Yeke-Yeke, a Centuries-Long African Festival

An adult article for you.

 “The stone will be outdoored shortly,” the government information service van blares.

That makes the crowd restless and people pull and push. The tourists, although smattering from the fury of the sun and tottering from the moving crowd, glue their cameras to their eyes, squint into the eyepieces and keep their fingers poised over the shutter releases.

“Abe-e-e-e!” the Chief Priest, Hunoga, cries.

“Abe ba!” the crowd choruses and fixes its gaze on the entrance to the Sacred Forest.

Shortly the blood-chilling festival cry tears through the calm air: “Ahe –e-e-elu lo-o-o-o!” the gathering screeches and a sea of arms snaps upwards.

The group emerges with the stone and the sensational roar splits the air again. The crowd moves like ants in ferment. The puffing policemen now have a harder time controlling them.

A specially chosen purified young man, bare-chested and blindfolded, holds the stone on a leaf in his outstretched palms and crawls towards the official dais. He is led in the slow-procession by two girls carrying ancestral stools, two men clearing the way with palm fronds and some powerful Hunowo. Occasionally the bearer of the Stone hoists it and the crowd yells: “Ahe –e-e-elu lo-o-o-o!” As the Stone comes nearer, the people trample on each other to catch a glimpse and the cameras click and flash. Slowly the Stone-bearer creeps past the official dais and the crowd drifts after him towards the village square.

For six days every year, the village of Glidzi-Kpodzi in the South-east of the West African country of Togo throbs to the pulse of the Yeke-Yeke festivity. This carnival, which is a sort of a Ge “Christmas,” is an occasion for family reunion, prayer, feasting, and remembrance of the dead.

The Yeke-Yeke festival dates back over three centuries when a kin group of the eight clans now called the Ge, tired of the constant raids from the warring neighbouring Kingdoms of the Akwamus, fled from Accra in what is now capital city of the Republic of Ghana, and settled at their present home where they found peace, hospitality and tranquillity from their neighbours.

When the Ge abandoned their ancient home, they took with them their ancestral stools – carved wooden seats which are symbols of jural and political authority - and their tribal gods. And not a single year did they forget these gods and the leaders who led them on the tedious journey.

The commemoration is observed either on the last Thursday of August or on the first one in September, and lasts till the next Tuesday.

The calculation of the date for the celebrations is based on the lunar month. Twenty-one days before the commencement of the festivity, twenty-one stones are distributed to the heads of the now nine clans. Each day, they carry off a stone from their respective homes until the last one indicates the exact day to begin the festival.

On Thursday, a record crowd of on-lookers and adepts from far and near, throng into Glidzi-Kpodzi. 

Those from far took international flights to Lome, the capital city. On the Thursday morning, people join public transport from the lorry parks of Togo, especially those of Lome, to Kpodzi. But due to the stampede and the long queues on this day, those who had the means hired taxis. The journey may be done in less than half an hour alongside sandy beaches fringed with coconut trees.

“Ahe –e-e-elu lo-o-o-o!” is the shout that rends the air throughout the jubilee.

Thursday, devoted to prayers and the pouring of libation, is called Kpesosogbe – the day of the raising of the Sacred Stone. This is a piece of rock, which, like the stars, could prophesy about the future.

Long before cocks begin to crow, the people are already awake and humming festival songs. Soon, the rising sun breaks over the jungle and bathes the brown circular huts and their sloping thatch roofs in crimson light. The inhabitants crawl out of their cottages and head towards the shrines. It is time for motata – the clearing of paths. They tidy up the areas around the fetish groves and whitewash their high round walls. Then they return home to wash down.

At about 8 o’clock, clad in white calico, the participants troop to the shrines of the eight gods: Dzobu, Kantamn, Avudupu, Kpesu, Tsawe, Nyigblen, Sakuma and Kole. A tree stands as a temple in the middle of each grove. Before shuffling backwards and barefoot across the white calico curtains fluttering at the entrance of the shrines, the worshippers first purify themselves by stooping over a smoky fire fed with palm fronds in an earthenware pot. Once inside, they kneel in the soft sand and sing: 

We’ll celebrate the ancestors’ day

With prayers, libations and feasts.

Avudupu should lead us;

Woe unto evil seekers;

Peace to peacemakers.

Shortly the fetish priest, Huno, creeps in and marches straight to the whitewashed tree bound with calico and begins to prepare for the ceremony.

“Abe-e-e-e!” the Huno soon cries.

“Abe ba!” the congregants answer.

“Ancestors I invoke you,” the Huno begins.

 “The old year is about to meet the new

And it’s appropriate that we pour libation.

We ask for peace, unity and prosperity.”

