04
Script from short documentary film, Owambe, shown at Venice Biennale’s Personal Structures.
Narrator (gentle, reflective tone):
May this day be filled with everlasting joy.
(Pause. Silence.)
Let us gather...
Let us gather...
I hear there is a party.
(With intrigue)
Ahhhh — ta ló n ṣe owambe? (Who is doing a party?)
Oya, oya, ẹ jẹ́ ka lọ. (Come, let us go there.)
(Pause)
Hmm... owambe.
(Narrator, explain softly)
It is the progression and a prayer
It is progression.
It is prayer.
E jẹ́ ká gbàdúrà. (Let us pray.)
From the beginning of our breaths...
In abundance, under the music...
With grace and hearty cheers...
With sorrow, we sit in communion today.
We will feast.
We will share our sorrows — and our joy.
After all, we are blessed by our inclinations in this nation.
An owambe is a homing beacon to all.
No performance is in vain.
It is made up of ingredients down to that one last detail —
The guests — invited and uninvited alike gives it meaning.
(Spoken slower, almost rhetorically)
Have you ever seen a celebration without people?
Even at funerals —
Ah — it is the very measure of success.
We know how to dress — beautifully.
How to hold off hunger...
With impatient and unwavering glances
at the waiters... at the MCs.
(Playfully)
The sound of “snap me, snap me!” echoing in the air at photographers.
We do not bite our tongues.
À pé kó tó jẹun, kó jẹ ìbàjẹ. (The person that eats late will not eat spoiled food.)
In fact, our tongues become machines of consumption.
Food and overflowing drinks to quench our thirst.
Bowls filled with meat —
often tackled heartily.
We are given the length of our tongue —
our shoulders held high...
Then we fold and vanish...
back into ourselves.
Under gossiped breaths we say:
"May this house be forever blessed as we feast..."
Draped in layered fabrics,
To match. To overlay. To be seen.
(Warmly, rising energy)
Our joy is here — existing loudly.
E jẹ́ ká jẹun. (Come and eat.)
E jẹ́ ká jó. (Come and dance.)
There is joy in doing this — together.
The spirit of owambe lives in our bones.
In our natural rhythm.
In whispers, in jubilations.
In coordinated dance steps and watchful eyes.
(With reverence)
Gèlès filled with heat and pain —
a celebration of our shapeshifting textiles,
crafted by fists that could carve a tornado if they had to.
Here, we commune in spirit —
In death, in blessings, in birth.
Where conversation is a puzzle.
Where wax print holds secrets in its fibers.
With music, our feet know what to do —
Without haste. Without effort.
The band plays.
The drums beat.
Even a ringtone joins in.
The room shifts:
Oya, kọ́mọlé! Oya, dìdé! (Come down low! Get up!)
(Joyously)
A talking drum speaks your name — rhythmically, in praises.
As money leaves your pocket gleefully —
a gesture of gratitude,
an acknowledgment of your lineage.
(Proudly)
The àlágàs flex knees and lyrical might.
They remind you:
They are not new to this.
Praises pour out — to uplift the family through all seasons.
It is a legacy act. A tradition passed on.
Not just a feeling of fleeting joy...
Takeaway containers filled up in secret,
Souvenirs to remember a celebration in abundance.
(Softly, contemplative)
What makes our history so rich?
It is a symphony of culture.
The sheer beauty of our talent.
The effortlessness of our existence.
Our languages.
The delicacies from our soil.
Where I’m from — a party is not just a party.
It is a homing signal.
We find ourselves in the art of celebration.
Even in death —
We reward our loved ones with an orchestra.
(Firm, grounded)
We understand the language of celebration.
And in that moment — we celebrate heritage.
All 371 ethnic groups.
A community of love.
A home we carry within us.
Etched into the footbed of our nails,
down to the bones that hold us steady.
(Lowered voice, serious tone)
Hmm... listen, and listen well:
Odò tó bá gbàgbé orísun rẹ̀, gbígbẹ ló máa gbẹ.
(A river that forgets its source will dry up.)
(Long pause. Music fades out.)
Narration ends.
(film will be available online from March 2025)