In Eastern Nigeria, an Igbo Man Without a Title Is Practically Walking Naked

 

In Igboland, a naked name now feels like social death; chiefs multiply, integrity disappears, and even “Member” becomes emergency oxygen for wounded pride.  The red cap once announced responsibility. But in Igboland today, title gluttony can dress thieves as saviors, cowards as lions, and chaos merchants as men of peace.

I am an Igbo man from Eastern Nigeria. My only title is “Dr.” I earned it in a university, through research, examinations, and years of academic work. That is enough for me.

But in Igboland, “Dr.” sometimes looks dangerously underdressed.

A bare name frightens us. It stands there alone—thin, exposed, shivering in public. We rush to cover it with “Chief.” We button it with “Honorable.” We wrap it in “Ozo.” We hang “KSJ” (Knight of St. John) behind it. If nothing else is available, we throw “Member” over its shoulders and pray nobody notices the poverty underneath.

The ceremony is already 45 minutes late when the master of ceremonies grabs the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished personalities, royal fathers, political stakeholders, captains of industry, pillars of development, and lovers of progress—”

Nobody has been introduced yet.

He inhales.

“Please welcome Chief Engineer Dr. Desmond Okafor, Ozo Igbo Ndu I of Ohafia!” (the name has been changed to retain anonymity).

The hall erupts.

“Ekwueme!”

Desmond rises. Slowly. Carefully. He is wearing a red cap, white lace, coral beads, Italian shoes, and sunglasses inside a dark hall. His stomach arrives before the rest of him. Tweo young men follow, carrying his telephone and dignity.

The drummer strikes harder.

“Chief!”

“Engineer!”

“Doctor!”

“Ozo!”

Desmond waves like a governor who has just commissioned a bridge built with three lanes of promises and one lane of concrete.

Nobody asks what kind of engineer he is.

Nobody asks where he earned the doctorate.

Nobody asks what “Igbo Ndu” means in practical terms.

This is not an investigation. It is an introduction.

Next comes “Ichie Humphrey Muomelite, Onwa I of Mbaise, KSJ” (the name has been changed to retain anonymity).

Humphrey has never attended a university. That does not matter. Education is only one road to a long name, and we Igbo people have constructed several bypasses. Humphrey is now “Onwa”—the Moon of Mbaise. Whether he has ever brought light to Mbaise is irrelevant. The moon does not submit an annual report.

The microphone keeps moving.

“Chief Barrister Dr. Chukwudi Nwafor, Akajiugo I of Nnewi” (the name has been changed to retain anonymity).

“High Chief Sir Emmanuel Ezeani, Omeiheukwu of Aguata, KSM.”

“Chief Architect Professor Boniface Nwankwo, Ide Mmili I of Orlu.”

“Honorable Chief Dr. Patrick Umeh, Ebubedike na London, Ozo Udo I of Umuahia.”

By the time Patrick’s name lands, two children are asleep, the fried rice is cold, and the bride has begun to regret both the wedding and democracy.

I know this theater because it is our theater. I am not peeping into Igbo culture through a foreign window. I grew from the soil of Eastern Nigeria. I know the sound of the ogene (a metal gong). I know the pride of the red cap. I know the political temperature of a hometown meeting. I know that an Igbo man may forgive you for stepping on his shoe, but if you omit his title from a printed program, you have not made a mistake. You have launched a military operation.

“Who prepared this program?” he asks.

“The planning committee.”

“Where is my title?”

“We wrote your name.”

“My name?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looks at the page as if it contains his death certificate.

“You wrote only my name?”

That word—only—carries the insult.

His name is present, but his importance is missing.

Traditional Igbo titles did not begin as comedy. They came from a serious social and political world. Many communities in Eastern Nigeria were decentralized long before British colonial rule. Authority often rested in village assemblies, councils of elders, age grades, lineage groups, women’s organizations, and titled societies. Outside places with stronger centralized institutions, such as Nri, Onitsha, and Arochukwu, there was often no absolute king handing out status from a palace.

A person built a public reputation. Wealth mattered, but so did character, family standing, community service, age, achievement, and trust. A title could mark the point at which private success became public responsibility.

A. I. Okpoko’s scholarly work on Igbo traditional titles identifies Ozo as one of the most significant institutions in Igboland. Ozo titleholders historically provided leadership at lineage, village, and village-group levels. The “Catholics & Cultures” research project also notes that Ozo conferred status, leadership, and serious responsibility. In some communities, Ozo titleholders helped settle disputes and represented moral authority.

