Expressive Currencies: Artistic Transactions and Transformations of Warrior-Inspired Masquerades in Calabar
2019; UCLA James S. Coleman African Studies Center; Volume: 52; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1162/afar_a_00447
ISSN1937-2108
Autores Tópico(s)Anthropological Studies and Insights
Resumoall photographs by the author unless otherwise notedThe Ukwa performance started when members entered the dance arena carrying their long swords. Most members wore red, black, and yellow sashes neatly fitted over their white long shirts (Fig. 1). Wrappers were elegantly tied around their waists. The warriors paraded in synchronized and choreographed motions, until suddenly breaking formation to engage in aggressive and combative fencing bouts. The duels gave way to the Ukwa version of Mkpókpóró, a masquerader dressed in a loosely hanging black gown, adorned with an animal skull on its crest (Figs. 2, 14). The ominous character moved fluidly as if floating from one direction to another. Mkpókpóró serves as Ukwa's emissary, clearing the dance arena for members and the next act: Okpon-Ibuot.Loosely translated as "Mr. and Mrs. Big Head," Okpon-Ibuot is a male/female pair of masqueraders known for their performance dramatizing the social and sexual tensions between husband and wife (Figs. 3–4). The male masker donned a Janus helmet mask, finished with commercial paints and decorated with vulture feathers inserted into holes located on the crown of the mask. He was dressed in a loosely fitting fiber net costume and wielded a metal spear in his right hand. His female counterpart also wore a painted wooden Janus helmet mask. Three colorful plumes were inserted into the top of her head. Her dress, much more ornate and decorative, featured a foreign silk wrapper fixed to the àkàsì (a locally made cane hoop) tied to the masker's hips.1During the performance, the male character enticed members of the audience to caress his wife. After a brave viewer took him up on the offer, Mr. Big Head became enraged, protecting his wife by chasing and threating the violator. Meanwhile, Mrs. Big Head's choreography seductively displayed her sexuality for her husband. In response, Mr. Big Head assumed the role of an overly controlling, envious husband. The male/female dance drama continued in this way for about forty-five minutes. The dance is locally interpreted as a satire of marriage; the choreography is meant to stimulate reflection on issues of jealously, trust, emotional turmoil, sexual tension, and permissiveness. The display was performed by an Efik and Efut Ukwa faction based in Calabar as part of a commissioned play during a funeral in Akpabuyo, a little less than ten miles east of the city.2Crucial to this essay is that the commissioned dance duo, Okpon-Ibuot, was not an original part of Ukwa, but a recent incorporation into the warrior society. A puzzling yet important question is why did a war dance integrate a parody of love into a traditionally aggressive and menacing herbalist society? And how did such an inclusion influence Nnabo, a much more recent warrior-inspired society analyzed in the following pages, to become more visually pungent with its imagery and embrace a more violent demeanor during performance?In seeking answers to this line of questioning, the recent innovations of the two prominent warrior-related societies in Calabar today, Ukwa and its more junior successor Nnabo, as well as other permutations developed by youths, will be placed within a broader historical narrative. With this I extend art historian Sidney Kasfir's work on Idoma warrior societies and her proposed historical model charting the change, dissemination, and survival of "concrete" sculptural forms (namely masks) of specific secret societies (Kasfir 1984: 186) to include a broader performative approach. In so doing, this analysis includes songs sung, instruments employed, dress, symbolism of costumes, added ornamentation, and dance choreographies when appropriate. The goal is to demonstrate the reasons why and to what ends have Calabar masquerade associations invented and reinvented themselves.3 In the end, I present a model of cultural reinvention of warrior societies in Calabar that may prove useful in postulating why African masquerade arts so readily change, and why this art form is one of the most artistically effervescent on the continent today. In the end, this article provides a microcosm of cultural reinvention of warrior societies in Calabar, linking this pattern of change to that of the Cross River skin-covered genre, while forging a dialogue between the two.The Cross River region, encompassing southeastern Nigeria and West Cameroon, is an area well known for cultural and artistic mixing, making it ripe for an analysis of the artistic transactions and transformations of a specific genre of masquerades.4 Many cultures within this complex relied on membership-based cultural and political institutions, often referred to as masquerade societies, for governance, social order, status, and