi) in the bush—things that will never make it to Nat Geo Wild—and his hunters love to sing about their exploits.

Question 1: In the Venn diagram of art, where does Ijala poetry intersect with the speculative or with science fiction? Ijala describes encounters with the unseen; science fiction models encounters with the unknown. Are they not both attempts to give language to what exceeds ordinary experience?

Question 2: If "God" ≠ Òrìshà, why do western colonizers ascribe the small "g" to them? Why is the culture of demonification prevalent? 

I propose that we begin taking power back by referring to the Òrìshà as Gods with the capital "G". It is a healthy exercise in linguistic reclamation and since I started doing it, I've never looked back. It will annoy a lot of religious people, but who cares?

Now, you've got Ògún as a prefix in your surname, or you're just a friend of the Iron God, here's a poem I wrote for you, in the tradition of Ijala chanters:

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beat drums

for this enchantment that puppet-works the body.

his eyes are red, his machete is swift

he would take to palm trees, and with such dexterity on 

the branches milk it of wine.

in the bush, when a head rolled and blood splattered 

the white of twenty, we remembered Ogún in number 

Ógún as war, Ogun as inheritance, Ògùn as protective magic, 

Ògún does not forget.

away from the riotous celebration

and in the middle of meditation 

the brown dog came to the hermit, tail tucked in between its legs

it sought to have an obstacle removed 

Ògún enquired gently,

have you oppressed someone?

have you given bribe?

have you coveted your neighbor's property?

if it is blood, Ògún eats first.

the rawness is unfit for a king and he knows it

but, do you think he cares? 

you tell a lie when you are rail thin, he asks you to bite metal when you are fat

there was water at home so Ògún warmed blood for a bath

fire melts iron as iron breeds fire

be careful lest you find firsthand how 

??sìn ímòlè's cutlass clears paths overgrown with subterfuge.

so when the brown dog came, 

his answers got stuck to the roof of his mouth

as Ògún enquired gently,

have you oppressed someone?

have you given bribe?

have you coveted your neighbor's property?

crazy God who does not forget after four hundred years

whether I can answer or whether I cannot answer, 

Ògún do not ask me any questions.

Ògún correct us gently. Ògún help us to be better people.

Ògún bless us.

                                              — Hannu Afere

                                              14.09.23