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I feel like the choice to use “we” instead of “I” reflects Ada’s fractured identity, and possibly her struggle with control of her situation. I also think that when the ogbanje speak as a collective, it resists our western assumptions of a unified self and instead aligns with Igbo beliefs. A person may be inhabited by many spirits at once, hence the multiple identities.

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Visualizing the belief can help people understand that Emezi is not inventing the spirits for metaphor but writing about an existing Indigenous tradition that knows ogbanje to be spiritual beings with power over the body and family.

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PAINTINGSOgbanje (noun): An embodied spirit passing as human, who transitions rapidly between birth and death, i.e. possessing the ability to ‘come and go’. Iyi-uwa (noun): A buried object that connects the ogbanje to the spirit world, facilitating their return. Its ritual destruction would sever this connection and keep the ogbanje alive.

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“When spirits like us are put inside flesh, this oath becomes a real object, one that functions as a bridge. It is usually buried or hidden because it is the way back, if you understand that the doorway is death.” (Ch. 2/Pg. 15)

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The first person plural narration is important functionally for readers who don't know ogbanje legend and getting the perspective of the spirits helps explain how they work within the modern world and how they move in a person. That information wouldn't be intuitive. Something else I picked up on was the power dynamics set up so that the spirits are the ones in control and they have a higher power and influence than anything in the human world. This is also apparently obviously by calling her the Ada like the spirits are removing themselves from her perspective while still being in her life. Ada isn't the one in control or even the most important part - the spirits are. The "we" also gives an uncanny feeling like the usual understanding of a singular narrative at a time is challenged.

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This is an abstract for a novel and it discusses Ogbanje is a personality disorder for someone who does not follow their god given talents. I think this is looking at the validity of the Ogbanje legends while connecting them to western mental health but I know we are looking at believing the legends first.

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Book

The world of the Ogbanje

Fourth Dimension Publishers * Enugu, Nigeria * Published In 1986 * Pages:

AbstractOgbanje is a 'personality disorder' that describes someone who is not true to their god-given nature and talents, in spite of an excess of good attributes. Ogbanje can be extraordinarily handsome or beautiful, achieve meteoric success, but die prematurely without making any lasting mark. They are believed to be part human and part spirit; their fate entwined with one of two spirits who intercepted them at birth and renegotiated their fate to include serving them in the world. In exchange they are given fame, wealth, or beauty, but always a short life. Achebe reviews the Igbo cosmology, creation myths, and the concept of CHI, which is the divine, creative spark imbued in persons by the supreme deity CHI UKWA. NNE MMIRI and ONABULUWA are the spirits whose pacts contradict a person's CHI and create the alienated personality of the ogbanje.

HRAF PubDate

2003

Region

Africa

Sub Region

Western Africa

Document Type

Book

Evaluation

Psychologist-4, 5

Analyst

Ian Skoggard ; 2001

Coverage Date

1982

Coverage Place

Anambra State, Nigeria

Notes

by Chinwe Achebe

Includes bibliographical references (p. 67-68)

LCSH

Igbo (African people)

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Ogbanje is a 'personality disorder' that describes someone who is not true to their god-given nature and talents, in spite of an excess of good attributes. Ogbanje can be extraordinarily handsome or beautiful, achieve meteoric success, but die prematurely without making any lasting mark.

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I believe that the significance of the book being written in first person plural is that we get to see who and what the Ogbanje are, and how these spirits affect the Ada. One of the things I learned from the media is that someone may try to find the iyi uwa, or a connection between the child and the spiritual world, and I would guess from this knowledge that someone may hold some sort of intervention for the Ada later on in the book. This may end up hurting the Ada as we have seen first-hand that the brothersisters love to relish in malicious pursuits. That being said I have some level of fear for the characters future given what the Ogbanje inside of her has already caused her to do, self-harm for example, and I don't think that I would get that same level of fear if I did not see the ruthlessness of the brothersisters and the Ogbanje from their own perspective. I imagine I might write it off as I do not believe in these myths. In other words, the use of the first person adds a significant weight to the understanding of the characters, but also the tone in which the author sets up for the book.

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The 1st person plural narration separates the reader emotionally from the circumstances that the Ada is in. It also gives the reader a general feeling of being an outsider in both the dominant religion and way of life that the other characters experience and live in.

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Important to separate the Ada (the physical body) from the spirits/"We" (the soul) that are connected to the Ala (the universe).

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This narration style really works to show readers that there are multiple identities that are possessing this body. It adds a lot towards the cultural ideas that are represented in the story and demonstrates the clash between the human identity and the spirit identities within. We do not see Ada's singular perspective because there is not one. An external narrator would not be able to portray what is going on in the story like the "we" do. This breathes a lot of life into the motives of the actions of the obanje.

