Of Okija Shrine, Unforgiving Deity, & Tech-Savvy Ezemmuo

(By Mark-Anthony Osuchukwu) - Inside Okija shrine with the Goddess who never forgives

In the middle of a forest lies the dreaded Okija shrine, home to Ogwugwu-Mmiri, one of the most powerful deities in Igboland. Leading to the shrine is a dirt road plied by men on a date with spirits, surrounded by vegetation and fear. The shrine is a half-hour journey on okada from Ihembosi, a busy community in Anambra State. Save for the sputtering of the bike and the chirping of birds, the entire world is silent. A two-man journalism crew from Nigeria Abroad, we are on a mission to poke into the shrine’s historical mystery, and separate fact from fiction. 

The okada whines to a halt by a lonely structure where a man in red cap is sitting on a low stool. We pay the rider and approach the good man with pleasantries.

“Clear your throats before you come any further,” he commands. 

 A young man in his 40’s, his charge, a ritual for all who visit the shrine, is larger-than-life, instilling fear and obedience. We clear our throats, unlocking his hospitality.

“I am Ezemmuo Meekaodimma”—Chief priest bent on doing good. “What did you bring for the Alusi?

It is not our first visit. The day before we had come to book an appointment for this interview, and were told of what items to bring along: kolanuts, edo, native male chalk, native female chalk, and dry gin. We present the items.

“Whatever you give to the Gods can never be taken back,” Ezemmuo states, as if reading our rights.

He casts a critical look at the items and declares them incomplete. We understand, and put some money into the saucer, to Ezemmuo’s apparent dismay. Visiting the shrine for academic purposes is free; ours is deemed a commercial visit. The Alusi deserves better, he says and, after a bit of back and forth, we promise the balance for later. Ezemmuo whips out his phone and releases his account details.

“Don’t fail to pay the balance,” he cautions. He need not say: everyone is aware of the Alusi’s no-nonsense reputation. Payment before a shrine is basic tradition, and we are relieved that the Gods have embraced digital payment. 

A few moments of silence are broken by Ezemmuo’s sudden ringing of a bell as he chants incantations to the deity. As he had earlier asked for our names, he begins to introduce us to the Alusi. We did not prepare for all this, but we reckon it is only proper: You cannot shave someone’s hair in their absence—we cannot discuss the deity in her own presence without formally inviting her into the matter.  The aura of divinity is real, as I feel goose bumps upon my skin. 

Ezemmuo blesses and breaks the kolanuts, throwing a few lumps into the shrine, which consists of strips of red and white cloth, a mound of sacrificial items, feathers, and droplets of blood. A dreaded shrine, its simplicity belies its powerful reputation.

As we prepare to start the interview, an older man enters the compound.

“Honourable!” Ezemmuo cheers, singing praises for him. We are told he is a priest of Ogwugwu-Mmiri, but also a lawmaker in the Anambra State House of Assembly. As he is to become part of the interview, I approach him for a handshake. 

“No! No! No!” he quips, opening his bag and bringing out a bottle of hand sanitizer. He pumps a few squirts into my hands and watches as I do the anti-coronavirus ritual. I feel impressed by his wokeness. Indeed the Gods are wise. 

“We have heard so much about the Okija shrine,” I open the conversation. “We are here to find out how things work.”

“You did well. You cannot say someone’s mouth is smelling if you do not come close,” the Honorable begins. “But this place is not Okija, it is Oka-ije. The town has 30 villages and their ancestors didn’t all come from one place. Some came from Aro, others from Obosi, Nri, and so on. Oka-ije reflects these migrations. It is the white man that ruined the original name.”

“Ogwugwu-Mmiri is a Goddess of justice, of retaliation,” he continues. She takes no bribes, hates lies, and never forgives.”

Sensing my shock at how he seems to glamorize this lack of forgiveness, he explains:

“Oh yes she never forgives. Whoever you forgive will repeat what they did, hoping you will forgive again. And that’s how people become a laughing stock.”