entertainment. Such associations and institutions employed both secret and public masquerade arts and rituals to reinforce political, judicial, and social stability through elaborate visual and performed productions. It is well documented that these institutions and their related masquerades and art forms were constantly traded, exchanged, and appropriated throughout the region, forming the complicated cultural matrix for which the Cross River is known.Another important layer of exchange is Calabar, capital of the Nigerian side of the Cross River, which also served as an active port during the transatlantic slave and later palm oil trades from about 1650 to the early twentieth century. Efik traders situated along the coast in Calabar purchased Mgbe from their Ejagham neighbors, the well-known governmental society also known for its elaborate masquerade performances, and modified it into Ekpe to facilitate the international slaving commerce with European maritime traders. The Ekpe society soon became saturated with incoming material wealth, making their masquerade performances and dressing ensembles quite regal and extravagant (Fenton 2011, 2016). The international commerce and material goods that flooded Calabar undeniably influenced other associations such as warrior institutions not unlike Ukwa. Cross River cultures have long engaged in historical and cultural interaction through time and space—so much that anthropologist Keith Nicklin (1983) summarized this porous region as undergoing continual states of cultural dialogue.Scholars investigating Cross River culture have addressed the history of artistic exchange along and outside the Cross River, linking the region's broader patterns of cultural interaction west to Cameroon's coastal lagoons and east to the Niger Delta (Nicklin and Salmons 1984; Wilcox 2002: 55; Röschenthaler 2006, 2011; Jones and Salmons 2011). Investigating masquerade diffusion and interaction in southeastern Nigeria, art historian Eli Bentor (2002 and this issue) suggested that a regional identity can be formulated when masquerades are understood through the historical interactions that shaped them. Building from this, I seek to demonstrate how the mechanisms of artistic and cultural transmission work within a specific genre from a specific locality.This essay also aims to bring awareness to the ways in which artistic innovations are not unlike currencies, elevating the value, worth, and economic vitality of a given masquerade society. Expressive currencies are thus the creative ingredients—whether visual, vocal, or performative—that members develop to keep their arts fresh, new, and relevant within the commercial landscapes that best define the masquerade culture of Calabar. Elsewhere I have shown that the masquerade culture in the city of Calabar has transformed into a lucid business since the late 1970s and early 1980s (Fenton 2016). This essay therefore takes on the theme of how and why masks travel by analyzing why and how masquerades boost their value or currency through artistic innovation. Analysis of Ukwa, Nnabo, and other youth-inspired iterations reveal how economic motivation and historical awareness elucidate why certain artistic and cultural influences from near and far were and continue to be mixed and remixed. In returning to the male/female drama Okpon-Ibuot with which we started, it is important to recall that it was a later introduction into Ukwa. Indeed, the male/female dance duo was once part and parcel of a widely diffused genre of masks distinctively finished by covering a wooden form with skin.Without question, the skin-covered mask has become one of the quintessential objects defining the art of the Cross River Region within museum and gallery spaces across Europe and the United States (Fig. 5). The unique characteristic of covering a wooden mask with skin, its elusive meaning and prevalent diffusion in eastern Nigeria and west Cameroon, caught the eye of Cross River collectors, enthusiasts, and scholars alike over the last hundred years.5 Its popularity was not limited to foreigners, but was also quite sought after within the Cross River, since it was used in hunter associations, women's societies, witchcraft and medicinal agencies, and two groups especially important to this examination: warrior institutions and entertainers. In short, most associations throughout the entire region that employed masquerade most likely embraced skin-covered masks at one time or another.Most scholarship on skin heads stressed the mapping of styles and artistic diffusion.6 In addition to the question of regional style, Nicklin (1974, 1979) identified three types of skin heads: cap masks that were tied to the top of a performers' head, usually decorated with elaborate hairstyles; helmet masks often showcasing Janus faces; and a dome variety found in the upper Cross River. However fruitful these studies are, I aim to move beyond style in order to piece together a historical narrative regarding the artistic innovations invented and