“Ami!” the worshippers respond and ululate. Then they burst into frantic singing; meanwhile the Huno goes to preparing the ritual bath water, Tsetsi, which is a sort of Holy Water. He places wisps of anyanyran leaves to his lips, whispers some invocation and drops the leaves into a calabash. He adds amagan and gbo leaves and then pours on a few drops of lagoon water and then gin. Then he fills the gourd to the brim with river water.

Seven kinsmen and kinswomen arise and circle the bath water. Harmoniously they dip their palms three times into the water and sprinkle drops on the congregants. Then they purify the worshippers by washing their heads and faces. Some believers buy bottles of the ritual water to take home for daily use against evil powers.

Meanwhile Glidzi-Kpodzi is teeming with life. Towards noon the drummers begin to pound irresistible rhythms out of the long red-and-green cylindrical drums in front of the shrines. The celebrants sing and clap and beat their chests to the beat. Some people occasionally break from the crowd, stoop in the centre, loop their arms along their sides and bending and unbending their backs, tap their feet in dance, raising a puff of reddish-brown dust.

Now celebrants and spectators – including tourists from abroad – flock into the village. The festival feeling hangs thickly in the air and the drummers perform with renewed frenzy, their swarthy, muscled bodies glistening with rivulets of sweat.

From 2 p.m., the enthusiastic crowd swarms towards the shrines of Kole, Sakuma and Kpesu located on the edge of the Sacred Forest, Agbatsome, to await the raising of the Sacred Stone. Occasionally a delegation from an outlying Ge settlement marches in. It is preceded by a woman carrying an ancestral stool and a man holding aloft a white calico flag displaying the name of the village, its motto and totem.

Soon every available space on the ceremonial grounds is filled. The place is so jam-packed that some people even squat on walls and crouch in tall coconut and neem trees. The sun burns but an occasional breeze blows in from the Gbaga River shimmering nearby and gives a soft, cool, teasing touch to the heat wave.

Meanwhile the adepts execute quick dance steps to their left and to their right in praise of the gods, voduwo: 

They that inhabited the jungles

Long before men dared to venture there;

The valiant and might ones.

We’ll drum and sing your praises:

Segede! Segede! Segede!

Segede! Segede! Segede!

The squat-shaped sonorous male drums thump incessantly:

Zugudu! Zugudu! Zugudu!

Zugudu! Zugudu! Zugudu!

Before one is aware, the instinctive pull of the festival songs has one rocking wholeheartedly with the stamping, surging crowd. On the Sacred Ground, the fetish priestesses, vodusiwo, sway gracefully to the mingled rhythms of the ecstatic drumbeats.

It is now almost time for the Paramount Chief, Ge Fiogan, of Glidzi – the Royal Town bordering Glidzi-Kpodzi to the South – to come in. The drummers beat the drums harder and the singing rises to a crescendo. Occasionally a vodusi becomes possessed by a god: she suddenly stops singing and dancing and seems baffled. Soon she starts to scream: “Ai! Ai! A!” and shivers all over. Then her eyes widen and roll upwards and she lets out a piercing wail and sag into a trance. Fetish priests then rush to her aid and bundle her away.

At 3 p.m. the message goes from mouth to mouth that the Ge Fiogan is on his way to the festival grounds. As he comes nearer, there is a stampede to catch a glimpse of him since this is the only time he appears in public. On his arrival, the singing, the beating of chests and the clapping of hands rise to a deafening pitch. More vodusiwo go into delirium and rave in tongues. Their language is said to be one of the ancestors and only a trained few can interpret it. The Ge Fiogan, dressed in his traditional royal outfit of a rich snow-white cloth thrown over his shoulders and a fluffy white cap called Dzegba on his head and followed by an impressive retinue, is wildly cheered. He quietly acknowledges the ovation with majestic waves of a white cloth in his right hand and soon settles down under the official dais.

The Chief Priests of Sakuma and Kole step out of their shrines and march to the Ge Fiogan. They whisper to him. The Ge Fiogan rises to his feet and together with the Priests crowd into the Sacred Wood from where the Sacred Stone will soon be picked.

This was soon done and the Stone is taken to the village square. The village crier and the Stone-bearer mount a platform in front of Avudupu’s shrine. The bearer raises the Stone towards the crowd for the last time. A deafening roar of “Ahe –e-e-elu lo-o-o-o!” rocks the arena at the same moment that a sea of arms jerks into the air in farewell to the Stone. The crier lifts a rusty green megaphone to his lips and announces: “There will be plenty of rainfall and the year will be fruitful …” the gathering does not wait for the rest of the message: they ululate and let out an ear-splitting “Ahe –e-e-elu lo-o-o-o!” Then they burst into song and dance, beating their chests to the rhythm since the outgoing year has been difficult.