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At the end of chapter four, we learn that there is more than one Ogbanje inhabiting Ada. Ada is distinct from the ogbanje inhabiting her, and the Ogbanje are also distinct, so the use of plural pronouns is the only thing that makes sense. The fact that they are a 'we' is a problem and must be acknowledged.

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The use of 1st person plural befuddles the reader as much as it confuses Ada. It allows the reader to get much closer to the Adas and their terror about the situation. It also works to show how intertwined The Ada has become with the Iyi-uwa, with both of them idolizing the blood.

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The significance of first-person plural narration is that it shows the connection. There are two ogbanje inside the Ada. The story at this point is told from their perspective. They are trapped inside the Ada, but they haven't all three merged as they should. They are all inside the same suit of flesh, but the Ogbanje are separate entities alongside the Ada's consciousness.

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A film that centers on a mother who gives birth to an Ogbanje spirit and how that impacts her experience as a mother and the development of a mother/child relationship

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Water Girl (2025) | Drama, Horror, Mystery

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Water Girl: Directed by Nnamdi Kanaga. With Stella Damasus, Moriyahfaith Jackson, Kenneth Okolie, Nick Wilder. When Nkechi discovers that her daughter, Kamsi, is an Ogbanje, a spirit child cursed to walk the endless cycle of life, death, and rebirth, the joys of motherhood are consumed by a haunting agony that tests love, faith, and fate itself.

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"That moment, when our eyes opened in the dust of the village square and we were awake in both her realm and ours for the first time, it felt like pure brightness. We were all one, together balanced for a brief velvet moment in a village night" (20)

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The first person plural narration is important in this novel because it is being used to separate the ogbanje and the child Ada. They call her “The Ada”, showing the separation from themselves and her. To them, she is an unwilling vessel, but in the narration it is clear that they are trying to take control in a way, specifically of her mind. I think we will continue with this narration and at some point the spirits will truly “become” or take over Ada, body and mind, to get back to Allah.

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"We were not like other ogbanje. We did not hide it under a tree or inside a river or in the tangled foundations of Saul's village house. No, we hid it better than that" (Emezi 15). The relevance of first-person plural narration not only calls in the spirits within the Ada, but it also can call in the reader as a participant in the text, in a "you should know this too" way. By utilizing "we", as opposed to another POV, Emezi also engages a sense of community in their narration, which allows this ogbanje to differentiate itself from other ogbanje.

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Ogbanje or Abiku Phenomenon: An African Spirit-Child Myth or the Enigma of Modern Health Struggles? - Afrocritik

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Some manifestations of the spirit-child concept in Africa can be intensely prejudicial and even more bare-facedly violent. By Chimezie Chika No mistake can be made about the inspiration for the melancholy lyricism of J.P. Clark-Berkederemo’s poem, “Abiku”, which goes thus: Coming and going these several seasons, Do stay out on the baobab tree, Follow where

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Personally, the usage of this especially throughout childhood felt very familiar as someone who was socialized as strictly "woman", but always felt gender nonconforming. When I presented more masculine or feminine before I knew who I really was, it often felt like completely different people inhabiting the same body. The push and pull of identity as it forms, coupled with the "evil spirit" inhabiting flesh aspect, absolutely calls for a collective narration of all aspects of Ada/Ala's living flesh.

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The first person plural brings individual experiences into a collective. It can both represent shared experiences as well as sort of show how trauma can shatter people into various different parts.

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This article references the vast knowledge and foresight of the Ogbanje

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Unveil the mystery of the Ogbanje, West African spirit-children! Explore their traits, impact on families, names across cultures, and influence in modern life.

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The significance of the narration is that the story is being told from the perspective of the gods inside of her, while she is not the one directly telling us the events. This narration also is unreliable, because Ada herself doesn't what is happening to her and these gods do not have her best interest.

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The ogbanje who wanted to stay: The occult, belonging, family and therapy in Sierra Leone - Luisa T Schneider, 2017

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Although prominent in literature on West Africa and especially Nigeria, the phenomenon of ogbanjes in Sierra Leone is little discussed. By following the story o…

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This one briefly describes the self-reflection of the iyi-uwa from someone's personal post.

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Adaobi Molokwu Ezenwanyi Ebekuodike Page

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Iyi uwa. Oath of l!fe. 

A lot of people are living out there iyi uwa without even knowing it. 

Some people's iyi uwa is favourable for them, while some people are de@ling with their own. 

Some of...

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The plural first person signifies the Ogbanje with the Ada as a singular unit but also as multiple metaphysical beings.

