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Ime Obi Anambra, Suite 06, Diamond Plaza, Commissioners Quarters, Awka (2026)

24/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

CALL ME CHAIRMAN, NOT TONY: WHY IGBO TITLES STILL RULE THE DAY

⁃ Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

In Igbo land, respect is not something people throw around carelessly.

It is earned through age, position, and hard work, and it shows clearly in the way people address one another.

Calling an older person or someone of higher rank by their first name alone is often seen as going too far. Titles, special names, and polite words step in to keep things in order.

This age-old custom came into sharp focus recently when billionaire Mr. Tony Elumelu stopped a young graduate trainee who greeted him with a casual “Good morning, Tony.”

Elumelu did not beat about the bush. He told the lady she should call him Mr. Elumelu, TOE, or Chairman. He made it plain that he does not subscribe to that kind of Oyinbo life.

In simple terms, he rejected the Western idea of everyone being on first-name terms in the workplace. For him, hierarchy still matters, and respect must be shown in the open.

The video of that moment spread like wildfire and sparked heated debate online. Some people clapped for him. Others said the young woman was only following modern office habits.

Yet the truth sits deeper in Igbo culture.
Among Ndigbo, people rarely call elders by their bare first names. Instead they use words like Nna, Nne, Deede, or Daa.

These terms act like soft cushions that protect the elder’s dignity. When a man takes a traditional title such as Ozo, Nze, or Ogbuefi, the community adjusts how they speak to him.

His title name or alias often takes the place of the name his parents gave him at birth. That new name carries weight. It tells everyone that the man has climbed the ladder and deserves honour.

Children grow up learning this rule early. Calling an older person by first name alone can land you in hot water.

The same spirit crosses into modern life. In offices, markets, and public gatherings, people still reach for Mr., Chief, Oga, or Chairman when speaking to those above them. It is not about fear.

It is about knowing where you stand. Age brings wisdom, and position brings responsibility. Titles help the younger ones remember both. Aliases, common in Igboland, give another safe way to speak without sounding too familiar.

A young person can use the alias and still show proper manners.
Mr. Tony Elumelu, though from Delta State, shares this wider Igbo background. His firm correction fits the cultural grain.

A trainee addressing a senior chairman by first name in a formal hall crossed a line that many older Nigerians still guard. Western offices may love first-name ease, but Igbo tradition holds that respect should not be watered down.

Old habits die hard, and this one has taken deep roots.

The episode reminds us that culture does not vanish just because the world changes. Titles and careful names keep social order alive.

They teach the young to look up and the old to feel valued. In the end, calling someone Mr. Elumelu or Chairman is not stiff formality. It is a living sign that hierarchy, age, and achievement still count for something real in Igbo life.

15/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

EYES ON THE PRIZE: THE WISDOM OF AZU ANU UKA

- Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

In Igboland we have a saying that sounds like an insult until you have lived long enough to understand it.

Azu anu uka is literarily translated to mean that the back does not hear what is said about it.

At first hearing, one may think the elders are describing stubbornness. But they are actually describing discipline.

Every man has two directions. In front of him is work, destiny, bread and tomorrow. Behind him is uka, the chatter, the opinion and the side talk that follows a man like dust.

The ancient Igbo understood that you cannot walk forward while answering everything behind you. If you do, you will walk in circles.

It means that one who is on a mission does not stop to throw stones at every dog that barks at him.

Our fathers had a way of saying it: the eye is for looking, the ear is for hearing. But wisdom is knowing where to put them.

To succeed, you must gbado anya gi. You must pin your eyes to the ball. You must give your back to gossip the way thick meat gives its back to a dull knife.

Our forefathers were yam farmers. Yam does not grow in one market day. You clear in December, you till the mounds in January, you plant in February, you w**d till August. In between, people will talk. They will say your mounds are small. They will say your barn will not fill. If you stop every time to answer, your distraction will never end. The man who harvested big yam was not the man with no critics. He was the man whose back refused to hear them.

Because Ndi Igbo believes that "Aka aja aja na-ebute onu mmanu mmanu" Soiled hands bring oily mouth. And oily mouth does not come to the man who is busy exchanging banters.