reinvented by the likes of Ukwa, Nnabo, and other permutations found in the city today.Most agree that the skin-covered mask derived from warrior associations, commonly referred to as headhunting and challenge societies (Nicklin 1974: 8; Thompson 1978: 175; Blier 1980: 13, 99; Brain and Pollock 1971: 54). The plausible beginnings of the skin-covered mask developed from headhunting associations presenting freshly severed heads and human skulls to honor warriors' accomplishments and physical prowess, often in the context of ritual and masquerade (Partridge 1905: 231; Talbot 1912/1969: 272, 411; Brain and Pollack 1971: 92).7 P.A. Talbot, a British colonial administrator who documented the Ejagham of the Oban district from the late 1800s to the early 1900s, photographed and documented an early performance of this type in which he described, "On its head it [the masquerader] bore a human skull, or rather dried head, the mouth of which was fixed open in a ghastly grin" (1912: 223–24).8 In precolonial and colonial accounts of Calabar, headhunting was not documented to the extent that it was in hinterland narratives.9 Most missionaries active in Calabar in the late 1800s and early 1900s frequently described observing human skulls as trophies and household decorations, alluding to them as mystical agents used in witchcraft. Needless to say, missionaries were eager to put an end to the use of severed heads and skulls in Calabar.Showcasing severed heads as trophies of warriorhood quickly came to an end not long after Captain Beecroft sailed up the Cross River in 1842. Most have emphasized this date as crucial because it ushered increased European presence into the region. The establishment of church missions and the seeds of colonization were planted soon after. As colonization progressed, early masquerades became obsolete within the changes brought by Western influence. Talbot recorded a number of "clubs" or masquerade societies that become obsolete, only revived for special occasions (1912: 410–13). "Ukwa" and "Ikadum," the latter a war dance in which the masker donned a skull, both appeared in Talbot's list of outdated societies (1912: 411). The inclusion of Ukwa as defunct is quite fascinating, for I have documented its popularity and contemporary vitality in present-day Calabar. If we accept Talbot's list and compare it to what I observed during my fieldwork, past members of Ukwa quite successfully revived the once diminishing and "dated" society.In fact, in the early 1900s, not only were masquerade art forms modified, the secret societies and older associations themselves were disappearing due to the "progressive" status of church membership. Historian G.I. Jones narrated that Christian churches prohibited members from engaging in traditional societies and their masquerades. As a result, different masquerades took the place of older versions to appease colonial administration as well as conform to Christian ideology. In most cases, such masquerades diffused from neighboring versions or were revivals from various older associations (Jones 1984: 57). It is during this period that severed heads and skulls were replaced with masks carved out of wood and finished with skin.An example of a secular masquerade deemed acceptable by colonial administration and church officials was a social drama called Ikem. Nicklin and art historian Jill Salmons traced the spread and change of this institution throughout the Cross River. They noted that despite its broad dissemination, preference was given to those masks covered with skin. The early permutation of Ikem skin heads was relatively consistent: a naturalistic female cap mask with an open mouth expression and an elaborate hairstyle. More recently, skin-covered helmet masks (often featuring multiple faces) seemed to replace the cap versions in and around the Calabar region (Nicklin and Salmons 1988: 123–44). Some speculated that a version of this play, known as Okpon-Ibuot, was introduced in Calabar between 1895 and 1901.10A photograph from Calabar titled "Christmas Group," dated to 1896, a year or two after the alleged founding of Ikem (or rather, Okpon-Ibuot) in Calabar, captures an assembly of European tourists, three of whom are seen holding what appear to be two skin-covered caps and one helmet mask (Fig. 6). All could possibly be Ikem, Okpon-Ibuot, or female "maiden" styles of skin heads.11 In looking more closely, the intimate way in which two of the tourists hold and fondle their "souvenirs" make it seem as though masks relating to this style were highly coveted by foreigners. Such evidence suggests that skin-covered masks were part of a much broader and much earlier network of patronage than originally thought.However sought after it was, the phenomenon of covering a mask with skin was short lived. Three decades after Okpon-Ibuot's arrive in Calabar, Ikem or Okpon-Ibuot styled masks were being decorated with modern paints in lieu of being finished with skin. Such changes were seen as a popular deviation for not only African patrons, but