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Ogbanje: Spirit Children of the Living and the Dead – The Monarq

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In many Igbo communities of Nigeria, the word Ogbanje carries deep emotional weight. It refers to a child believed to be born only to die

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"However, to be ogbanje is to be categorized other and to bring alterity home in a way that transcends the more ordinary bifurcated 'otherness' of gender. We could even speculate that ogbanje children fall under a third category of gender, of human-looking spirit. This gender is marked from birth-as male and female statuses are marked-by special behaviors towards and physical adornment of the child. The sexual appearance of the ogbanje may, indeed, be seen as a sham-yet another promise that the ogbanje is likely to break in its refusal to act according to human norms."
- Misty Bastian, "Irregular Visitors: Narratives about Ogbanje (Spirit Children) in Southern Nigerian Popular Writing."

The robot was called a da Vinci.

It was delicate, precise, inserted through my navel to slice my uterus and fallopian tubes into small unimportant pieces, which were then suctioned out of my body. The procedure had a technical name that filled my mouth - a robotic-assisted subtotal hysterectomy with a bilateral salpingectomy. I had to repeat this about seven times on the day of my surgery, as nurses came in with forms clarifying that I knew what I was getting, but I didn't mind. I'd waited years for this surgery. In another life, I'd trained to be a surgeon myself, dissecting cadavers and cutting through layers of dermis and fascia and muscle with a ten-blade. But in this one, I was 28 and cold, my numb skin wrapped in a hospital gown as nurses draped warmed blankets over me. Still, anticipation rang clear chimes. I couldn't wait for when they'd wheel me out of that operating room, finally sterile.

It had been five years since I figured out I was transgender, after falling into a vibrant queer scene in Brooklyn that showed me so many more ways to be than I'd ever known. I moved there from Massachusetts, leaving behind scalpels and skinned horses dangling from a warehouse ceiling at a veterinary school, coming to reddened cabaret nights and play parties and a brief stint as a drag king. With a new world wrapping around me, the discomfort that had been spreading sour and wrong through my body for ages finally had a name - gender dysphoria. It came with a sort of relief: If I knew what it was, I knew what I could do about it.

The discomfort that had been spreading sour and wrong through my body for ages finally had a name - gender dysphoria.

My best friend Rachel flew into upstate New York for the hysterectomy. After the excision, she unfolded a cot in my hospital room while I ordered waffles from room service. When the nurses came in, they tried to get me to stand up, but the pain was a riptide dragging me under. I swayed, nearly collapsing, so they eased me back into bed and upped my pain meds. I caught my breath as Rachel and I exchanged alarmed looks, her hand warm around mine.

"I didn't think it would be this bad," I managed to say.

"Me either," she replied.

The nurse gave us a brief but incredulous look. "You got an entire organ removed from your body," she pointed out. "It's kind of a major surgery."

I made it out of bed a few hours later, walking in slow motion around the hospital floor with my IV stand rolling beside me, my palm scraping against the walls and the nurse at my elbow. The next day, Rachel drove me home to my attic apartment. Most of my early recovery was spent there, in a wingback recliner the color of wet moss. It had a wooden handle on the side that opened the back hinge and made the foothold pop up with a creaky jerk, stretching the chair out. I slept in it for a week because I had difficulty standing up or bending into narrow angles, and my bed was too close to the floor. I was full of stitches and hydrocodone, and my guts had been rearranged.
It wasn't my first mutilation, but it was one of my best.

An ogbanje is an Igbo spirit that's born into a human body, a kind of malevolent trickster, whose goal is to torment the human mother by dying unexpectedly only to return in the next child and do it all over again. They come and go. They are never really here - if you are a thing that was born to die, you are a dead thing even while you live. Igbo ontology explains that everyone is in a cycle of reincarnation anyway - you are your ancestor, you will become an ancestor, the loop will keep looping within the lineage. Ogbanje, however, are intruders in this cycle, unwelcome deviations. They do not come from the lineage; they come from nowhere. As such, it's important for an ogbanje never to reproduce: if it did, it would contribute to the lineage, and when it died, its spirit would join those of the humans, participating in their reincarnation loop.

Removing a uterus is an efficient way to make sure this never happens.

While my gender had asserted itself in different ways since my childhood, one of its strongest features was always a violent aversion toward reproduction, toward having a body that was marked by its reproductive potential - a uterus to carry children, full breasts to feed them with. My first surgery was an outpatient procedure two years after I moved to Brooklyn, a breast reduction: some fat removed from my chest, some glands, some skin, nothing much. It required a letter from my therapist to prove that I was sane.

"I've never heard of anyone like this," the surgeon told me.
He was an old white man who had performed many surgeries on trans patients, from breast augmentations to double mastectomies. "Male to female, female to male, fine. But this in-between thing?"

I've never heard of anyone like this," the surgeon told me. "Male to female, female to male, fine. But this in-between thing?