The same principle built our markets. A boy leaves his village at twelve to serve a master in Onitsha. He is called Nwa Boi. For seven years he sweeps the shop, carries load, and sleeps on the floor. His mates are riding choppers on the streets, chasing quick money, laughing at his faded shirt. People tell him he is suffering for nothing. Other masters whisper, come to me, I will treat you better. If his back hears all that "uka", he will never finish because he will have problems with his master.

Igba boi (Igbo apprenticeship) only rewards the boy whose back is like dried meat. At the end, when his master settles him, the same people who laughed will come to borrow.

Even our way of avoiding trouble also teaches the concept of azu anu uka. The Igbo man uses the back door to urinate and disappear from the scene on sensing trouble. For instance,he does not argue with a drunken man wielding a machete. He does not answer every insult in the village square. He excuses himself and leaves. Some call it cowardice. The elders call it wisdom. Not every invitation to fight is an invitation to engage or tango.

Today we live in a world where every data enabled android phone brings tons of "uka" from the social media.

Everybody has an opinion about your marriage, your business, your dress, your faith.

If you carry your back like fresh wound, every word will pepper you. You will stop. You will explain. You will post a reply and you will lose focus.

But if your back is "azu anu uka", you will understand that gossip is useless weight, and you cannot carry weight and climb to success.

So the charge is simple. Mechie nti gi n'azu. Gbado anya gi n'ihu. Close your ears at the back. Pin your eyes to the front. Let them talk behind you. The back was not made to hear.

Azu Anu Uka!

14/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

OGU: THE DEATH WE MUST SPEAK BEFORE WE DARE TO LIVE

- Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

O buru na m zuru ihe na-abughi nke m, Ofo gbuo m. O buru na m dina nwunye mmadu, Ofo gbuo m. O buru na m gbaa izu megide onye aka ya di ocha, Ofo gbuo m. Ma o buru na aka m di ocha, Ofo kwulu oto, Ogu na-apu, onye mere m ihe ojoo, ya lie onwe ya.

Every Igbo compound once knew that sound at dawn. A man stood barefoot on cold earth, holding a dark little stick, speaking his own funeral before he asked for his day. While his children still slept, basking in the warmth of early dawn, the earth listened.

This was not prayer as we know it today. It was a scale. A man placed his life upon it.

Nowadays we have forgotten how. That is why our nights no longer end.

Ogu was never first about your enemy. It was about you. Ofo is justice, the ear of the spirit, the quiet law that binds the living, the dead, and the unborn.

Ogu is innocence, the clean hand. You cannot carry one without the other. Before you could ask for light, you had to beg for death if you had earned it. If I have stolen, let me die. If I have climbed another man's bed, let me die. If I have gathered in darkness against one who did me no wrong, let me die. Only then could you declare, "but if my hands are clean, let justice stand with me."

There is a core honesty in that ritual which our new faith has stolen from us.

Now we pray with easy mouths. We ask God to kill our enemies while our own hands still hold what we stole.

We call down fire on haters, without first asking if we are the haters.

Ogu forbade such comfort. It forced a man to open his chest every morning and stake his breath on his innocence.

Because the price was that high, the blessing that followed had weight.

When a man who had just offered his own life said, "let Ofo stand with me," the earth believed him. His own heart believed him.
He did not walk into the day as a beggar hunting for luck. He walked as one already tried and cleared.

That standard is what we have lost. We have many prayers, but we have lowered our standards in morality.

Look around. The Ofo tree still grows behind our houses, but no elder wants to hold it. We have affidavits that lie, oaths that mean nothing, courts that can be bought, and altars where every thief is told that he is covered by grace. We want protection without purity, harvest without seed, and justice without truth.

Our fathers said that the Ofo gives rainwater the power to bite dry earth. Right is might. When right leaves a land, might becomes theft.
When innocence leaves a compound, prayer becomes noise.

If we, as Ndigbo, are to reclaim our place in history, we must birth a renaissance that is not based on noise, but on values. Not of slogans, but of conscience.

The Igbo resurgence will not be built on wealth alone, but on the restoration of those values that Ofo stood for: truth, integrity, industry, and communal honour.

That is the only path to a future where our children will inherit not just prosperity, but pride in who they are.

