Decades ago, long before the ’90s, walking through a Nigerian village was like flipping through a gallery of living stories. Every face carried meaning. The cuts on the cheeks, the slashes on the forehead, or the marks on the temple were not random scratches; they were cultural signatures, proof of who you were and where you came from.

But stroll through the same streets today, and those once-familiar lines are fading fast. Fewer children carry them, and with their disappearance comes a debate about heritage, identity, and what it means to modernise.

 A history written on skin

Tribal marks are not some recent invention, they go way, way back. Among the Yoruba, for instance, marks (ila) were already common centuries ago. They signified everything from lineage and social status to spiritual protection. The Hausa had zube, the Nupe and Gwari had their patterns, and the Igbo once wore ichi marks on the forehead as a rite of passage for titled men, while the Tiv and Ibibio also carried their own designs.

Each was a language on skin, a living record of ancestry and belonging almost like each group had its own “skin language”.

And here is where it gets really interesting. These marks were not just about beauty or bravery (though they carried those meanings too), they also worked like permanent ID cards in pre-colonial times. Imagine travelling from one town to another without paperwork, your marks could literally vouch for you. No one could easily mistake you for an outsider.

Even today, if you pay attention, you will see tribal marks still quietly living in Nigeria’s royal traditions. Take Ibadan, for example. The Olubadan stool has a long history with marked men, and the incoming Olubadan himself wears his proudly. Or look at Oyo, the late Alaafin of Oyo, Oba Lamidi Adeyemi III, a monarch steeped in tradition, also bore his marks. In a way, those grooves and cuts are as much a part of Yoruba royalty as the beaded crowns and ancestral rituals. If you have ever seen the Alaafin up close, you will know exactly what I mean.

When beauty fades

Then times began to change. Colonialism, new religions, and the rise of urban life reshaped how people viewed their traditions. What once carried pride was suddenly branded “pagan” or “primitive”. Add in the spread of new religions, the lure of city life, and health concerns like unsterile tools, infections, even HIV/AIDS fears, and many parents just said: “Not my child.”

By the late 20th century, the shift was clear. Tribal marks that once symbolised prestige became associated with poverty and backwardness. Smooth, unmarked skin was now the ticket to “fitting in” with modern society.

These days, it is rare to find a fresh set of tribal marks. Some states have banned the practice outright, calling it harmful. NGOs brand it child abuse. And just like that, a tradition that once defined entire communities has slipped into quiet decline.

The irony today is that tattoos and piercings are booming. The very thing dismissed as “primitive” is back, only this time, it is fashion. The difference is that tattoos rarely carry the same communal or ancestral weight. They are personal art, not family history.

Also Read: Why Yoruba tribal marks are still fading

What is really at stake?

So, here is the question: in protecting children from an old, painful custom, has a piece of history been erased? Without them, is there a loss of connection?

What is certain is that tribal marks sit in a complicated space, between tradition and modernity, pride and stigma, art and abuse. They remind us that culture always leaves its mark.

And maybe, the marks no longer live on the skin, but they still live in the stories and history. In the faces of grandparents. In the regal bearing of monarchs like the Alaafin and the Olubadan. Proof that identity and heritage never really disappear, they just shift, waiting remembrance.

Anita Chinedu