FOR generations, tribal marks have stood as a bold imprint of Nigerian identity, ancestry, and aesthetic ideals, carved into the skin and woven into the nation’s cultural fabric, News Point Nigeria examines the complexities of this fading traditional practice.
From the intricate “pele” and “abaja” of the Yoruba to the subtle cheek lines of the Hausa, tribal marks once served as a proud symbol of origin, status, and spirituality. Today, they often invite stares, shame, or stigma.
In 2025, as Nigeria continues to modernise socially and culturally, the conversation around tribal marks is growing louder and more complex.
Once widespread across ethnic groups such as the Yoruba, Fulani, Kanuri, Nupe, Igala and Igbo, tribal marks were traditionally used to identify families, clans, and regions.
In times of conflict or during slave raids, they served as crucial identifiers. They were also part of initiation rites and were seen as marks of strength, beauty, and spiritual connection.
“In those days, tribal marks were like a passport,” veteran journalist and publisher of Neptune Prime, Dr. Hassan Gimba, who grew up with the markings told News Point Nigeria.
“After the civil war, around 1972/73, fear and the need for clear identification led many parents to mark their children, mine did the same. It wasn’t considered a bad thing back then.”
“I remember returning to school after the break with my new tribal marks. My classmates teased me, and I buried my head on the desk. But eventually, I lifted my head and just let everyone see it, without shame.”
Today, this centuries-old tradition is fading fast. Hudu Auta Sarkin Aska, a traditional tribal marker (Wanzam) from Zaria, confirmed the decline in practice to News Point Nigeria, saying, “The last time I gave a tribal mark to a newborn was in 2019, in a village called Gangarida in Kaduna State. I’ve been doing this for over 42 years, working across all the northern states.”
“Only one child in over six years and before that, it was back in 2014 at Auyo village in Jigawa State,” he emphasized.
“Between 1985 and 2005, We (my team and I) used to mark over 3,000 newborns each year,” Sarkin Aska added, reflecting on how drastically things have changed.
Government discouragement, the rise of modern identification methods, and changing social norms have led to a steep decline in the practice. Even in rural areas, parents have largely stopped giving their children tribal marks.
Yet, those who already bear the marks are now caught in a complicated cultural crossfire.
Sameer Ahmad, a Kaduna-based politician, sees his tribal marks as a source of pride. “They give me confidence,” he told News Point Nigeria. “They remind me of where I come from. I am not one bit ashamed.”
Gloria Noah, a Delta-born forex trader, feels the same way about her husband. “His tribal marks are part of what makes him attractive to me,” she said. “I even wanted our kids to have them, but he refused.”
But not all share that sentiment.
Fareeda Yahaya, a fashion designer from Borno, described the discomfort that comes with being stared at. “When men look at me, I know they’re not looking at my eyes. They stare at my face and the next question is always: ‘Are you from Borno?’ It feels reducing.”
In Oyo State, Banke Ibrahim, a lawyer, had to end an engagement after overhearing her fiancé’s sisters mocking her tribal marks on a WhatsApp voice note. “That was it for me,” she said. “It was painful to hear.”
For Zainab Aminu, a caterer from Kebbi, her aversion is personal even though her mother has tribal marks from the Zuru ethnic group. “I can never marry someone with tribal marks,” she said. “In fact, when I have money, I want to sponsor surgery to remove my mother’s own. She just laughs when I say that.”
According to Professor Kemi Alabi, a behavioural psychologist at the University of Lagos, youth perception is largely responsible for the decline in acceptance.
“In the past, tribal marks were symbols of honour,” she explained. “Today’s youth see them as disfigurement. It’s more than cultural change, it’s identity crisis.”
In some regions, tribal marks still trigger teasing, bullying, and social exclusion especially in urban areas. Dr. Mahdi Sani, a Kano-based doctor, described his experience as a double-edged sword.
“I’ve had strangers give me discounts at their shops because they recognized my mark,” he said. “But I’ve also faced jokes and negative assumptions.”
Across Nigeria from Ogun to Borno, Akwa Ibom to Sokoto, the intensity and style of tribal marks vary widely.
The Yoruba, Gobirawa, Kanuri, and northeastern Fulani traditionally have some of the most pronounced scarifications. What was once a symbol of origin has, in some cases, become a reason for judgment.
As societal views shift, human rights activists have begun to question the ethics of performing such irreversible procedures on infants and children without their consent.
Several NGOs have campaigned for laws banning tribal scarification, framing it as a form of bodily harm. In some states, tribal marking of children is already considered a criminal offense under child rights legislation.
Still, a legal ban alone cannot erase the social complexities or the personal meanings these marks carry.
The future of tribal marks in Nigeria seems destined for museum exhibits, academic texts, and the memories of those who bear them. But the emotional and cultural debates they stir remain as vivid as ever.
Whether seen as a badge of honour, a cultural relic, or a scar of injustice, tribal marks have left an indelible imprint on Nigeria’s national identity and on the faces of those who live with them.
“We may stop marking children,” said Dr. Gimba, “but the stories behind the marks will stay with us forever.”