(As Witnessed by One Perplexed Elder from Arondizuogu)

By Mazi Uche Ohia

Let me begin with a true story.
Not hearsay.
Not comedy.
Not speculation.
A real-life cultural emergency.
An elder from Arondizuogu – grey-haired, red-cap qualified, and fully licensed by the ancestors – travelled to Lagos to visit his son.
This was not just any elder.
This was a man who had sat in Umunna meetings, settled disputes, shared kola with authority, and eaten Isi Ewu for years – with dignity, hierarchy, and a healthy fear of ancestors and consequences.

After two days of rest, the son – eager to prove that Lagos had not spoiled him completely – decided:
“Let me impress my father.”
And what better way to impress an Igbo elder than serving him the Igbo cultural delicacy made with goat head known as “Isi Ewu”?
Good intention.
Catastrophic miscalculation.

That evening, the young man assembled what he believed to be a respectable delegation: himself, three equally confident young men, one girlfriend (this detail will soon cause trouble) and his dear father. They arrived at a lively Lagos joint somewhere in Surulere. Music was blaring from a big speaker nearly as tall as a man. Pepper aroma was wafting from the kitchen. Confidence was overflowing.

The son took a seat, sat like the Commissioner for Enjoyment and declared: “Madam, six Isi Ewu.”
Six? The elder adjusted in his chair.
Perhaps the long trip to Lagos had affected his hearing. A few moments later, the order arrived. But what arrived was not Isi Ewu. At least, not the Isi Ewu the elder knew. What he saw were six small wooden mortars. Six! Each containing a private, individualised goat head experience with the “particulars” – tongue, ears, eyes – served separately like some desserts. As if they were serving oka and ube.

The old man leaned forward.
He counted slowly, silently. Otu… abuo… ato… ano… ise… isii… Six goat heads! For four young men, himself. And then –
He turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
…and saw a young woman with her own Isi Ewu.

At that precise moment, something gave way. Not the chair. Not the table.
Civilisation. The old man’s mind travelled back home. To Arondizuogu.
To a time when Isi Ewu was not food.
It was a ceremony. Back home when sanity prevailed, Isi Ewu was not ordered: it was earned. It was not served: it was presented. It was not eaten: it was negotiated.

Men gathered.
Not boys.
Not spectators.
Not women.
Men.
Kinsmen.
Umunna.
The goat head sat in the middle like a titled elder.
Nobody touched anything.
Until the eldest man adjusted his wrapper and took the first piece.
That act had meaning.
That act had power.
That act was the green flag for consumption to commence.

In the land of Izuogu na Iheme, there was law. Clear law. Not Lagos menu law. Ancestral law. The eldest took first rights. The “particulars” were allocated by seniority. Nobody rushed,
nobody grabbed. Nobody said, “Pass me make I taste”. Because you did not taste Isi Ewu. You received it.
A young man would sit quietly.
Observe.
Learn.
Wait.
His time would come.
Not by hunger.
But by growth.

Back to Lagos. The old man watched with growing apprehension as the girl lifted what looked like the eye of a goat, threw it into her mouth and munched hungrily.
Inukwa! He shook his head sadly.
One young man lifted the ear and said:
“This one sweet die!”
Another replied:
“Guy, pass the brain make I taste. This sauce is BAAD”
Taste?
Taste what?
Authority?
Seniority?
Inheritance?

Meanwhile, the girlfriend – fully focused and unbothered – adjusted her nails and attacked her Isi Ewu like a seasoned contractor handling a demolition job.

The old man rose to his feet.
No speech.
No announcement.
No closing remarks.
He turned to his son:
“Obinna, take me home.”
The son panicked:
“Papa, you have not eaten -”
The elder raised his hand.
A hand that has settled land disputes.
Case closed.

On their way home, silence.
Just the two of them in the car.
Then the elder spoke.
Slowly.
Like a man diagnosing a terminal condition.
“My son…”
“Is this what Isi Ewu has become?”
Silence.
“The head of a goat that kinsmen gather to eat…”
“…you people now eat it like abacha?”
The son attempted defence:
“Papa, this is Lagos…”
The elder nodded.
“I have seen.”

At home, he removed his cap.
Placed it gently beside him.
Then delivered judgment:
“Isi Ewu is not food.”
“Isi Ewu is a communion.”
“Isi Ewu is order.”
“Isi Ewu is respect you can chew.”
Then he added:
“The day everybody starts eating every part of Isi ewu…”
“…the same way…”
“…at the same time…”
“…that day, nobody will respect anybody again.”

My people, let us tell ourselves the truth. This write-up is not about goat or goat head. It is about collapse. We have taken a family communion… and turned it into a pepper soup appointment. We have taken a rite of passage …and converted it into a menu option. We have taken a symbol of hierarchy and reduced it to a competition of appetite without gender. How does one man eat a whole goat head alone? Ears, eyes, tongue and all! When did girls begin to pop “particulars” into their mouths like lollipop?

What is the danger? The danger is real: when people begin to eat what they have not grown into, respect weakens, patience disappears, entitlement multiplies and
elders become decorative items.
A boy who eats Isi Ewu alone at 25
will argue with elders at 30
and review history at 35.

Even the goat is confused. Let us not forget the goat. In the days of old, it died with honour. Today? It dies only to appear on Instagram and Facebook stories. No dignity. No legacy. Just pepper and sauce and young people gulping its ears, eyes and tongue down with a glass of Stout or Desperado.

I am not saying young people should not eat Isi Ewu.
No.
I am only saying:
Let them suffer small first.
Let them wait.
Let them grow.
Let them earn one ear before demanding the whole head.
Because when everything becomes available to everybody:
Nothing remains meaningful.

Once upon a time:
Isi Ewu united kinsmen.
Today, it entertains individuals.
Once upon a time:
It reinforced hierarchy.
Today, it promotes equality of chewing any desirable part.
Once upon a time:
It commanded silence.
Today, it competes with the DJ.

My people…
The land has been desecrated.
And it is not just the goat head.
Let us look for the black goat while the sun still shines.

This is not funny but if you must laugh, laugh responsibly.

(Mazi Uche Ohia, Ph.D, lawyer, farmer, cultural advocate, public intellectual and former Commissioner for Tourism, Culture & Creative Arts, Imo State, writes from Arondizuogu)