also for European tastes (Jones 1984: 184).12 In fact, on the Nigerian side of the Cross River, by the 1970s the Ikem or Okpon-Ibuot styled skin heads all but disappeared, completely replaced by elaborately painted versions (Nicklin and Salmons 1988: 129).Scholars concerned with the skin-covered mask have addressed this transformation from skin to modern paint with very few words, only offering brief statements, which in my opinion trip readers into falling prey to the authenticity trap (Jones 1984: 184, 197; Brain and Pollock 1971: 96; Nicklin 1974: 14, 197, 59 and 2000: 193; Nicklin and Salmons 1984: 35 and 1988: 143; Röschenthaler 1998).13 Because skin versions are so coveted in Western collectors' houses and markets, painted versions attract very little interest, rendering them "less authentic." African art history has long shown that modifications to art, and their corresponding genres, have and will always continue to materialize through time and space. This has long been the dilemma surrounding the label of "traditional" African art.In her study on Dogon masks from Mali, anthropologist Polly Richards remarked, "Yet, once again, scholars have persisted in regarding all observed changes in the formal qualities of the masks as evidence of decline" (2005: 51). I contend that Richards' astute observation certainly holds true with skin heads and painted ones. The change from skin to modern paints should not be seen as a decline, but as part of the history of the skin-covered genre. Indeed, if one were to travel to Calabar and the Nigerian side of the Cross River today, no one would encounter a skin head in situ.14 Masquerade genres featuring a wooden mask in the typical skin-covered style in recent years are instead adorned with enamel or acrylic paints (Figs. 7–8). It seems the painted version has persisted longer than its skinned predecessor—over eight decades— and shows no signs of ending.In moving beyond a focus on the skin-covered mask alone— something that has occupied most who have examined this type of mask—I contend that consideration must be given to the forms that predated the skin-covered versions and hybrids thereof. By broadening discussion of the skin head to include those that came before and after, I propose a genre be identified that includes all related permutations. In doing so, a surprisingly similar pattern of artistic change within the skin-covered genre can be extended to the expressive currencies found among warrior associations in Calabar. Such patterns of artistic change, as I will show with Nnabo in the following paragraphs, are driven by economics and consumerism. I likewise suggest that the shift from severed heads to skulls to skin heads to, finally, paint, while initially motivated by colonial pressure, soon became a type of currency, especially in the realm of patronage.Those who have addressed the change to skin heads from skulls and trophy heads in warrior-related contexts reject straightforward observation and mimesis as an artistic strategy. Instead scholars suggested ideas relating to notions of metamorphosis (Blier 1980: 17), that skin became a type of medicinal power in lieu of the severed head (Thompson 1981: 176), and that artists experimented more, rendering the act of beheading and the "psychic energy" of both slayer and slain in more expressive, abstract terms with wood and skin (Kasfir 2007: 128–30). Recent ethnographic data supports that skinheads were not a product of mere observation, but was more about money than something steeped in meaning.Cultural custodians and an Okpon-Ibuot mask carver with whom I spoke informed me that skin covering was always about achieving a type of realism by showing off artistic ability with an unforgiving material. Skin covering was seen as valuable, expensive, and extraordinary. In the words of Chief Edem, the skin-covering technique was done "to show ability—that this was actually different [from other types of masks]."15 It seems as though skin covering was seen as a type of artistic currency, helping artists stand out to would-be patrons. And with the arrival of new materials, I speculate that modern paints were simply more sustainable, in addition to being fresh, in vogue, and thus in demand. Both techniques should be understood as expressive currencies temporally situated to the contexts that gave rise to them, driven by contemporary contexts, economics, and market demands, especially as artists competed with one another to procure patronage with the hope of fostering steady demands for their work.A particularly popular and important wooden mask finished with paints still performed in Calabar today returns us to the Ukwa male/female pair: Okpon Ibuot. We also return the question that started our look at the skin-covered mask: Why was Okpon-Ibuot or Mr. and Mrs. Big Head, a Calabarian version of the Ikem male and female masking dance drama, imported into Calabar Ukwa? One possible interpretation comes from Efik cultural historian Chief Ita Bassey, who argues that Mkpókpóró was