I ground my teeth into a smile and handed him my letter, along with printed images of the chest I wanted. It was one that felt right for me, one that wouldn't move much, wouldn't sway with pendulous wrongness or leave me gasping shallow breaths because my ribs were encased in the flattening black of a chest binder every day. I paid his office $10,000 skimmed from my student loans and tried not to be angry at the hoops I had to jump through. If I'd asked for an augmentation, it would've been fine, but wanting smaller breasts in the absence of back pain was considered ridiculous enough to require a therapist's approval. During my post-op visit, the surgeon complained that he'd never had to spend as much time in consultation with a patient as he had with me. We'd spent maybe 30 minutes together over a few appointments.

My scars hypertrophied, leaving shiny brown keloids and flat glossy rivers on my chest. Sometimes, when I felt like I wasn't trans enough, I'd look at them to remind myself that I'd chosen to modify my body and even though dysphoria and surgery aren't prerequisites for being trans, the scars still served as a grounding reflection of my own certainty. I wasn't sure then what I was transitioning my body to, but I was clear that the gender I'd been raised as was inaccurate - I'd never been a woman.

After that first surgery, my depression lifted significantly. It was a connection I hadn't made before, how my dysphoria was affecting my mental health - the suicide attempt I'd survived just four months before the surgery. The choice to finally modify my body felt like a big deal in large part because other people treated it that way. Their alarm was almost infectious, but I was the one who had to live in this body; I was the one who suffered in it. The reduction was simply a necessary procedure, something that helped pull me away from wanting to die, something that made living a little easier.

Still, there was a deep sense of transgression about what I was doing that I couldn't shake, especially as a Nigerian. It was too easy to tune into our communities and hear the voices heavy with disgust, saying that what I had done was disfiguring, that God had made me one way for a reason and I had no right to say or do otherwise, that I was mutilating myself. There was an ideal my body was supposed to conform to, and I was deviating from it by having surgery. I was rejecting it as a center and choosing something else: a world where the deviation itself was the ideal. I chose it readily. I've never minded being a mutilated thing.

If ogbanje represent an overlapping of realities - a spirit who looks incredibly convincing as a human, then what does it look like for one to experience gender dysphoria and take surgical steps to resolve that? Our language around gender identity is often so Western, how can we intersect that with non-Western realities? For example, is there a term for the dysphoria experienced by spirits who find themselves embodied in human form? It was inevitable that I'd be drawn to these overlaps, since I live there, inhabiting simultaneous realities that are usually considered mutually exclusive.

The possibility that I was an ogbanje occurred to me around the same time I realized I was trans, but it took me a while to collide the two worlds. I suppressed the former for a few years because most of my education had been in the sciences and all of it was Westernized - it was difficult for me to consider an Igbo spiritual world equally, if not more valid. The legacy of colonialism had always taught us that such a world wasn't real, that it was nothing but juju and superstition. When I finally accepted its validity, I revisited what that could mean for my gender. Did ogbanje even have a gender to begin with? Gender is, after all, such a human thing.

However, being trans means being any gender different from the one assigned to you at birth. Whether ogbanje are a gender themselves or without gender didn't really matter, it still counts as a distinct category, so maybe my transition wasn't located within human categories at all. Instead, the surgeries were a bridge across realities, a movement from being assigned female to assigning myself as ogbanje; a spirit customizing its vessel to reflect its nature.

It is considerably difficult to convince a doctor to remove an uninjured organ, even if your wholeness depends on its absence, especially if that organ is a reproductive one and they think you're a woman.

I didn't have a letter for my uterus - it was too difficult to find a therapist who had experience with nonbinary trans patients and I didn't have any money. But I thought perhaps I could save up for it one day, so I made appointments with a few gynecologists to discuss my options. I chose not to disclose my gender (or lack thereof), but instead expressed my desire for the surgery as an elective choice, only because I didn't want children. The doctors received me with resistance and thin contempt.

The possibility that I was an ogbanje occurred to me around the same time I realized I was trans.

"What if you change your mind?" they asked me, in exam room after exam room, metal and glass and white coats all blurring into a single closed door. I had a thousand comebacks but I bit them all back because these people had what I needed - gloved hands to cut me open and toss my uterus into the bright plastic of biological waste, or wherever unwanted organs end up. My dysphoria had built a tight knot of a home in my body, since I had no idea how I was going to afford another surgery or, at this rate, even find a doctor willing to perform it. It wasn't as severe as before my first surgery, but it was still there - a reminder so red it was almost black, showing up every month. I couldn't rest easy knowing there was even a chance I could get pregnant, so I tried an IUD. When they inserted it, I screamed from the pain, the excruciating wrongness of something passing through my cervix. In the months afterward, I bled too heavily, through ultra tampons and overnight pads, flooding menstrual cups. Eventually, an ultrasound showed that the IUD was out of position, so they had to remove it. It felt like my body had spat it out, a reminder that nothing short of an excision would suffice.

