Preserving Our Heritage
How the Igbo Tradition and Culture Can Evolve for Our Future Pt.1
I grew up in the bustling city of Lagos, far removed from the heartland of my Igbo roots. The closest connection I had to my culture was through the Mgbidi Town Union in Festac, where my parents were members. I fondly remember their end-of-year gatherings, with their lively atmosphere and feasts of rice and chicken. But beyond the festivities, my exposure to Igbo traditions was limited. It wasn’t until much later in life that I would fully appreciate what it means to be part of such a rich heritage.
Everything changed during the Ọsọ Abiola crisis of 1993. Like many Igbos, my family fled Lagos, seeking refuge in our homeland in the Eastern region. That relocation, while fraught with uncertainty, became the pivotal moment that connected me to the essence of my cultural identity. I immersed myself in an environment where tradition wasn’t something you read about or discussed. It was alive, breathing, and deeply embedded in the daily rhythm of life.
I watched my grandfather, Nmaram Ugochukwu, closely as he performed his spiritual duties, particularly with his Ikenga — a personal symbol of strength and manhood in Igbo culture. It was the first time I truly began to understand the significance of tradition. I witnessed firsthand how cultural practices were woven into the fabric of everyday life. Simple tasks, like using a small knife (mma eku) or differentiating between a knife and a cutlass (Ogbuadana or mma ogenyi), suddenly carried a deeper cultural meaning like the Mma Nwuli used specifically for Uli painting or body painting.
At the age of eight, I was invited to sit beside my grandfather as he presided over a function where he’d reel out and handover ihe ije ewe list to suitors who came to marry one of our daughters in my kindred, watching as he performed spiritual prayers with precision and reverence. His words,
Ọ bịara egbu m, gbuo onwe ya… Egbe bere, Ugo bere, nke sị ibe ya ebena, nku kwaa ya
remain etched in my memory, a prayer invoking peace and fairness, values that are central to our customs.
Even more fascinating was how my grandfather carried out these duties without ever formally taking the Ọzọ title despite being a highly respected figure in our clan. He was the Ugbo of Owu in Obi Mgbidi, a title second only to the Agu na egbu ewu, yet he never felt compelled to acquire the Ọzọ title. My father explained this to me later, which sparked a more profound curiosity about the Ọzọ title and its place in today's society.
Alongside these experiences, reading Chinua Achebe’s books, particularly Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God, played an instrumental role in shaping my understanding of Igbo traditions and spirituality. Achebe’s portrayal of characters like Ezeulu and Okonkwo brought to life the tension between the old ways and the encroaching influence of modernity and foreign religions. His vivid descriptions of deities like Idemili and Ani, revered goddesses in Igbo cosmology, highlighted the centrality of gods in our traditional belief system, providing spiritual guidance and protection to communities. Achebe’s stories illuminated the complex dynamics of power, authority, and faith in our culture, and they resonate deeply with the challenges we face today.
This brings me to why I’m writing this piece. As I reflected on these experiences, I couldn’t help but notice a disconnection between the younger generation and these cultural practices that shaped our ancestors. It troubled me. Where were the youths? Why were so few interested in preserving such profound traditions like the Ọzọ title?
It wasn’t just a matter of indifference. Many of my peers, educated, ambitious, and deeply connected to modern life, felt that aspects of our tradition didn’t align with the world they were navigating. In particular, the tension between Ọdịnala, our traditional beliefs, and Christianity was a recurring theme. How could someone be true to both their cultural roots and their faith? I felt this pull when I was confronted with traditional practices that conflicted with my Christian beliefs. And so the question arose: How can we evolve these important cultural practices to ensure they live on in a way that resonates with today’s generation?
In light of this, I decided to explore that question in depth and share my thoughts through a five-part series. This is not an attempt to undermine our culture but a heartfelt desire to see it thrive. Tradition, if it refuses to evolve, risks becoming irrelevant. We must find ways to adapt, to balance the old with the new, and to ensure that critical aspects such as the Nze na Ọzọ society and other aspects of Igbo heritage can survive and even flourish in modern times.
Part 1: Honoring Our Roots, But Where Are the Youths?
The Ọzọ title is and has always been, a prestigious position within Igbo society. It represents the pinnacle of social status, spiritual authority, and community leadership, signifying not only a personal achievement but a duty to the community. To become an Ọzọ is to become an Nze — a living embodiment of the ancestors, a custodian of tradition, and a figure entrusted with the moral conscience of the community. In times of crisis, it is the Ọzọ title holders that the community turns to for guidance, and their role as fair adjudicators in disputes solidifies their place as pillars of Igbo society.