Meanwhile, protected by the Hunowo, the Stone is led in a procession back to the Sacred Wood where nobody will see it until the next celebration in thirteen lunar months.

The horde pours out of Glidzi-Kpodzi, leaving only a fraction of its number behind. It is now around 5 p.m. and the setting sun has turned into a fiery golden ball in the western sky. More people take the ritual baths in the shrines and seek blessings from the Hunowo. For the rest of the day, atupani drums, accompanied by gongs, start, harsh and insistent and then stop. As suddenly as the music ceases, it thunders out again.

Friday breaks quietly over Glidizi-Kpodzi. Not a single tourist is around; they have all fled back to Lome or booked into Hotel Le Lac about 15 kilometres away to relax on the shores of Lake Togo, the lake which gave its name to the country. There, one may surf on the serene lake and board and lodge in lush tropical surroundings.

But in Glidzi-Kpodzi that day is anwaliyogbe – the day of the remembering of the dead. It is a day of mourning, just like All Saints Day of November 1^st for Christians. The people observe the funeral of their departed relatives, especially those who passed away during the ban period. And throughout the morning one may find people prostrate before the shrines for long moments in meditation.

The mourning of the dead in the lineage households begins in the Royal Palace at Glidzi. At dawn, a small fire of evergreen branches is lit before the palace to burn till Saturday as a sign of the continual link between the ancestors and their descendants.

 The Ge Fiogan and his entourage sit in the courtroom. The old divine drummer shuffles out of a side room, beating the war drum. Female court singers accompany him, chanting the praises of the thirteen Chiefs who have reigned since 1663. The divine drummer invokes the dead Chiefs and throbs out their great achievements whilst moving all the time towards the Chief. When he arrives in front of the monarch, the drummer pounds out his praises. Impressed, the Chief rises and lightly touches three times the leopard skin over the drum. That seems to throw the drummer into frenzy. Scampering from the courtroom, he thrashes out more praises in a staccato fashion right up to the jumping tongues of flames of the fire outside.

Now the long, fat talking drums take over the praising of the deceased Chiefs. The Ge Fiogan and his elders then troop out. The drums now thumb the praises of the reigning monarch. The Chief lifts up both arms and shakes them in appreciation and disappears into the palace. 

Then the twin-drums reverberate: this lifts the ban on noise-making. Instantly drumming breaks out all around Glidzi as if the drummers were poised over their drums, waiting for the signal. The youth pour into the dusty streets, jumping and shouting and dancing. The outlying villages pick up the message and soon the whole of Ge lands is vibrating with drumming. The war drums, which are rarely beaten because they only summoned people to war in the olden days, sound out to call the dead to the villages. Bereaved families break into tears and mourn their lost ones.

The vodusiwo who live in shrines – quite like Monasteries or convents or nunneries – in the dark bush, drum and sing in a special language understood only by a special few till dawn in memory of their departed colleagues. However, on the fringe of the dark forest, flickering yellowish-red tongues of candlelight hover over dark crouched figures meditating on the tombs of their relatives.

The sun breaks early and hot over Glidzi-Kpodzi on Saturday, Nuwuwuzangbe – the day of offerings.

Earlier, at dawn, the Royal Palace war drums, axuaxu, have echoed in the valley beneath Glidzi-Kpodzi to summon the clan heads to the remembrance ceremony of the dead Chiefs.

Later, at 6 a.m., the Chief and his cortège sit in state. A paternal kinswoman brings the Ge Fiogan a black earthenware pot containing pieces of roasted ablo – a corn dough meal – mixed with palm oil. Amidst drumming, singing and the flourish of horns, the Chief sprinkles the food all over the palace and in the royal mausoleum for the ancestral spirits. Then libation is poured to invoke the spirits of the departed royal ancestors and to implore the blessings and the protection of the gods. The war drum peels off, thunderous and mournful. The Chief and his entourage rise and march into the royal mausoleum. Whilst they perform the secret ceremonies in there, horns blare and talking drums pulsate.

Outside, six white sheep are slaughtered. When the Chief emerges from the mausoleum at 9 o’clock, the drummers and the horn blowers now perform with extraordinary vigour. The Chief and his retinue disappear into the huge portals of the palace amidst ovation from the people. He then sits in state in the courtroom and receive homage from various delegations.

Towards 10 o’clock all the drums reel off a thunderous rhythm and a bullock tethered before the palace all night is slaughtered. The animals are flayed and the meat used to prepare the festive meal.