I'd left Brooklyn and moved upstate by then, to the attic apartment with the moss green recliner. Occasionally, I would have bouts of searing pelvic pain that trapped me in bed for hours. A few weeks into my second winter there, I went to see a urogynecologist, thinking there was something wrong with my bladder. It took the entire afternoon to run tests; then he called me into his office to tell me there was an 84 percent chance I had endometriosis. "We could put you on birth control," he suggested. I refused.

"Why not?" he asked, and just like that, the air in his office stopped moving. I could feel my nerves jangling, the familiar taste of the moment right before each and every disclosure like a sharp film over my tongue.

It's easier when I'm alone. My friends and family know I'm not a woman - I've told them - but some continue to think of me as one anyway. I ignore it because sometimes it's easier to not fight, to accept the isolation of being unseen as a safe place. I exist separate from the inaccurate concept of gender as a binary; without the stricture of those categories, I don't even have to think about my gender. Alone, there's just me, and I see myself clearly.

Speaking to other people, though, requires channeling who or what I am into language they can understand. "I'm trans," I explained. "And I've had a breast reduction, so hormones would reverse that."

The doctor nodded while my stomach churned. "I've had a few trans patients," he said. "We could do a hysterectomy, if that's something you'd want. Your insurance would cover it."

I stared at him, hope and disbelief numbing my hands. I'd been terrified that he was going to say something transphobic, that I'd have to deal with the violence of that tearing through my skin, a bullet I hadn't scheduled when I showed up there that afternoon. Instead, when I left his office, I had a surgery date only two weeks away.

He renovated my navel during the hysterectomy, unfolding it and then tucking it back into my abdomen in its new configuration. At my post-op appointment, he called the nurse over to brag about how well it had healed. There were only two small scars, each barely a centimeter long, at the top and bottom of my new navel. I called my mother a week or two after the surgery and told her what I'd done, even though I knew she wouldn't understand. She sighed with the resignation of a mother who has tried to stop her child before and failed. "Could you try not to cut off any more parts of your body?" she said, and I laughed so hard my stitches hurt.

I flew to her house for Christmas a few days later, attendants pushing me around both airports in a wheelchair, weak but giddy. The rest of my recovery was uneventful. After 17 years and approximately 200 periods, I slipped easily into my new and bloodless life.

There is a vivid history of mutilation with ogbanje: a dead one can be cut, scarred to prevent it from returning undetected. Ogbanje are also a cohort, they separate from each other when they get born, but they return to the cohort when they die. I like to think that there is a form of shared or generational memory within that; being dead or mutilated are not unfamiliar things to any of us, we're not afraid of either.

It has been grueling to remake myself each time I learn more about who or what I am - to take the steps that such remaking requires, to bear the costs. Sometimes, those costs are worn on your heart, like when the people you love no longer have space in their worldview for you. Other times, it's the body that bears them, in markings and modifications. By now, I've come to think of mutilation as a shift from wrongness to alignment, and of scars as a form of adornment that celebrates this shift. The keloids on my chest and the small lines spilling out of my navel function as reminders - that even when it meant stepping out of one reality to be swallowed by another, I kept choosing to move toward myself.

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"However, to be ogbanje is to be categorized other and to bring alterity home in a way that transcends the more ordinary bifurcated 'otherness' of gender. We could even speculate that ogbanje children fall under a third category of gender, of human-looking spirit.

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This little YouTube short explains some things about the Obanje.

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When considering gender dynamics and femininity, the first person plural narration brings to mind the collective experience of being a woman/womanhood.

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"we reached out the Ada's hand until our fingertip brushed the surface of the pool, of the stale, exposed blood with its calm skin...We skimmed our fingers across the tight top of it, then the Ada stood up and we walked away, away from the terrifying rush of how much we wanted more of it, much more." Emezi 40

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"We were used to the warm thuds of two heartbeats separated by walls of flesh and liquid, used to the option of leaving, of returning to the place we came from, free like spirits are supposed to be. To be singled out and locked into the blurred subconscious of a little mind? We refused. It would be madness" (4).

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...there are certain special people who in many life cycles, move seamlessly between the world of the spirits and of the living, and are believed to have a pact with the deities who guard the boundary between the world of the living (uwa) and the land of the spirits (Benmuo)...they are called Ogbanje.
Michael Chiedoziem Chukwudera speaks to two ogbanjes, Precious Amarachi Ugo, and Obumneme Osuchukwu (real names). In these interviews which took place virtually from the 11th to 12th of November, 2021, Chukwudera unearths some first-hand truths on the ogbanje phenomenon in Igbo land.
In Igbo cosmology, life exists in three cycles: the world of the unborn, of the living, and of the dead. It is believed that a typical life cycle moves between the three of them, and in most cases, when the transition from one cycle to the other has happened (from the world of the living to the dead, for instance), it is very difficult to come back.