That was the old bargain.

The community gave a man honor.

The man gave the community integrity.

Today, the community may still deliver the honor. Integrity may send its apologies.

A contractor can abandon a village road after collecting the money, return in December with 200 bags of rice, and become “Omeiheukwu I of the village”—where  “Omeiheukwu” is an Igbo term meaning “the man who does great things.”

A politician can divert public money meant for a health clinic, donate 10 plastic chairs to the town union, and receive “Aku Ruo Ulo”—the wealth that reached home.

A land grabber can seize his younger brother’s inheritance and become “Oputa Obie”—the man whose arrival brings peace to the family.

A notorious coward can become “Agu”—the lion.

A human petrol station for quarrels can become “Udo”—the embodiment of peace.

The title says one thing. The life says another. Everybody hears both. The drummer simply plays louder.

This hunger becomes truly dangerous inside our social clubs and hometown associations. We Igbo people can form an association anywhere. Give us four plastic chairs, one bottle of cognac, and a WhatsApp group. By sunset, we will have a constitution.

By midnight, the association will have a president, vice president, secretary, assistant secretary, financial secretary, assistant financial secretary, public-relations officer, provost, social secretary, welfare officer, chief whip, patron, grand patron, women’s leader, youth leader, chairman of elders, and chairman of the committee created to investigate the former chairman.

The association has 14 active members and 19 offices.

That is not poor planning. That is title security.

The real crisis comes when an event program is prepared. The planners first list the heavyweights.

“Chief Dr. Obinna Eze, Ogbuefi I of Awka.”

“Sir Anthony Nwankwo, KSJ.”

“Honorable Barrister Emeka Umeh, Akuatuegwu of Ihiala.”

Then somebody notices Collins (the name has been changed to retain anonymity).

Collins has no traditional title. No knighthood. No doctorate. No political office. No flourishing business. No regular job. But Collins has a voice that can break glass. He attends every meeting, pays some dues, owes the rest, and remembers every insult committed against him since 2009.

“What shall we put beside Collins’s name?” the secretary asks.

“Nothing.”

The room freezes.

“You want this event to hold?”

The planners understand. Collins may not have enough money to sponsor the event, but he has enough bitterness to bury it. Leave his name out, and the caterer may hear that the date has changed. The musician may receive a fake cancellation. The association’s WhatsApp group may wake up to 74 voice notes, each lasting 8 minutes.

The chairman leans forward.

“Write ‘Member.’”

The secretary obeys.

“Mr. Collins Obi, Member.”

Peace enters the room.

Then comes “Mr. Jude Nkemakolam, Member.”

After him: “Mr. Peter Uchenna, Member.”

If Peter is especially troublesome, he receives a promotion.

“Mr. Peter Uchenna, Distinguished Member.”

Distinguished by what?

By the danger of leaving him undistinguished.

At the event, Collins picks up the program. His eyes search quickly. He finds his name.

“Mr. Collins Obi, Member.”

He smiles.

The organizers have successfully manufactured a title from basic grammar.

The ordinary word “member” has become a medal. It announces that Collins belongs. He may not be chief, doctor, knight, professor, engineer, barrister, or honorable, but he is not nobody. The program has given him emergency social oxygen.

Some Igbo men take another road. They are teachers, civil servants, administrators, or modest professionals. They have respectable jobs but cannot afford the financial demands attached to major traditional title-taking. They still want something to stand behind their names like an armed guard.

Then the church opens a door.

Mr. Michael Onyejekwe becomes “Sir Michael Onyejekwe, KSJ.”

Mr. Anthony Ekwunife becomes “Sir Anthony Ekwunife, KSJI.”

Mr. Gabriel Nwachukwu becomes “Sir Gabriel Nwachukwu, KSM (Knight of St. Mulumba).”

The name has entered the alphabet market.

The Knights of St. John International is a legitimate Roman Catholic fraternal order, not an Igbo title factory. Its official history reaches back to its incorporation in New York in 1886. The organization says it has more than 19,000 members across 9 countries, including Nigeria. Its stated mission centers on faith, charity, fraternity, and service.

Those are noble obligations.

But give an Igbo man a uniform, sword, plume, rank, and letters after his name, and heaven must help the master of ceremonies who forgets one comma.

“Why did you write Michael Onyejekwe?”

“That is your name, sir.”

“I am a knight.”

“I know.”

“Does the program know?”

The church may have called him to service. The printed program must call him “Sir.”