As I reflect on the significance of this title, I’m reminded of its deep connection to my own family. My grandfather, though never formally taking the Ọzọ title, was revered in our community for his wisdom, boldness, and his role as the Ugbo of Owu in Obi Mgbidi. His son, my uncle, chose to formally acquire the title and passed this tradition down to his sons. In many ways, the Ọzọ title has been an integral part of our family’s lineage, linking us to our ancestors and our heritage.
However, as I look around today, I cannot ignore the growing gap between this noble tradition and today’s youth. Where once young men and women aspired to earn this title, it seems that fewer people are interested in pursuing it today. The well-educated and digitally savvy younger generations are busy building careers, exploring the world, and embracing modern ideals. It’s not that they don’t care about tradition. Many still feel a deep connection to their roots. But the pressures of contemporary life, the allure of global cultures, and the fast-paced digital world have, understandably, reshaped their priorities. The costs associated with taking the title, both financially and socially, also play a role in deterring the younger generation. It is no longer just about honouring one’s heritage but about finding a balance between old-world responsibilities and new-world realities.
There is also the undeniable tension between tradition and faith. Many young Igbos are Christian, and for some, the traditional spiritual obligations associated with the Ọzọ title create a conflict with their religious beliefs. I have felt this tension, torn between my respect for tradition and my Christian faith. It’s a delicate balance that has caused many to shy away from pursuing the title. Chinua Achebe touched on this very conflict in Arrow of God, where Ezeulu, the Chief Priest, grapples with the imposition of Christianity on his people and the erosion of traditional authority. The gods Achebe depicted, such as Idemili and Ulu, embodied the spiritual backbone of Igbo society, but their influence was challenged by the changing tides of colonialism and religion. This literary reflection mirrors the struggles many Igbos face today in reconciling their cultural and spiritual identities.
As I think about this generational shift, I find myself reflecting on those who have successfully embraced both worlds. Figures like E-Money, Obi Cubana, and Cubana Chief Priest come to mind. These successful, modern individuals have taken up the Ọzọ title and used their influence to uplift their communities. They have managed to integrate the traditional values of the Ọzọ position with the demands of their contemporary lives, using their status to give back, create opportunities, and inspire others.
But what sets them apart from most young people who remain disconnected from the Ọzọ role? What can we learn from their success, and more importantly, how can we inspire others to follow in their footsteps? The answer, I believe, lies in how we approach tradition itself. For people like E-Money and Obi Cubana, the Ọzọ title is not just about upholding ancient customs but about redefining what it means to be an Ọzọ in today’s world — philanthropy, entrepreneurship, and creating opportunities for others. They have found a way to make tradition relevant to their lives, and in doing so, they have shown that the title can evolve and be a powerful tool for social good and leadership in modern times.
But what about the majority of the youth who don’t see themselves reflected in this new image of the Ọzọ title? What would it take to inspire them to engage with this aspect of their heritage? We have to ask ourselves whether our current practices and rituals are inviting to them. Can we modernize these customs without diluting their essence?
As I continue to explore this, I realize that one of the key issues is the way our traditions are communicated. Many young people feel disconnected from practices that seem rigid and out of touch with their realities. They don’t want to reject their culture, but they want it to evolve in a way that reflects their world—a fast-paced, diverse, and inclusive world. For too long, we have clung to the rigid interpretations of customs without considering how they can be adapted to fit the needs of a new generation. The Ọzọ title, like many aspects of our culture, must evolve if it is to survive. This doesn’t mean diluting its significance but rather reimagining how it can serve as a bridge between the past and the present.
That said, there are several moving parts to this conversation. Tradition means different things to different people. Some may argue that the essence of Ọzọship lies in preserving its rituals exactly as they have been passed down, while others, like myself, see an opportunity for evolution without losing the core of what makes the Ọzọ title special. The goal here is not to water down our culture but to make it more inclusive and more reflective of the world we live in now.
The point I want to drive home is that if our tradition refuses to evolve, it risks being left behind. The Ọzọ position is too important, too vital to our identity, to be allowed to fade away. If we want the younger generation to engage with this aspect of our heritage, we need to adapt. We need to find ways to make the Ọzọ title more relevant, accessible, and appealing to today’s youth.
In the next part of this series, I’ll talk about the tension between tradition and Christianity, a significant factor in why many young people hesitate to embrace the Ọzọ title. How can we evolve certain practices to align with the faith that many now follow while still honouring the cultural significance of Ọzọship?
Look out for Pt 2.
