Agbo-Olode
This is one of my earliest paintings—an impressionist interpretation of Agbo-Olode, a traditional masquerade and a central figure in the annual festival of Ogidi Kingdom, Kogi State.
I’ll never forget one particular day during the Agbo Festival when I was a child. That morning, I was on my usual round hawking àkàrà (bean cakes) for my mother when I caught sight of an approaching Agbo masquerade. Instinctively, I ran toward an elderly man nearby, hoping he would shield me. But before I could reach him, three more Agbo masquerades emerged from different directions, closing in fast.
The man stood frozen, unable to protect me, and panic surged through me. I screamed and bolted toward home, the tray of àkàrà on my head slowing me down. In desperation, I flung it aside—the bean cakes scattered across the ground, and coins spilled from my pocket. I didn’t stop to look back. I ran all the way home, breathless but safe.
For the rest of the festival, which still had a few days to go, I refused to sell àkàrà for my mother. The memory of that terrifying chase turned me into a very reluctant hawker—at least until the festival was over.
Extracts from Grace and Resilience: A Personal Story of My Life’s Journey
I’ll never forget one particular day during the Agbo Festival when I was a child. That morning, I was on my usual round hawking àkàrà (bean cakes) for my mother when I caught sight of an approaching Agbo masquerade. Instinctively, I ran toward an elderly man nearby, hoping he would shield me. But before I could reach him, three more Agbo masquerades emerged from different directions, closing in fast.
The man stood frozen, unable to protect me, and panic surged through me. I screamed and bolted toward home, the tray of àkàrà on my head slowing me down. In desperation, I flung it aside—the bean cakes scattered across the ground, and coins spilled from my pocket. I didn’t stop to look back. I ran all the way home, breathless but safe.
For the rest of the festival, which still had a few days to go, I refused to sell àkàrà for my mother. The memory of that terrifying chase turned me into a very reluctant hawker—at least until the festival was over.
Extracts from Grace and Resilience: A Personal Story of My Life’s Journey
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