once called Ekong Ukwa, and instead of wearing a skull, as it does today, it donned a long-necked cap mask with a curvilinear coiffure, not unlike the Ikem styled cap varieties (1974: 11). Other cultural custodians in Calabar state that the Big Head masquerade was used in the Nsibidi execution society, and when it became obsolete, it was brought into Ukwa as a social play.16 Others informed me that the Big Head drama was inserted into Ukwa as a diversion and way to soften the harshness and aggressive quality expressed when members fence with one another.17 Still others told me it was the youths who brought the social drama into Ukwa as a way to reinvent and beautify a stagnant, outdated warrior society.18Despite the myriad of contemporary local narratives, it seems likely that at the turn of the twentieth century, warrior societies were under colonial pressure to reinvent themselves, and so Ukwa did just that; the long-standing warrior society chose to include a popular, widespread, and proven male/female drama to temper the intensity of warriorhood. It is clear that Ukwa members were more interested in secularizing their performances for popular appeal, acceptance, and broader patronage, a model that points to not only colonial pressures, but also market-driven concerns, which may likewise explain the artistic alterations of the skin-covered genre. The junior war dance known as Nnabo draws much influence from Ukwa, which reinvented itself at the turn of the century not unlike the way the skinhead transformed—a pattern Nnabo seemed to emulate decades later, albeit in a harder, rougher manner, with a return to the human skull in the 1970s.Nnabo draws many influences from both city and hinterland masquerades. It is seen as a junior war dance and society to Ukwa, the more senior and long-standing warrior association. However, what makes Nnabo distinct is its rugged aggression, threatening behavior, and lastly, and perhaps most important, the use of human skulls and other skeletal remains adorning its masquerades. The only other scholars to attempt to make sense of Nnabo would have readers believe it is of precolonial origins and that it played a role in real warfare (Onyile and Slogar 2016: 70, 77).19 Both of these ideas are problematic misunderstandings very far from the truth. The cultural custodians of the society with whom I spoke firmly established the society's origins in the mid 1950s and stated that its chief influence was the Ejagham cultural institution known as Obasinjom from Akamkpa, a Local Government Area just north of the Calabar province.20Obasinjom, simply referred to as njom by my Calabar teachers, makes use of charms, medicines, herbalism, and masquerade to detect and combat negative witchcraft.21 The masquerade costume of Obasinjom consists of a long black gown with a raffia fringe adorning the bottom of the garment, arm cuffs, and top of the masker's head, appearing not unlike long hair. Cowrie shells often serve as decorative elements, either appearing as linear designs or encircling the costume's eye holes. Resting on the raffia coiffure, a wooden crocodile-like mask is securely fixed. Vulture features prominently embellish the wooden cap mask spread across the head in a fan-like manner. All of these qualities, save for the wooden mask and feathers, are found in most Nnabo masquerades.Obasinjom's imprint is certainly clear with the most general type of mask, simply referred to as Nnabo or more formally, Idem Nnabo (Fig. 9). It too fashions a style of dress reminiscent of a long cloth gown. However, it is quite different from Obasinjom since this Nnabo masker wears a tight-fitting esuk not unlike Ekpe/Mgbe masqueraders. In the Nnabo context, the esuk becomes a type of undergarment, worn beneath a tiered raffia headdress with a rectangular cloth attached in front of the masker, hanging all the way to the ground. This loosely cascading cloth becomes the costume's façade and thus its "mask." It also bears colorful raffia trim that accents the color scheme of the entire composition. Colors are usually chosen to enhance the central image embroidered on the cascading cloth façade.Decorative images are as diverse as the wide array of color schemes; no set formula exists. Depictions—either cloth embroidery, outlined with cowrie shells, or simply silhouetted with the latter material—visually highlight Nnabo's eclectic sources and interests. For example, skulls and crossbones are common and are usually found on a predominantly red color scheme that serves as an obvious symbol for blood and aggression (see Fig 9). Images of mermaids (references to Ndem, the Efik water spirit), dogs, and machetes are also popular. Another common design references the country's coat of arms, in which the entire mask is green and white, appearing not unlike a kinetic Nigerian flag (Fig. 10).Along with Obasinjom as the chief influence, other local appropriations are easily discernible in Idem Nnabo. Along with the use of the esuk as an undergarment, most Nnabo cultural custodians