The drums pulse again, but soon snap out. The Ge Fiogan and his elders give food to the ancestral stools and then head towards the royal mausoleum to do likewise to the spirits of his predecessors. Only when the ancestors have eaten, do the Ge Fiogan and his guest feast. Then the people are free to slaughter animals, make offerings and feast; but this is hardly done except on Sunday which is named anwlawagbe – the day of the exchange of festival greetings. 

On this day, dew hangs in the cool dawn sky like water sprays. Shivering, paternal and maternal kinsmen file bare-chested, barefoot and in old cloths into their whitewashed ancestral stool rooms. They squat on mats spread before the stools brought by their ancestors from Gengbo, the ancestral homeland. The family Hunowo, elderly grey-haired men who are the lineage heads as well as family ritual chiefs, hobble into the rooms opened only when the intervention of the ancestors was sought and takes a seat before the stool. His agnatic elder brother and sister lower themselves into the other seats.

“Abe-e-e-e!” the Huno says and the congregants answer: “Abe ba.”

“Now, let’s greet the ancestors,” the Huno says and the group choruses:

“Ancestors, how are you?

May your names be praised

May you protect us from evil

Keep us united, healthy and strong

And pour your blessings on us always.”

Beating his gong on the floor, the Huno prays, invoking the ancestors and the gods and asking for their protection and blessings for the whole family.

“Ago-o-o-o!” the eldest aunt says at the end of the prayer and the group answers: “Ame-e-e-e!”

            “I’m appealing to the founders of this village to hearken to our prayers,” she continues.

“Ami-i-i-i!” the group responds.

“Come and abide with us today and bless our offerings.”

 “Ami-i-i-i!”

“It will come to pass,” someone interjected and the group agrees with him.

“I invoke the ancestors,” the eldest uncle continued the prayers. “Come and witness this ceremony and receive our offerings with wide-open arms.

“Ami-i-i-i!” the gathering says. Someone intones an ancestral song and the others pick it up.

Now the congregants present sheep, drinks, money and cola to the ancestors and the gods in appreciation of their help and for answering a prayer during the past year and to solicit their care in the year ahead.

After this, the Huno pours libation with gin, thanking the ancestors for their protection. He passes the drink around in a coconut shell cup. Next he prays with lemonade and passes it also around. He rounds off the supplication with water which signifies peace. Then the people break into wild singing, beating their chests to the rhythm, while the agnatic elder uncle slaughters the animals for the festival meal which is also called Yeke-Yeke. Then they disperse.

Soon the tantalizing aroma of steaming unleavened corn dough meal and the spicy smells of mutton and chicken soups rise from the smoke-blackened kitchens. Meanwhile differences between the members of the family are thrashed out so that the meal can be shared in the usual communal manner for “woe unto kinsmen who will eat from the same bowl with enmity between them.”

The Huno feeds the ancestors by placing some Yeke-Yeke before the stools; then he scatters some in the lineage house for the lesser spirits. The male elders gather in the stool room and eat from the same bowl while the women and the children feast in the courtyard.

At noon the people assemble in the shrines to perform the same ceremony as in the stool room. This is the time to ask the oracle to prophesy about the year. The Huno consults the deity and gives the answer. At the end of the prayers, the congregants stretch out their arms to receive blessings from the gods.

At this stage all those whose prayers have been answered in the past year give thanks with offerings. Others make fresh petitions and promises to the vodu. However, people who have great wishes, such as requests for fertility, slide to the sacred potion in the south-eastern corner of the grove; there they wash themselves while muttering their wishes. Then, in groups and in singles, the people slip out of the shrines singing in happy moods.

In the afternoon they put on their best clothes and call on their neighbours to exchange the anwlawa nwlawa festival greetings and wish each other a happy new year. Then they spend the whole of Monday rejoicing and feasting.

Tuesday, the last day of the festivities, is called Vodudoxogbe – the day the gods return home. At about 3 p.m., the Hunowo, the Vodusiwo, the elders and the people assemble at the village square. Sakuma, Kpesu, Kole and then Nyigblen priests pour libation, thanking and praising the gods. Then they invoke the ancestors and hail them.

The drums pulse. The group bursts into the esi hun dance. First, the drums thunder the Foliko pattern; dancing, the people dash forwards and backwards to the drummers until they reach a shrine. The drummers change the rhythm to Agbanla and the crowd circle the grove three times while jumping. This, they do until they have gone round all the shrines; then they head towards the festival grounds when the descending sun splashes everything gold and the gathering breaks up.

Now the Yeke-Yeke festival has come to an end. A ban is then placed on the singing of the festival songs and certain tunes of the gods until the next meeting.

Glidzi-Kpodzi slides back into its drowsy rhythm with mainly old people, especially women and young children and will not seethe with life until after 13 lunar months when the Ge will commemorate the three hundred and twenty-sixth anniversary of their arrival at their present home.

(Written 1986)