When I ask of their relationship with other faiths in the community, Ezemmuo says the deity does not segregate.

“We attend church bazaars and events. We are all worshiping one God, only the mediums differ.”

Indeed respect for otherness, and openness for inclusion, are a feature of most African belief systems; they do not proselytize. 

At the back of the shrine lie artifacts of Ogwugwu-Mmiri’s vengeful accomplishments: human skulls, dry remains, clothes, and bones. 

“This is the highest court around,” Ezemmuo proudly declares. “If someone reports a dispute here and the accused is invited but refuses to appear, Ogwugwu-Mmiri will strike him or her dead if they are guilty. If you are guilty but want to cover that with falsehood, you will die.”

“And when you die, your corpse must be brought here, not buried by your family. You become a property of the Alusi. Otherwise whoever buries you will die too. And even when your corpse is brought here, your possessions must be brought with it. There are cases where stubborn families were nearly wiped out until the debt is paid.”

In the midst of the conversation, Ezemmuo’s phone rings. The caller is reporting that a woman who buried her husband, a victim of Ogwugwu-Mmiri’s justice, had just died. The children, now convinced of the powers of the shrine, are willing to relinquish her corpse and possessions. Ezemmuo laughs a throaty, unkind laugh.

“Even the corpse of the man must be exhumed,” he vows. He takes a moment from the interview and pours libations over the reported death.When he returns, I ask if I can take pictures of the shrine. He laughs heartily and invites a little boy to explain to me what happened when a young man who visited, took a photo of the shrine with his laptop.

“His laptop crashed immediately,” the little boy replies with apparent satisfaction. 

Ezemmuo tells me about a high-ranking Nigerian police officer who led a raid on the shrine some years ago over a political squabble in Anambra State. The man, he says, had series of problems afterwards and is yet to recover.

“She is the Goddess of that [Urasi] river on the way to Onitsha from Owerri,” Ezemmuo adds, referring to Ogwugwu-Mmiri. “If you are bringing a charm to harm an Oka-ije person, once you cross that river Ogwugwu-Mmiri will neutralize it.”

Yet I am bent on taking photos, and Ezemmuo asks me to return the next day, before which he will have sought the deity’s consent. Which is fair: even mere mortals are offended when photographed without their consent. We conclude the brief chat and reschedule for the next day, the third, hoping for divine consent and photo shoot. 

The next day we arrive the shrine as agreed, and Ezemmuo has good news: the Goddess, I daresay, knows a good heart, more so a slayking, so the photo shoot has been approved. Barefooted on the holy ground, I take position as cameras begin to click without consequence. At that moment, I feel a mixture of fear and intellectual comfort, yet feeling the energy, if not shadow of the Goddess who never forgives. 

“If you have any other questions, ask,” Ezemmuo says. He tells me that the Goddess chooses her priests herself and, once chosen, the individual cannot refuse, otherwise death fill follow.

“She never forgives,” he says again. “Even we the servants face the same wrath. If we break her rules, it is death.” 

As he says this, a pall of sadness seems to overwhelm his face, and I feel both compassion and wonder. It must be very delicate living on the edge, obeying

Ogwugwu-Mmiri’s simple but unyielding laws, before which all men, mighty and small, servants and strangers, are equal. 

Speaking to Akachukwu Maduakolam, a lawyer with Clay & Amicus Solicitors, the law firm representing most of the priests of Okija shrine, I learn that there are people who refuse to honor the deity’s summons and instead drag the priests to court.

“But they always lose. They allege juju invocation and that’s incorrect. The shrine is not a proscribed religion. It is a Court of Equity and should be encouraged, strengthened and regulated to ensure it delivers on its mandate.” 

As I take my leave, I see the shrine’s philosophy of justice, simplified into a motto written on its letterhead used for summons: “Truth will set you free and lie will send you to death.”