indicate the tiered raffia headdress was introduced later, soon after the society's conception. It was inspired by the popularity of Ekpe/Mgbe masquerades in the later 1950s. Today's more elaborate tierd raffia prototype is said to have started in the late 1960s.22 Another major local influence is the way in which Nnabo "talks anyhow," an artistic currency directly taken from Akata, a long-standing society that openly reveals the secrets of wrongdoers during night performances.23All Nnabo masks employ Akata's disguised voice. In the context of Nnabo, the hidden voice becomes a type of veil that openly criticizes and challenges pertinent issues and raises awareness about contemporary topics. This is best understood through the medium of song. Nnabo does not own a long-standing catalogue of songs like Ekpe/Mgbe, for instance. Songs and their lyrics are random, usually based on current events or what members might feel is pertinent for the audience to ponder. For example, the following Efik song was repeatedly sung during a Nnabo performance commissioned by a Qua-Ejagham age grade, celebrating their formal formation in 2009:The poignant lyrics were a clear critique of government and the continued issues surrounding Nigeria and its national and global oil politics. This type of song is precisely the temperament audiences revel in and come to expect from Nnabo. Nnabo's lyrics are more open ended and not as individually damaging as Akata. Such a randomly broad yet critical tone ensures Nnabo will be an instant crowd pleaser. But one may ask how does such a relatively new masquerade association speak with such an uncensored filter? This is where the use of human remains matters most.The use of human skulls is the most noticeable and distinctive expressive currency for which Nnabo is known. The Idem Nnabo typically features one to three human skulls surmounting the very top of the mask (Fig. 11). The skulls serve not only as protean visual signifiers of death and fear, but are crucial for understanding the meaning of the mask's choreography. Nnabo members conceptualize the use of the human skull as a means to better affect performance agency and elicit fear by the incorporation of what many have articulated to me as an element of the "mystical." Before performance, libation and sacrifices are offered to the skulls in an effort to appease and "charge" the deceased spirits of the skulls, who were either powerful members,24 wicked persons who were widely known to be violent or disturbed, or persons who died an especially difficult or gruesome death.With sacrificial offerings freshly made, the skulls are "gingered" or encouraged to haunt the performer. This is a crucial part of the choreography, which firmly entrenches Nnabo performance as a show of mystical bravado. The performers' goal is to endure those wicked energies and not succumb to the intangible onslaught, but channel the threating forces into a greater performative affect for the gathered audience. It is at this moment that the masker is most vulnerable. In the words of a longtime member of Nnabo, "Sometimes you can dance it and it carries you off."25 On some very rare occasions, I have witnessed Nnabo performers who failed and became overrun with wickedness; before he fell or unleashed havoc onto the audience, members quickly carried the performer out of view.26 During this masculine game of mystical wits, the choreography remains quite individualized and unrestricted. The only semblance of performative universality from dancer to dancer is observed during the climax, when the malevolent foe is bested.The dance move or Nnabo breakdown, also highly individualized yet structured at the same time, features the masker spreading his legs just beyond shoulder length, arms stretched outward, creating a ring-like posture. His body then drops downward, as if executing a standing squat, rhythmically shaking and vibrating his hips and upper body. As the performer executes this move, the weight of the entire mask shifts to his thighs and buttocks. The move is complete when the masker rises once again, only to dart off before repeating this feat once again, when strength is restored. Revered elder member of Nnabo, Ukwa, and a retired solider, Chief Bassey Eyo Edem, characterized this ballet as, in his words, "When you go to war, you don't just move directly, when you attack, some of us used crawling, it symbolizes something [is] coming."27 In other words, the dance expressively parodies a warrior using stealth during an attack or in defense of home. The move, performed under the duress of the skull's spirit, is meant to epitomize a type of masculinity projected through a display of "mystical" warriorhood.Mkpókpóró (meaning "skull" in Efik)28 is another Nnabo masquerade that dons a human skull on top of its head (Figs. 12–13). The present permutation performed in Calabar is Nnabo's iteration based on the older version of Ukwa, the senior and more long-standing warrior association
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