But there are certain special people who in many life cycles, move seamlessly between the world of the spirits and of the living, and are believed to have a pact with the deities who guard the boundary between the world of the living (uwa) and the land of the spirits (Benmuo) - and so, they are able maintain a connection with the land of the spirits while in the land of the living.

"Ogbanje" as these special people are called, have fascinated the Igbo people since time immemorial. Over centuries, various stories, fables and superstitions were built around the legend of the ogbanje. With the coming of western education, many novels by Igbo authors have had ogbanjes as major characters. One of the most topical issues about ogbanjes is their affinity for death, and how they die at very crucial stages of their lives.

When Obumneme Osuchukwu, a young dibia and ogbanje who was born into Christianity, transitioned to the omenaala religion, one of the things he was required to do was unbury his iyi uwa or amulet. Returning to the religion of his forefathers had required him to perform certain rituals which had brought him closer to his siblings in benmuo. It was necessary to severe this connection so he could be allowed to live a normal life.

The iyi uwa is a black, solid substance signatory to the agreement made by ogbanjes in previous lives, and through which they maintain a connection with their siblings in the spirit realm, and can easily transition, and return to the world. Unearthing the iyi uwa was, then, a way of severing Obumneme's connection to the world of the spirit.

According to Obumneme, "Before the amulet of an ogbanje is severed, a divination process is needed. Through divination, it is sometimes revealed the appropriate medicine man to unearth the amulet. Sometimes, it has to be an old and powerful medicine man. If it is done by an inexperienced dibia, he could die afterwards, because severing the connection of an ogbanje with their mates in the land of the spirits is like reordering the essence of their existence-it is no small affair."

He told the story of a girlfriend, Chidimma, whose amulet was unearthed by a woman who died afterwards. During divination, the old woman from the land of the spirits requested that Chidimma sacrifices a chicken to her because it was as though the woman had sacrificed herself for Chidimma to live."

Unearthing the amulet of an ogbanje is not just about preventing them from dying suddenly. It is to give them a clean slate upon which to live a life with a destiny which they can control. In Guardian life, Chinelo Eze writes about the Ogbanje, that they come to the earth "...as disturbed individuals not having an iota of control....they live a life of doom cursed to appear and disappear without having a say in their destiny not like we do either." And so, the ceremony of unearthing their amulets is to ensure that they live a life they choose for themselves, and can have a say in their destinies.

Though Ogbanjes are likely to die young, they have no specified timeframe of life. Some die at birth and others in childhood before they are noticed and tied to the word of the living. Some die during teenage or even young adult years. They do not die until they have accomplished the purpose for which they came to life; a fact which varies from one ogbanje to another.

Precious Amarachi Ugo explains that ogbanjes come to the world with a purpose-usually a quick and urgent one. "This purpose is already clearly defined for them, or sometimes, they just have their targets. They don't die easily except when they have accomplished that goal." Amarachi's insight as to the ogbanje phenomenon is a pointer, that perhaps, in paying too much attention to the tendency of some ogbanje to die quickly, some things are neglected about what makes this group of people special.

As children, ogbanjes have strange and odd personalities; they also have extraordinary abilities-often superior intellect or insight into human conditions-that make them outstanding. They are often sociable yet reclusive. And when they withdraw to their shell, it is with an intensity that is often impenetrable.

According to Sunday T.C Ilechukwu in the abstract of his article, Ogbanje/abiku and cultural conceptualizations of psychopathology, "Surviving Ogbanjes manifest abnormalities of psychological life with vivid fantasy life or dreams characterized by the presence of water, orgiastic play with unfamiliar children, and frightening contact with a water goddess-mammy water." They are also able to foretell events, especially unfortunate ones, ahead of time.

"Once when I was younger," Amarachi Ugo says, "an aunt of mine who lived in Lagos was sick. In the family, they were talking about it in hushed tones. So, one day, her son travelled to our house in Asaba. At the time, nothing had been said of my aunt's condition. But when I saw him, I went over to him and said, 'Shay Aunty has died?' And everybody was stunned."

Ogbanje children often carry these traits throughout their lifetime. Amarachi tells another story of a man whom she had dated who referred to her as a witch. "We could just be together and I would tell him that if he wanted to go home today, he better does so immediately because it was going to rain. But because the weather was clear, he would take it for granted. Then all of a sudden, it would begin to rain," she disclosed.

See Also

Because of the odd characteristics of ogbanje children, they are sometimes viewed by Christians as "possessed" children. Because of their tendency to sometimes die early, they have been likened to sickle cell-diseased children. However, in the Igbo system of medicine and divination, the ogbanje is not characterised among children of ailing health. The Igbo people had children who died of ill health and were not regarded as ogbanje. There are marked differences between symptoms of sickle cell-affected children and the ogbanje. The latter are sometimes very healthy and able-bodied persons.

