Percent scarring was once popular in Nigeria.

Deep cuts, usually on both cheeks or forehead, were often made to children by families and communities as a mark of identification. Scars also told stories of pain, reincarnation, and beauty.

However, this practice was abandoned in 2003 after a federal law outlawed all forms of child disability. As a result, people with scars on their faces today are the newest generation of injured people, and their facial features are as diverse as many ethnic groups in Nigeria.

The 15 cuts on Inaolaji Akeem’s face identify him as from the Owu kingdom in Ogun State (southwest Nigeria). Akeem is a nobleman, so he has long lines on his face.

“Like a football shirt,” he jokes, noting that the stripes made it popular in the local market.

In a more serious tone, Akeem claims that he considers scars sacred and does not believe that people should mark their faces just to beautify themselves.

The need to identify by these facial markings was also common in northern Nigeria, particularly among the Gobir people of Sokoto State.

The ancestors of Abraham Makkuwana, livestock breeders in Gubur in present-day Sokoto State, did not have facial markings.

However, he says, as they move in search of territory, they “fought many wars and conquered many places.”

Makkuwana’s ancestors then decided to make identification marks on their cheeks “like those of their beasts, to help them identify their compatriots during wars.” “That was the origin of our brands.”

There is another distinction among the Gobirawas. Six scars on one cheek and seven on the other indicate that both parents are noble, while people with six marks on each side are noble on the maternal side.

The butchers’ children have nine scars on one side and 11 on the other, while five and six marks indicate that the person was descended from a hunter. And fishermen have distinctive markings that extend up to their ears.

reincarnation signs

In the Yoruba and Igbo of southern Nigeria, some scars are about life and death. Their communities believed that some children were destined to die before puberty.

For the Yoruba, these guys – are they known to them and the Igbo as Abiku and Ogbanje, respectively? they belonged to a demon brotherhood that lived in the great iroko and baobab trees.

It was common for women in these communities to lose several children in a row, even as children. It was believed that it was the same child who repeatedly reincarnated to torment the mother. These children were then marked by their spirits so that they could be recognized and survived.

It is now known that most of these infant deaths are due to sickle cell anemia, an inherited disease common among black people.

Yakub Lawal from Ibadan in Oyo State (Southwest Nigeria) has been tagged Abiku.

“This isn’t my first time around the world, I’ve been here before,” she says. “I died three times. On the fourth return, I took these marks to prevent me from returning to the spirit world.”

As in the stories of Abiku and Ogbanje, there are traces in the memories of a deceased member of the family or a person “born again”.

The four horizontal and three vertical signs of Olawale Fatunbi were inscribed by her grandmother, who said she was the reincarnation of her late husband who had these scars on her face.

However, Fatunbi does not want to have these signs. “I really don’t like them because I think it’s child abuse but that’s our culture,” she says.

It’s hard not to recognize Khafiat Adeleke with the 16 marks on his face. It’s harder to miss the huge sign in his Ibadan shop with the inscription Mejo Mejo (“Eight Eight”) representing the scars on his cheeks.

“From here to Lagos, people call me Mejo Mejo. Since I’m an only child, my grandmother left a mark on me,” she says.

But some signs are made to beautify people.

Foluke Akinyemi received marks—a deep groove on each cheek—from the hand of a local circumciser who, under the supervision of his father, had also injured his face as a child.

“My dad decided to give me a brand just because he thought it was that brand and because he thought it was beautiful,” she says. “This lifts me up and thanks my family for giving me this scar.”

Akinyemi’s story is similar to that of Ramatu Ishyaku from the city of Bauchi in northeastern Nigeria. He has small mustache-like cuts on both sides of his mouth.

“To look prettier,” she says, adding that she also had her face tattooed.

Ishyaku says mustaches and tattoos were popular in his village as a child. He and his friends went to the local barber shop and had them done.

The scars on Taiwo’s face (who chose only to reveal his name) are now disappearing, but the reason for taking them is in the memories.

When her twin brother died a few weeks after she was born, Taiwo fell ill and a traditional healer suggested marking her face to prevent her from joining her sister.

She says she recovered from the scar a few days later, but that didn’t like the scars on her face.

“They make you look different from everyone else. I’d rather have no marks on my face,” she says.

There are also brands like Murtala Muhammed residing in the Nigerian capital, Abuja. He doesn’t know the story behind his scars.

“Almost everyone in my village in Niger State has these markings, so I never bothered to ask,” she says.

The facial scars were made using sharp knives by local barbers and circumcisers like Umar Wanzam. He describes the experience as painful and without anesthesia.

Many people who got scars as a child, like Inaolaji Akeem, agree with the imperative that facial scarring should be banned. Even before the ban, he did not pass on the tradition to his children.

“I like scars, but they belong to another time, another era,” he says.

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– This text was originally published at https://www.bbc.com/portuguese/internacional-61818561.