Tribal Marks Are Dying Out in Nigeria. Those With the Scars Are Split On It.

“My name is Mark – Tribal Mark,” Skepta tells the camera. The “Gas Me Up” rapper directs and stars in Tribal Mark, his first film, and his words are clearly reminiscent of James Bond. In the 26-minute short film, you see the familiar suits and guns of the gentleman spy genre – but you also see long shots of Skep eating egusi and pounded yam. There’s also something you never really see on screen: three dark, deep slashes on Mark’s face. 

Scarification has faded in popularity in Nigeria, where Skepta’s family hails from, since they were banned in 2003. The Child Rights Act declared that “any ethnic or ritual cuts on the skin which leaves permanent marks” could lead to a 5,000 Nigerian naira fine, a prison sentence, or both. Tribal marks once signified pride, beauty, societal standing and spiritual protection. During the transatlantic slave trade, they even helped the cruelly displaced map their route back home. Now the word “okola”, used to describe someone who has been scarred, is a slur. When they venture outside of their villages – where there may be many elders with intricate lines – in search of jobs in the city, they are often turned away from customer-facing and corporate roles. 

As Nigeria modernises, the marks have created a divide across society. Some see scarification as an early-years rite of passage and its loss a continued demonisation of sacred practices in favour of Western palatability. Others simply see child abuse, as a baby cannot consent to having elaborate, deep scars on their face for life. As Christianity now exerts such a huge influence on Nigerian views, they have even be interpreted as demonic worship. 

As Tribal Mark puts this practice front and centre of the camera, I speak to the last generation of Nigerians about whether they feel pride in their scars.

“I spent $3,500 on tribal mark surgery and £750 on laser last year to remove it. Since I moved to the United States, people go ‘OMG! What happened to your face? Did you get into an accident?’ I can feel their pity – they’re sorry for me. 

“It was an inscribed bilateral single horizontal line on my cheek. I was told it represents beauty, courage, affluence and royalty. It came up in dating and relationships all the time. Funny enough, my husband told me that the tribal marks were what attracted him to me. He said I was different.

“There are many stories behind how tribal marks were given. For some, it’s a form of identification. For others, it’s a family tradition that must be followed. Sometimes it’s a form of protection to shield them from sickness and unforeseen dangers. For me, it was just a fashion trend because mine doesn’t have any significant reason it was done to my face.

My grandmother raised me, and I was living with her at the time she made the markings on my face. My parents knew nothing about it until they saw me. It became a very big issue in the family as to why my face was marked. My grandmother claimed that I requested it for myself [as] a three-year-old. My parents do not have any kind of marks on their face or body.

“Having representation [in film] might help people who are not exposed to the culture yet understand. Though people in Nigeria are already exposed to everything about tribal marks, they are the people who refuse to accept it the most. They mock people for it like it's their fault. When you live in Nigeria and you have tribal marks on your face, it becomes an automatic insult from everyone, and a reminder for you daily. They will call you names and say ‘You fight lion, onipele [a name for someone with the mark]?’ just to get under your skin. 

“I feel it is unfair and wicked to alter a child’s appearance. If it must be done at all due to some cultural beliefs or some kind of protection, then do it in places not visible to the public.” – Jumoke Akinbo, 36

“I don’t agree with the ban because tradition is sweet. I was born before the mark was banned. Eight days later, my dad brought an old man who drew the mark. Growing up I would cover my face, but now I get comments about my beauty everywhere I go. Guys always want to have me around them.”  – Shile, 22

“As I grow in confidence I look in the mirror and I cannot see my scars any longer. Even though at school I would shy away from socialising, so I didn’t become the object of discussion. I moved to Port Harcourt [a city in Nigeria] from a very Muslim area and I actually started being told they looked good on me, so I’ve started carrying myself differently.

“They show that I’m from Ijebu [tribe]. Coincidentally, Skepta is from my state, Ogun State. There’s also another that my paternal grandmother gave me. It’s not really a tribal mark – it's a protective mark and when she did it, she mixed a dark powder to rub on it. When a child is born, there’s a myth that an evil one will come and change your destiny. The mark will mean they don’t want to come near you. She had nine children and six of them died, so she feels she did this to protect her grandchildren. When I heard that, I was at peace [with them].

“The origins of this are identification, especially during the transatlantic slave trade – but we’re past that era. Without getting to know me, you already have a bias towards me. I don’t want to sound sexist, but when a man approaches a woman he sees her appearance first. Of course, I can date a lady with tribal marks, but if she’s not confident in her marks it’s going to be a problem for me. The [specific] pattern can put me off too, to be very honest with you, and that’s probably because of stereotypes about those groups or those areas.” – Adesina Adedeji, 28

“We need more pride in African traditions. Weirdly, the west can accept [male] circumcision but demonise this. I feel really great about my marks, honestly. I would never get rid of them, even though I wouldn’t give them to my children even if the ban were lifted, as it’s now become a thing of the past. People believe we’re unjustly hurt. But it’s cute and I stand out in any crowd.” – Babatunde Sanya, 26

“I am always aware of them because people remind me I have them. I could be taking a walk on my street and everyone is staring at me. When I was younger, I would follow my mom to Eko Market [in Lagos] and people wouldn’t stop questioning my mum: ‘Why did you do this to her, mummy?’ ‘Mummy, you spoilt this fine girl's face.’ 

“My mum told me she was actually against it. She cried and begged but no one listened. To them, she was just a woman – she doesn’t have much say over the child. My dad's grandfather decided I should be marked as I was the firstborn. It was a tradition in my dad's family. All my dad's nine siblings have tribal marks. It was quick and not ceremonial, like getting a piercing – no rituals involved. 

“I get a lot of attention because [people] are shocked – they can’t believe someone could be this beautiful with tribal marks. I grew up in a boarding school from the age of five so I had to meet people from different backgrounds and cultures and became very self-aware... I have really never had issues dating because I am a fine girl, my friends tell me they forget I have tribal marks. People I have a relationship with don’t really care. 

“I would count my marks when I was younger. I think there are 23 of them – ten on each side of my face and three on my forehead. I used to hate myself and thought I was ugly, but my career in skincare has brought me peace. In Nigeria, people are not used to using safe products. People want to bleach their skin, and the Nigerian skincare market was all about getting two shades or three shades lighter. Healthy skin just makes me feel good. I don’t have to cover my scars. I wanted people to know it was possible to be dark-skinned with tribal marks and still look good.” – Amosu Shade, 24