I Didn’t Know My Face Was Missing Something Until I Got to the Village

When my parents got their scholarship to study in Canada, they told me I’d only be staying with Grandma for a while. Just one year, they said. I was thirteen, old enough to know that “a while” could mean anything in adult-speak.

Grandma’s village was deep in Osun State, where the air smelled like roasted corn, and people still fetched water from the stream. The first thing I noticed—apart from the rooster that crowed non-stop—was how many faces had lines on them. Long, short, slanted, and straight. Some looked like cat whiskers, others like tiny rakes had danced across their cheeks.

I was scared at first. One boy had thick lines all over his face and chest, as if he’d fallen into barbed wire. But nobody stared at him. Nobody whispered. They called him handsome.

“Why do people have all these marks?” I finally asked Grandma one evening, while peeling egusi by the fire.

She laughed softly, her cheeks wrinkling above three faint slashes. “These are not just marks, my dear. They are identity. They are stories.”

Skin Like a Scroll

Grandma told me that in the old days, when names could get lost and travel was slow, families made sure their children carried their history on their skin. Marks showed that you belonged, that you were not a stranger. That you had people.

“See mine?” she said, pointing. “These three lines are Abaja. They tell anyone who knows how to read them that I am from the Oyo lineage.”

It was the first time I realized that skin could be a language.

In the village, each mark had a name and meaning. Gombo, Pele, Kekere. Some were wide and dramatic, others thin and elegant. The boys got them to show they were brave. Girls received them as part of coming-of-age rituals. Some people believed the marks kept evil spirits away or made babies stronger.

I heard of a woman called Mama Abike who wore the Ila marks on her belly to ease difficult pregnancies. “A mark of survival,” Grandma whispered.

Between Pride and Pain

But not everyone saw it the same way. At school, one girl named Anike had deep vertical lines from her ears to her chin. She was smart and kind, but when a health worker came to visit from the city, she looked at Anike like she was broken.

“Why would anyone do this to a child?” the woman muttered.

That was the first time I saw Anike cry.

I asked Grandma that night why people in the city thought tribal marks were bad. She grew quiet. “Because they don’t understand. And because the world is changing.”

She told me that the government had banned tribal marking in many places. That young people now saw them as signs of backwardness, not beauty. Some people paid doctors to erase the marks they once received from drumming and dancing.

“But remember this,” she said gently. “Even if they fade, the stories remain.”

In Between Worlds

One Sunday, a village elder took my hand and traced a pattern on my arm. “You look like your father,” he said. “But your face is blank like paper.”

I smiled politely, unsure whether it was a compliment or an insult.

In the city, I’d be teased if I had marks. In the village, I stood out because I didn’t. I was in between two worlds—one written in ink, the other written in skin.

By the end of the year, I had grown used to the marks. I could even tell which clan someone came from just by the lines on their face. I didn’t get any myself—Grandma said that was no longer our path. But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I imagine what my marks would’ve looked like. Not because I want them, but because I now understand what they meant.

They were more than scars. They were scars worn with pride. Proof of belonging. Art. Memory.

What Are Tribal Marks and Scarification?

Tribal marks and body scarification are age-old cultural practices found across many African societies. They carry deep symbolic meaning, often tied to identity, status, beauty, spirituality, and rites of passage. While the prevalence of these practices has declined in modern times, they remain a rich part of Africa’s cultural heritage.

• Tribal marks: Permanent facial or body marks usually made by cutting the skin with a blade and inserting ash or pigment to create a keloid.
• Scarification: A broader practice involving controlled cuts on the skin, forming raised scars that create patterns, symbols, or body art.

These were often performed in early childhood or adolescence, depending on the culture.

Cultural Variations and Symbolism by Region

🇳🇬 Nigeria (Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa, Tiv)

• Yoruba: Facial marks (like Gombo, Kekere, or Abaja) indicated lineage, origin, or family affiliation. For example, someone from Oyo might wear three vertical lines on each cheek.
• Hausa: Marks were also used for aesthetic, tribal, and Islamic spiritual purposes.
• Tiv: Scarification, known as “Ityô”, was used as a rite of passage or to mark achievement in battle.

🇸🇩 Sudan (Nuba, Dinka, Nuer)

• Scarification was prominent among pastoralists like the Dinka and Nuer.
• Designs on the forehead or chest indicated age, gender roles, and initiation into adulthood.
• Among the Nuba, elaborate body markings were used for aesthetic beauty and cultural identity.

🇪🇹 Ethiopia (Afar, Karo, Bodi)

• Karo men use chest and torso scarification to signify killing an enemy—a symbol of bravery and strength.
• Women might have scar patterns on the stomach or back for fertility and beauty.

🇧🇫 Burkina Faso (Dagara, Bissa)

• The Bissa people used scarification for spiritual protection and as a sign of maturity.
• Certain marks protected children from evil spirits or were believed to help them survive illnesses.

🇨🇮 Ivory Coast (Senufo, Dan)

• The Senufo used facial and body scarification for initiation rites, healing rituals, and aesthetic status.
• Patterns varied between villages and could signify clan membership or ancestral power.

Symbolism Across Cultures

Symbol	Meaning
Lineage & Identity	Marks distinguished people by clan, family, or ethnic group.
Rites of Passage	Marks were given during puberty, circumcision, or initiation ceremonies.
Beauty & Status	In many societies, scarification enhanced perceived beauty or signaled high rank.
Bravery & Spirituality	Scars reflected strength, maturity, and spiritual readiness.

Similarities Across Cultures

• Non-verbal language: Just like dialects, scarification patterns served as an identity card.
• Communal Rituals: They were done publicly, involving family or community elders, linking individuals to the collective memory.
• Gendered Practice: Men and women often had different scar types, reflecting gender roles or expectations.
• Spiritual Significance: Some scars were believed to grant spiritual power or protection.

Modern Prevalence and Decline

• Urbanization, religion, and colonial influence have contributed to a sharp decline in these practices.
• Christianity and Islam discourage scarification, linking it to pagan traditions or body mutilation.
• Human rights and child protection laws in many African countries have criminalized scarification of minors.
• Many young Africans now reject tribal marks due to associated stigma or bullying.

Revival or Reinvention?

While traditional scarification is rare today, there’s a growing revival in artistic and symbolic forms:

• Fashion and tattoo culture in places like Nigeria and South Africa have started incorporating traditional patterns as body art.
• Some Afrofuturist movements celebrate scarification aesthetics in visual storytelling, music videos, and art.
• In diaspora communities, it’s being reinterpreted as a symbol of heritage and resistance.

Tribal marks and scarification were more than body art—they were living texts etched into the skin, carrying ancestral codes, social status, and deep cultural meaning. Though the practices have faded in many places, their legacy continues in the evolving story of African identity.