The Irigwes, found in the central region, are among the elements that make up the tribal matrix of Nigeria. Before the arrival of the Europeans, Zarachi, celebrated at the beginning of each rainy season, was to an Irigwe man what Christmas is to a Christian. It’s about collecting the seeds, praying for them, and asking a supreme being for mountains of crops at the end of the season. However, since the arrival of the white man and his customs, the feast’s reverence has gradually receded, like wine to which water is continually added without adding anything else.

Zarachi has two heroes: the nne-ruwu (the man who performs the ritual) and the nne-rigbe (the man who honks the horn). Of these characters, the nne-ruwu is the most amazing.

A river, towards the northern edge of the land of Irigwe, runs from east to west. It is called the Ruhwyevo River. Zarachi’s day nne-ruwu You must cross the river to the Rotsu settlement where the shrine is located. It is a rule that, that day, no one crosses the river before him. The path of your journey from House Nuhye – one of the twelve houses that make up the Irigwe tribe – to Rotsu must not be crossed until you have passed through it. We are often told that if you violate any of these rules, something terrible would happen to you. “Something terrible” could be giving birth to disabled children, or children who do not live beyond their infancy, or absolute death for the one who violates the rule.

I went to Rotsu for this year’s Zarachi (2016). I wanted to be there to greet the nne-ruwu when he arrives. It would give me a chance to see it. So I traveled on the eve of Zarachi, since tradition prohibits crossing the river early on the day of the event. In Rotsu I was surprised that people have found all kinds of justifications for crossing the river: “You can cross the river in the opposite direction. It is acceptable”, “You can cross early in the morning. It is acceptable”.

The settlement of Ta’agbe is a critical point on the road to Rotsu. It is in Ta’agbe that the nne-rigbe honks the horn for the first time. The sound of the horn resounds throughout the country and tells everyone that Zarachi is being celebrated. But in Ta’agbe it is said that young people, drugged, cross the road without a shred of respect for either the nne-ruwu or the nne-rigbe, an insult to the festival and the people.

Zarachi is strictly a men’s affair. As a general rule, the only part of a woman at the event is preparing the meals and wishing the men the best when they leave. These days, however, we hear stories of daring girls who move Zarachi’s ship by insisting that they must be actively involved. Worst of all, they love to dress in pants. People interpret his appearance as indecent and a violation of the purity of the event. But the girls, in whose eyes the line between modernity and African traditions has faded, would argue that for such an adventurous event, there are no clothes as tight as pants. I was told about this revolt of girls, but I did not see a single girl at the event in Rostu or anywhere else in the procession. The irony is that more than thirty percent of the men were dressed in women’s suits. Men adorned skirts, fake breasts, artificial hair accessories, masks, eyeshadows, lipsticks and everything. Although Irigwe men have traditionally worn earrings and braided their hair, some of the appearances seemed extreme, fanatical, and deplorable.

At around 2pm on the big day, we started hunting in Rotsu to finally connect with the heroes when they arrived. We needed chuo, a red powder applied to the face to signify war. I was surprised that there weren’t any of all the houses in Upper Rotsu where I spent the night. For me, this means lack of seriousness and the diminishing importance of the event in the eyes of people in love with modernity. Additionally, people were reluctant to come out of the closet to create a quorum that is critical to a successful search. Many men headed towards the liquor houses, instead of the bushes that protect the animals. Since the liquor is on the edge, rather than the heart of the festival, the rest of us are left frustrated and devastated.

With a handful of men the hunt began, following a turning arc to connect with the shrine of Zarachi in Lower Rotsu. All the way we shook the bushes to scare the animals that were expected to jump in panic and be hunted down and killed. No animal came out. However, when we approached the sanctuary, a squirrel appeased us. I see this shortage of hunted animals as a sign that the gods are angry, angry at the endless episodes of violations of tradition.

At the sanctuary, the rites of forgiveness and the declaration of the purpose of the event were preceded by horseback riding. There were not enough horses, only four. A larger number of horses would have given the event more glitz and glamor. This was another dent in Zarachi’s face, and it seemed more obvious that the festival’s fame is steadily declining.

The minors, from ten to thirteen years old, crowded the event. The elders who should have been there to lead were suppressed by their craving for liquor. It was a great shame that the elders made the preservation of Zarachi an opportunity cost for something as insignificant as alcohol. The rather small population of men present was frustrated in the haze of an army of minors rushing to become men.

From Rotsu, the next stage of the event is to spend the night at Chando Zarachi (Zarachi’s fireplace). Chando Zarachi is located about five kilometers east of Rotsu. People walk on foot, hunting along the way, branching out and drinking at the houses that cross their path, and spending the night in the open, risking being hunted by the brutes they hunted before dark and the vile spirits they believe. that exist. In Chando insults and counter insults fly from the left, the right, the center and the spaces in between. This may not be a central component of the ritual, but it is still tolerated and is not equivalent to shaking the board.

At approximately 4 a.m., the orderly procession that ended in Rotsu resumed with the nne-rigbe leading the way. At regular intervals, the procession stopped to allow him to blow the trumpet. Finally, the march reached the final stage, a hugely open arena where the seeds are taken. The place is marked by a stone whose greatest mass, starting from the hips down, is buried. But this year there were signs that some shepherds were keeping their animals close, and the stone, which should be sanctified, was stained with cattle dung.

Since the rock is historical, I tried to take a picture of it. I was lucky that the cultural police just begged me not to. The camera is a symbol of modernity, the greatest enemy of tradition. But what are they going to do with a sprawling settlement a few hundred meters away? The youths ran toward one of the buildings under construction. Angrily, they tore apart the blocks that had interwoven to form their roofless walls.

However, the ritual was performed and the task of bringing the seeds was accomplished. At the end of the day, everyone prayed and hoped that the storm of modernity and the little respect for what is ours does not grow enough to sink the besieged ship of Zarachi.