11/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

NAMES AS SHIELDS: THE QUIET STRATEGY OF IGBO SURVIVAL AND THE RETURN HOME

⁃ Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

In the early decades after independence, if you walked through the classrooms of Kano, the markets of Kaduna, or the Millionaire quarters of Jos, you would meet many children with names like Peter, Paul, Mary, and John. Their fathers were Okoye and Okafor. Yet on school registers and hospital cards, the English name came first. This was not an accident. It was a decision made by parents who understood the country they lived in.

Many Ndigbo who settled outside Igboland in the 1950s, 60s and 70s were traders, teachers, civil servants and artisans.

They built lives in the North and in Lagos. In that environment, an English, Christian or even muslim name functioned like a shield. On paper, Peter Okoye did not announce himself the way Chukwuebuka Okoye did. In a job interview, in a school admission, or during moments of political tension, that small difference could mean the difference between access and rejection. Parents were not trying to erase who they were. They were trying to protect their children.

The strategy went beyond names. Education was pursued with urgency because certificates were harder to argue with than ethnicity. Town unions were formed in every major city to provide support when a member was sick or when someone died far from home.

Markets became self-governed spaces where Ndigbo could trade without depending on government patronage.

Language was also adapted. A man could speak fluent Hausa in the market on Monday, and relax at home on Sunday to speak Igbo and eat with his family.

This flexibility was not weakness. It was how a people stayed standing in a difficult terrain.

The period after the civil war made these adaptations even more important. Many families had to start again in places where they were viewed with suspicion.

An English name on a file, a baptismal card from a mission school, a professional qualification, all of these were tools for navigating public life.

At home, the Igbo name was still used. At church, in the village, and during naming ceremonies, the child knew where he came from.

The public name and the private name lived side by side.

Today, something is shifting. Walk into any city in Nigeria and you will meet a new generation of Igbo youths who are dropping the English first name. They now introduce themselves as Chidubem, as Zikora, as Kenechukwu etc. When they marry and have children, they are going to the baptismal font and giving those children Igbo names first. No English name on the certificate. No middle name to hide behind.

The Anglican Church has been at the forefront of this change. Across dioceses in the Southeast and in Igbo communities in the diaspora, priests now encourage parents to use Igbo names during baptism and confirmation. Church programs teach the meanings of names, and Sunday schools explain why a name like Nneka or Ifeanyi carries theology in it.

The message is simple: faith and culture do not have to be enemies.

This is not a rejection of the past. The parents who chose Peter and Paul were not wrong. They were doing what was necessary at the time. But the present generation is living in a different Nigeria. They are asserting that one can be fully Igbo and fully Nigerian at the same time, without translation.

The market square is no longer the only place where identity is negotiated. The classroom, the office, and even the baptismal register have become that space. And in that space, Igbo youths are now choosing to lead with their names.

08/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

THE MARKET SQUARE: THE HEART OF IGBO LIFE

⁃ Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

In the old Igbo world, the market square (ahia) was more than a place for buying and selling. It was the center and convergence point of the town.

Around it, the people placed the things that mattered most to them. The shrine stood there. The medicine men set up there. The elders met there. It was where life happened in full view of everyone.

The reason for this was simple. The ahia(market place) belonged to no single family and no single village. It was the neutral ground. Because it was neutral, it was safe. People from different communities could meet there without fear. It was also the place where news traveled fastest. A man who came from a far town would first stop at the market. In this way, the market became the mouth and the ears of the community.

The shrine was placed in the market because trade needed trust. The people believed that the gods and Ani (the land) watched over all dealings. A man who cheated in the market would not only answer to the elders. He would also answer to the spirits.

This made people careful with their words and with their measures. Religion and business were not separated.

For Ndi Gboo, wealth without good character had no meaning.

The dibia (herbalists) also worked from the market. There were no big hospitals as we know them today. When a person falls sick, the family would take them to the healer at the market. There, roots and leaves were sold, and advice was given openly.

This did something important. It removed shame from sickness. When healing was done in the open, people did not hide their problems. A woman who could not bear children, a man with a troubled mind, a child with fever, all could find help in the same place where others came to buy salt and oil.

Ndichie also sat in the market. Under the big oji tree, they settled quarrels and made announcements.

If there was a new law, the town crier would sound it in the market so that everyone would hear.

If a man was found guilty of breaking nso ani, his judgment was also carried out there. This was not done out of cruelty. It was done so that the young ones would see and learn what the community approved and what it rejected.