The legend of ogbanje children is built based on what the Igbo understand about the world of the living and the world of the spirit. The Ogbanje bridges the world of the living and the spirits. In the world of the living, time moves in a linear form. There is the present, past and future. But in the land of the spirit, time is an illusion; there is no present, past, or future as everything occurs simultaneously.

The ogbanje has the ability to sometimes experience the world of the living as though it were the world of the spirits, which accounts for their ability to foretell the future and have insights into intergenerational disputes in family matters from previous lives. Some of them have frighteningly accurate knowledge of land boundaries, and distant relationships in the family.

There are different understandings of the Ogbanje children in recent times. On one hand, families who are deeply steeped in Christianity are likely to regard them as possessed by demons or evil spirits. On the other hand, families whose thoughts are largely influenced by western science are likely to disbelieve the phenomenon altogether. Children who have been earmarked as ogbanje are likely to be coy or open about their identity, depending on how their family background treated the topic.

Recently among young Igbo people, the identity has become fashionable due to the cultural renaissance among Igbo people, and the rise of pop culture where cultural niches of marginalised groups are being promoted. One of the most popular young Igbo novelists, Akwaeke Emezi is a professed ogbanje who espouses a unique point of view of what it means to be an ogbanje through her books.

They project queerness, not just in behaviour, but in sexuality and a gender identity that is neither male nor female. Her debut novel "Freshwater" depicts the psychological orientation of ogbanje as it involves the indulgence of vivid fantasies and contact with a river goddess and strange children of the spiritual world.

The understanding of the ogbanje phenomenon differs to different Igbo people, according to religious or scientific orientation. Ugo understands the ogbanje as superchildren: "...the way there is the American Batman or superman characters; they are special children that the universe or their ancestors are trying to reincarnate, to bring about a big change in their families. That is how I try to understand the ogbanje phenomenon."

Michael Chiedoziem Chukwudera is a freelance writer and editor. You can reach him at Chukwuderamichael@gmail.com, or follow him on Twitter @ChukwuderaEdozi.

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Legend of the Ogbanje: Superhuman Abilities, Wanderlust between Life and Death - Afrocritik

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there are certain special people who in many life cycles, move seamlessly between the world of the spirits and of the living, and are believed to have a pact with the deities who guard the boundary between the world of the living (uwa) and the land of the spirits (Benmuo)...they are called Ogbanje.

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This article gives an overview of what the Ogbanje is and how it affects the families.

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The Ogbanje (or Obanje) myth is a deeply rooted belief in Igbo culture, primarily found in southeastern Nigeria. This myth tells the story of spirit children who are born, die, and are reborn repeatedly, causing immense grief to their families. The term "Ogbanje" means "children who come and go," reflecting their cycle of life and death. This concept has mystified and offered solace to many generations.

The Ogbanje myth is anchored in Igbo cosmology, which sees a strong connection between the physical and spiritual worlds. The Igbo people believe in a pantheon of deities and spirits that influence human lives. Ogbanje are mischievous spirits who have made a pact to cause suffering by repeatedly returning to the same family. This belief highlights a worldview where life is a continuum of interactions between the seen and unseen, the mortal and the immortal.

In Igbo society, the birth of an Ogbanje child is both mystical and tragic. These children are believed to have a connection to the spirit world, giving them supernatural abilities and a unique aura. Their repeated death and rebirth are seen as deliberate acts to torment the family. This cycle continues until the family's grief is alleviated through cultural and spiritual interventions.

Traditional healers, known as dibia, play a crucial role in identifying and dealing with Ogbanje children. They are called upon to find the iyi-uwa, a physical object that binds the Ogbanje to the mortal world. The iyi-uwa is usually a small object like a stone or bead, hidden by the spirit child. Discovering and destroying this object is believed to break the cycle, allowing the child to live a normal life.

Families affected by an Ogbanje child engage in rituals and consultations with traditional healers. The search for the iyi-uwa involves divination and other spiritual methods. This practice symbolizes hope and the quest for a resolution to their suffering. Destroying the iyi-uwa brings great relief and joy, ending the family's torment and beginning a new chapter.

The iyi-uwa: a physical object that binds the Ogbanje to the mortal world.

The iyi-uwa

Beyond spiritual interventions, the Ogbanje myth serves as a coping mechanism for families dealing with high infant mortality rates. It provides an explanation for repeated losses and a framework for hope and healing. The belief in Ogbanje reflects the community's attempt to make sense of the inexplicable and find solace in shared cultural narratives.

The Ogbanje belief is prevalent among the Igbo people in southeastern Nigeria, including states like Anambra, Enugu, Imo, Abia, and Ebonyi. The myth is integral to Igbo folklore, passed down through oral traditions, storytelling, and cultural practices. It is a common theme in Igbo literature, art, and songs, reminding the community of its spiritual heritage and resilience.

