{"id":3308,"date":"2025-07-17T14:17:43","date_gmt":"2025-07-17T14:17:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/feelnubia.org.uk\/?p=3308"},"modified":"2025-07-17T14:16:19","modified_gmt":"2025-07-17T14:16:19","slug":"etched-by-tradition-my-village-break-and-skin-deep-identity","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/feelnubiatest.com\/index.php\/2025\/blog-misc-and-opinions\/etched-by-tradition-my-village-break-and-skin-deep-identity\/","title":{"rendered":"Etched by Tradition: My Village Break and Skin-deep Identity"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Identity etched into skin (Photo by VICTOR JOSEPH @Pexels)<\/p><\/div>\n

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I Didn\u2019t Know My Face Was Missing Something Until I Got to the Village<\/h1>\n

When my parents got their scholarship to study in Canada, they told me I\u2019d only be staying with Grandma for a while. Just one year, they said. I was thirteen, old enough to know that \u201ca while\u201d could mean anything in adult-speak.<\/p>\n

Grandma\u2019s village was deep in Osun State, where the air smelled like roasted corn, and people still fetched water from the stream. The first thing I noticed\u2014apart from the rooster that crowed non-stop\u2014was how many faces had lines<\/a> on them. Long, short, slanted, and straight. Some looked like cat whiskers, others like tiny rakes had danced across their cheeks.<\/p>\n

I was scared at first. One boy had thick lines all over his face and chest, as if he’d fallen into barbed wire. But nobody stared at him. Nobody whispered. They called him handsome.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do people have all these marks?\u201d I finally asked Grandma one evening, while peeling egusi by the fire.<\/p>\n

She laughed softly, her cheeks wrinkling above three faint slashes. \u201cThese are not just marks, my dear. They are identity. They are stories.\u201d<\/p>\n

Skin Like a Scroll<\/h2>\n

Grandma told me that in the old days, when names could get lost and travel was slow, families made sure their children carried their history on their skin. Marks showed that you belonged, that you were not a stranger. That you had people.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee mine?\u201d she said, pointing. \u201cThese three lines are Abaja. They tell anyone who knows how to read them that I am from the Oyo lineage.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the first time I realized that skin could be a language.<\/p>\n

In the village, each mark had a name and meaning. Gombo, Pele, Kekere. Some were wide and dramatic, others thin and elegant. The boys got them to show they were brave. Girls received them as part of coming-of-age rituals. Some people believed the marks kept evil spirits away or made babies stronger.<\/p>\n

I heard of a woman called Mama Abike who wore the Ila marks on her belly to ease difficult pregnancies. \u201cA mark of survival,\u201d Grandma whispered.<\/p>\n

Between Pride and Pain<\/h2>\n

But not everyone saw it the same way. At school, one girl named Anike had deep vertical lines from her ears to her chin. She was smart and kind, but when a health worker came to visit from the city, she looked at Anike like she was broken.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy would anyone do this to a child?\u201d the woman muttered.<\/p>\n

That was the first time I saw Anike cry.<\/p>\n

I asked Grandma that night why people in the city thought tribal marks were bad. She grew quiet. \u201cBecause they don\u2019t understand. And because the world is changing.\u201d<\/p>\n

She told me that the government had banned tribal marking in many places. That young people now saw them as signs of backwardness, not beauty. Some people paid doctors to erase the marks they once received from drumming and dancing.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut remember this,\u201d she said gently. \u201cEven if they fade, the stories remain.\u201d<\/p>\n

In Between Worlds<\/h2>\n

One Sunday, a village elder took my hand and traced a pattern on my arm. \u201cYou look like your father,\u201d he said. \u201cBut your face is blank like paper.\u201d<\/p>\n

I smiled politely, unsure whether it was a compliment or an insult.<\/p>\n

In the city, I\u2019d be teased if I had marks. In the village, I stood out because I didn\u2019t. I was in between two worlds\u2014one written in ink, the other written in skin.<\/p>\n

By the end of the year, I had grown used to the marks. I could even tell which clan someone came from just by the lines on their face. I didn\u2019t get any myself\u2014Grandma said that was no longer our path. But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I imagine what my marks would\u2019ve looked like. Not because I want them, but because I now understand what they meant.<\/p>\n

They were more than scars. They were scars worn with pride. Proof of belonging. Art<\/a>. Memory.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

What Are Tribal Marks and Scarification?<\/strong><\/p>\n

Tribal marks and body scarification are age-old cultural practices found across many African societies. They carry deep symbolic meaning, often tied to identity, status, beauty, spirituality, and rites of passage. While the prevalence of these practices has declined in modern times, they remain a rich part of Africa\u2019s cultural heritage.<\/p>\n