Festivals and mmanwu displays were held in the same square. Once the new yam is harvestedl, it was first blessed in the market during Iri Ji. When masquerades came out, they danced there. In this way, joy, law, medicine, and worship all shared one space.

This arrangement tells us much about the Igbo mind. The people did not separate the body from the spirit, or trade from justice, or health from community. They believed that a town would stand only when all these things worked together. The market square held the town together like a rope holds a bundle of sticks.

Today we have built separate buildings for each thing. We have hospitals in one place, courts in another, and churches far away. We have gained order, but we may have lost something. The old market square reminds us that a people are strongest when they keep their life in one place, where everyone can see, hear, and take part.

06/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

HEALING THE MIND THE IGBO WAY: LESSONS FOR TODAY

- Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

In ancient Igboland, the mind was never treated as something separate from the body, the family, or the land. When a person showed signs of what we now call mental illness; ara, oria uche, or isi mgabaka; the community did not ask only "what is wrong with you?" They asked, "what happened to you, to us, and to the land?"

This way of seeing problems is recorded in the works of historians and anthropologists like M.A. Onwuejeogwu, Victor Uchendu, and Simon Ottenberg, who documented how Igbo society understood health as balance.

The first step was diagnosis. The Dibia, the Ezeani (priest of Ani), and the council of elders would sit with the family. They looked at four possible causes.

One was physical. They checked for fever, head injury, poor food, or poison that could affect the brain. Herbalists used plants like nchanwu, utazi, and other leaves as calming teas and for bathing the patient.

The second was social. They checked whether it was grief from the loss of a child, shame from debt, or rejection by the umunna which they believed could break a person. The Igbo wise say "Onye aghala nwanne ya" - let no one abandon his brother.

The third was spiritual. Questions were asked whether the person offended Ani, the earth deity, or the ancestors? Or committed taboo?

The fourth was destiny. In many oral accounts, some cases of "madness" were understood as a refused calling to be a Dibia. The ancestors held the firm belief that until the person accepted initiation, the spirit would not rest.

Treatment followed the diagnosis, and it was rarely done alone. Medicine was given, but medicine was only one part. There was cleansing through prayer and sacrifice to restore peace with the spirit world. If it was a calling, initiation rites were performed so the person could take their place in society.

But the most powerful medicine was community. The person was not locked away or sent far. The family kept them in the compound. People farmed with them, ate with them, and talked with them. Elders used proverbs and stories to reframe pain because "Ihe eji azu nwa bu ilu" (it is proverbs that are used to raise a child). They also applied work therapy in the form of light tasks on the farm, in weaving, or by drumming, because idleness was seen as dangerous to the mind. Music and festivals brought rhythm back to the person's life. The goal was not to punish, but to bring the person back into the circle. Ndigbo strongly believe in "Igwe bu ike" (strength that lies in the collective).

This approach was also preventive. Igbo life was structured around meaning. Everyone had a role in the family and village. Festivals like Iri Ji, masquerades, and communal meetings gave people chances to laugh, mourn, and speak together. Omenala, the customs of the land, gave clear rules so people knew what was expected of them when it comes to behaviour. When conflict came, the elders settled it early through ikpe and dialogue, before shame and anger grew too deep. "Egbe bere ugo bere" (let the kite perch, let the eagle perch) was the common mantra and peace was kept by giving everyone the space to co-exist.

What can the modern man learn from this?

First, healing happens in relationship. Modern psychiatry has made great progress with drugs and therapy, but isolation often makes things worse. The Igbo model reminds us that family and community must be part of treatment.

Second, we must look for root causes. A troubled mind may be about chemicals, but it may also be about unemployment, trauma, or loss of purpose.

Third, purpose is medicine. When people have work, role, and meaning, they recover faster. Giving people responsibility was central to Igbo care.

Fourth, early intervention matters. Every village had elders that people could talk to. Today we need more community counselors and religious leaders trained in handling mental health especially as first aid.

Fifth, we must hold science and spirituality together. The ancient Igbo did not choose between herbs and prayer. They used both. In Nigeria today, most people first go to a church or native doctor before a hospital. A wise system will bring all healers to one table, just as you find in Asian countries.

The ancient Igbo did not have psychiatric wards, but they had something we are now I'm trying to build again: a community that refuses to throw away its own.