Works such as Chinua Achebe's "Things Fall Apart" illustrate the impact of the Ogbanje myth on Igbo society, showing the complex interplay between traditional beliefs and individual experiences. Scholarly articles explore the broader spiritual context of the myth, providing a comprehensive understanding of its role in the cultural and spiritual life of the Igbo people.

The Ogbanje myth is not just a tale of spirit children but a profound narrative that encapsulates life, death, and spirituality in Igbo culture. It is a story of pain, hope, and the unyielding quest for understanding and resolution. This myth, rich in symbolism and cultural significance, continues to be a cornerstone of Igbo identity, offering insights into the community's values, beliefs, and resilience in the face of life's challenges.

Help us improve this entry

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Ogbanje | Oriire | African Mythology, History & Stories

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This article dives deep into the Ogbanje myth in Igbo culture, exploring how it spiritually affects families and helps them cope with infant mortality. It celebrates the myth's cultural richness, symbolic depth, and its portrayal in literature and scholarly discussions.

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"With a force like ours, we dragged other things along--a pact, bits of bone, an ingenuous rock, worn-out velveteen, a strip of human hide tying it all together. This compound object is called the iyi-ụwa, the oath of the world. . . When spirits like us are put inside flesh, this oath becomes a real object, one that functions as a bridge" (14-15).

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"We did not come alone. With a force like ours, we dragged other things along--a pact, bits of bone, an igneous rock, worn-out velveteen, a strip of human hide tying it all together. This compound object is called the iui-uwa" (14).

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What is Iyi-Uwa in Igbo Spirituality? — ⊙ma’s Garden

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In Igbo spirituality, the concept of Iyi-Uwa is most commonly discussed in the context of the Ogbanje phenomenon , which has been popularized as the mystery of the “coming and going” children who are born, die, and are reborn repeatedly into the same family. In Igbo traditional belief system

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"Our brothersisters rejoiced from the other side- they had succeeded in chasing her away. No god would intervene, because ogbanje are entitled to their vengeances; it is their nature, they are malicous spirits" (31)

"Our brothersisters had known this, had known where the weak points in the Ada's family were, where best to apply the pressure for a breaking." (28)

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The Ogbanje Spirit #tradition #igbo #tradition

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"No god would intervene, because ogbanje are entitled to their vengeances; it is their nature they are malicious spirits." (31)

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"We were sent through carelessly, with a net of knowledge snarled around our ankles, not enough to tell us anything, just enough to trip us up" (34).

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“It was understandable; it is always like this with ọgbanje, it is difficult for their mothers. If we could go back, we would tell Saachi what she realized only many years later: that none of the ways she tried to take care of this child would ever feel like enough.” (Emezi 25)

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"Humans who have sense always look for the iyi-uwa, so they can dig it up or pull it from the flesh, from wherever secret place it was kept, so they can destroy it, so their child's body will not die" (31)

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"Reality was a difficult space for her to inhabit, unsurprisingly, what with one foot on the other side and gates in between. We wriggled deeply in her, reliving the blood of the backseat over and over again till the red was painted all inside. You must understand that Anuli's accident was a baptism in the best liquid, that mother of a color, then a clotting movement, a scrambled look at mortality and the weakness of the vessel. With our swollen new eyes, we saw the blood and knew it was a mantle." (Chapter 3)

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"We did not come alone. With a force like ours, we dragged other things along--a pact, bits of bone, igneous rock, worn out velveteen, a strip of human hide tying it all together. This compound object is called the iyi-uwa, the oath of the world. It is a promise we made when we were free and floating, before we entered the Ada" (Akwaeke 14).

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The problem with having gods like us wake up inside of you is that our hunger rises as well and someone, you see, has to feed us. (ch 4)

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That morning (the day we died and were born), her labor started as they drove down the twisting red roads. (p. 3)

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"To destroy it, they would have to destroy her. To keep her alive, they would have to send her back." (Emezi 15)

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This article deep dives into how the Ogbanje are represented in Abiku by Nigerian poet, J.P Clark. It dissects the specific behaviors of children in the past labeled as such, and the beliefs surrounding their behaviors. These children are essentially "born to die", and must "be called upon" by their earthly parents. Meaning, they are often born after numerous miscarriages, and it is speculated these spirits are specifically meant to torment the women in their family because of past wrongdoings. These spirits are sent in the form of mischievous children, purposefully meant to shake up family dynamics, and cause eventual sadness when they depart. Native doctors will often cut deep into the skins of these children as well, leaving them with serrated scars that mark their face, back, or other parts of the body in efforts to find their "iyi-uwa", the "stones" inside of them, and cease the family's misfortunate.

-Ruby June

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Ogbanje: How Often Can They Reincarnate?

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You can cry, plead, and charm all you want. However, an Ogbanje will keep coming and going