The lesson from our forebears is simple and profound. Heal the person, heal the family, and heal the relationship with the land and with one another. Once the circle is whole, the mind can also become whole.

This is because "Otu aka ruta mmanu, o zuo oha onu" - when one finger touches oil, it spreads to all.

04/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

THE ỌJÀ MUST SING AGAIN: WHY THE ANCIENT VOICE OF NDIGBO DESERVES A MODERN RENAISSANCE

- Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

There was a time when the sound of the ọjà was enough to stir an entire community into action.

Its piercing but melodious notes floated across villages, announcing the arrival of a king, summoning elders to the village square, celebrating a new marriage, or bidding farewell to a departed hero.

Long before telephones, radio stations and the internet connected people, Ndigbo had mastered the art of communication through music, and at the heart of that tradition stood the wooden flute known as the ọjà.

It was not merely an instrument. It was a voice. It was history and it was culture speaking through melody.

The Igbo have a saying that a people who do not know where the rain began to beat them cannot know where they dried their bodies.

That wisdom rings true today as the influence of the ọjà continues to fade in the face of modern entertainment and foreign musical influences.

Yet, like glowing embers beneath ashes, its spirit remains alive, waiting to be rekindled.

In traditional Igbo society, the ọjà occupied a place of honour. It was heard in royal courts where it welcomed kings, chiefs and titled men with melodies that praised their achievements and family lineage.

It announced village meetings, accompanied age-grade ceremonies and added colour to traditional weddings and festivals.

During funerals, its mournful notes comforted the living while paying tribute to the departed.

Wherever the ọjà sounded, people understood that something significant was taking place.

Perhaps nowhere was its influence more remarkable than during masquerade festivals.

To the traditional Igbo person, the masquerade represented more than entertainment. It embodied the presence of ancestral spirits.

Skilled ọjà players communicated with masquerades through carefully crafted melodies, directing their movements and enriching the mystery that surrounded the performance.

Since the Igbo language is tonal, a skilled flutist could make the flute imitate spoken words so convincingly that listeners recognised greetings, praises, warnings and even proverbs without a single sentence being spoken.

Indeed, what the eyes see may deceive, but what the ears understand endures.

The ọjà also carried deep spiritual significance. It echoed through shrines and sacred ceremonies, accompanied hunters returning triumphantly from the forest and gave life to moonlight stories told beneath the village tree.

It reminded every generation that music was not simply entertainment but a bridge between humanity, nature and the unseen world.

As another sweet Igbo proverb teaches, when the roots of a tree remain strong, the branches will continue to flourish.

Sadly, colonialism, urbanisation and changing lifestyles have gradually pushed the ọjà to the sidelines.

Western instruments became fashionable, while many young people grew up without learning the language of their ancestors’ flute.

The result is that one of the richest symbols of Igbo civilisation now appears mainly during cultural festivals, traditional weddings and funerals.

Yet, this story does not have to end in silence. The future of the ọjà lies not in museums but in everyday life.

Reinventing it does not mean going back to the Stone Age. Rather, it means allowing an ancient treasure to speak to a modern generation.

Imagine every airport in the South-East welcoming visitors with the soothing notes of the ọjà.

Imagine governors’ inaugurations, university convocations, traditional coronations and major public ceremonies opening with its distinctive melody.

Just as the bagpipe immediately reminds the world of Scotland, the ọjà can become the unmistakable sound of Igbo identity.

The music industry also offers enormous possibilities.

Contemporary artistes can blend the ọjà with highlife, Afrobeats, gospel, jazz and movie soundtracks, introducing its unique sound to millions of listeners across the world.

Nollywood producers can use it as the signature voice of Igbo storytelling, while digital creators can teach young people how to play the instrument through online tutorials, mobile applications and social media platforms.

Education is equally important. Schools should introduce pupils to the history and performance of the ọjà, while universities and cultural institutions establish programmes for research, performance and instrument making.

Annual competitions and an International Ọjà Festival could inspire a new generation of performers while attracting tourists and scholars from around the world.

There is also a billion-dollar economic opportunity waiting to be explored. Skilled craftsmen can produce high-quality instruments (carved wooden flutes) for local and international markets.

Professional musicians can build careers around the ọjà, while cultural tourism can flourish through concerts, exhibitions and heritage festivals.

In preserving the ọjà, Ndi Igbo would not only protect their heritage but also create new means of livelihood.

The voice of the ọjà has not been lost. It has merely grown faint beneath the noise of modern life.

Like the ancient iroko tree that withstands every storm because its roots run deep, the ọjà still carries the strength of a people whose culture has endured for centuries.

If the South-East governments, traditional institutions, musicians, educators and town unions unite behind its revival, the ancient flute will once again sing across villages, cities and continents.

And when that day comes, every note will remind the world that the soul of a people can never be silenced so long as they remember the music of their ancestors.

Our forefathers believed that the ọjà could carry messages to the spirit world, bridging the world of the living with the world of the spirits.

04/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

THE ỌJÀ MUST SING AGAIN: WHY THE ANCIENT VOICE OF NDIGBO DESERVES A MODERN RENAISSANCE

Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

01/08/2026

IME OBI ANAMBRA SERIES

ONWA ASATO: ANCIENT WISDOM FOR THE MODERN IGBO MIND

- Kamen Chuks Ogbonna

Onwa Asato means the eighth month in the traditional Igbo calendar. For many Igbo communities in the past, it was not just another month on the calendar. It was a sacred season. It usually fell around August, between planting and harvest. That timing mattered. The farms were growing, but there was still work to do.

It was a natural pause period. A time to reflect before the busy season of harvest and festivals began.

In Igbo land in those days, Onwa Asato was dedicated to four main things: purification, reflection, thanksgiving, and reconciliation.

People used the month to clean their homes, their compounds, and even their hearts.

Grudges were settled. Families that were divided tried to make peace. Town meetings were held to address community problems before the new yam season.

The idea was simple: you cannot enter a new season of abundance with a dirty house or a broken relationship.

The spiritual heart of Onwa Asato was Aloo Nmoo. "Aloo" means a sacred invitation or proclamation. "Nmoo" refers to the spirit world. So Aloo Nmoo, or Ilo Mmuo, was the invitation to remember the ancestors — Ndi Ichie: the elders, parents, and heroes who had lived before us.

Igbo people did not worship ancestors as gods. They honoured them as moral examples.

Ndi Igbo believed that the ancestors were still part of their community, watching over the living and guiding them. During Aloo Nmoo, families poured libations, offered prayers, and asked for peace, unity, and progress for the community.

It was also a time to teach the young ones. Elders would tell stories about customs, values, and history so that the next generation would not forget.

What can the modern Igbo mind take from this today? A lot.

First, Onwa Asato teaches us the power of pause and patience.

Modern life in the present year, 2026, is fast. We are chasing jobs in the city, school abroad, business, politics, and more.

But Onwa Asato reminds us to pause and take stock. Who have you hurt? Who do you need to forgive? What in your home or heart needs cleaning?

Our ancestors believed that success without peace is empty. That was the message then, and it is still true now.

Second, it teaches us about gratitude and purpose. The ancestors were thanked not just for what we wanted, but for what we already had. In a time when many people feel pressure and lack, Onwa Asato calls us to count our blessings first. It also calls us to work with integrity.

The symbols honoured in the past — Ofo for justice and truth, Ikenga for personal strength, and Omu for peace — were not just decorations. They were standards for how to live.

In business, in leadership, in family, the question was: are you living right?

Third, Onwa Asato was about transmission. Elders taught the young ones about our proud identity. Language, proverbs, and values were passed down intentionally.

Today many Igbo children grow up speaking more English and Pidgin than Igbo. Many do not know the stories of their towns. Onwa Asato reminds us that culture is not automatic. Culture must be lived and taught. If we do not sit with our children this August and tell them who we are, the chain will continue to break and our identity will continue to fade.

Finally, Onwa Asato was about community. The emphasis was on the collective. The prayers were for the town, for unity, and for abundance in every household.

That is a direct answer to many of our modern-day problems like family division, land disputes, and loss of trust.

The Igbo of old believed that a community that reconciles in August will harvest in peace.

So Onwa Asato is more than history. It is a yearly reset button. A time to purify, to remember where we came from, to fix what is broken, and to prepare with the right heart for the bountiful harvest ahead.

May this Onwa Asato bring wisdom where there is confusion, reconciliation where there is division, and peace to every Igbo homestead.

Ka Onwa Asato mara anyi mma!

Ime Obi Anambra

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