Knighthood itself does not cure ordinary human weakness. In 2022, the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of Nigeria suspended the activities of the Knights of St. John International in the country after a serious internal dispute and failure to obey reconciliation directives. The suspension was lifted after compliance.

There is the irony. Men carrying swords for Christian unity still required bishops to stop them from fighting among themselves. The sword hung correctly. Peace did not.

Our women understand the title market too, although Igbo patriarchy historically gave men more public room to parade traditional honors. Some important title systems remained male-centered, and scholarly research has criticized the Ozo institution for reinforcing male dominance in parts of Igboland.

Still, nobody should mistake limited public titles for female powerlessness. Igbo women have long exercised influence through market networks, church groups, women’s associations, family institutions, and organizations of married women and lineage daughters.

The 1929 Aba Women’s Riots remains the strongest evidence. Thousands of women across Eastern Nigeria challenged colonial taxation plans and the abuses of warrant chiefs. British colonial forces killed more than 50 women while suppressing the uprising. Those women shook an empire without placing “Chief Dr. Mrs.” before their names.

Then some modern Igbo women move to the United States or Europe. They study. They work punishing shifts. They become registered nurses, nurse practitioners, and holders of advanced degrees. Their professional credentials are earned and deserve respect.

But sometimes achievement is not enough. It must become a parade.

In Baltimore, I have encountered names displayed in styles like “Dr. (Mrs.) Cynthia Ugoji, DNP, CRNP, Nee Ada di Ora Mma” (the name has been changed to retain anonymity).

Then comes “Chief Mrs. Blessing Nwosu, MSN, RN, FNP-BC, Ugegbe Oyibo I of Owerri” (the name has been changed to retain anonymity).

Another arrives as “Lady Dr. (Mrs.) Ngozi Eze, DNP, PMHNP-BC, Lolo Ifeoma di Ora Mma.”

The grand finale may be “High Chief Dr. (Mrs.) Patricia Okafor, RN, BSN, MSN, Queen Mother of Umuahia Progressive Union” (the name has been changed to retain anonymity).

Nothing must escape.

Academic degree? Add it.

Nursing license? Add it.

Board certification? Add it.

Marital status? Add it.

Traditional praise name? Add it.

Husband’s title? Add it.

Association position? Add it.

Maiden identity? Tie it to the bumper.

The name begins to look like a vehicle transporting an entire résumé.

“May I speak with Cynthia?”

Silence.

“Mrs. Ugoji?”

More silence.

“Dr. Mrs. Cynthia Ugoji, DNP, CRNP, Nee Ada di Ora Mma?”

“Speaking.”

The British helped worsen our status hunger. Colonial administrators found decentralized Igbo government difficult to control. They wanted local agents who could collect taxes, enforce colonial orders, and report to British officials. So they appointed warrant chiefs, sometimes giving authority to men who lacked traditional legitimacy.

Power was no longer always the result of community trust. A foreign document could manufacture a chief.

Modern Nigeria has expanded the factory.

Now “Ambassadors” have never entered embassies.

“Professors” have never produced serious scholarship.

“Honorables” have never behaved honorably.

“Doctors” carry honorary degrees obtained through donations, connections, or decorated ceremonies.

“Chiefs” lead nobody.

“Excellencies” preside over failure.

The title has become a mask. The longer it is, the more carefully I inspect the face behind it.

I am not attacking every title. I am an Igbo man too, not an enemy of Igbo culture. Legitimate titles preserve history. They recognize service. They connect us to our towns, ancestors, institutions, and responsibilities. A true Ozo title should represent character. A genuine knighthood should represent faith and charity. A doctorate should represent advanced intellectual or professional work.

My target is not honor.

My target is title gluttony.

It is the hunger that makes a person feel erased unless a trumpet blows before his name. It is the vanity that turns community service into theater. It is the insecurity that forces poor Collins to wear “Member” like a bulletproof vest. It is the moral fraud that allows a thief to purchase a title describing him as the village savior.

A good name should be able to stand without crutches.

Yet the banquet continues.

The hall is packed. The titled men adjust their red caps. The knights straighten their medals. The professional women inspect the program for missing initials. Collins confirms that “Member” is securely attached to his name.

The master of ceremonies raises the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for Chief Honorable Engineer Professor Dr. Sir Collins Chinedu Obi, KSJ, JP, Ozo Ugochinyere I of Arochukwu, Distinguished Member, Life Patron, Grand Patron, Chairman Emeritus, Pillar of Development, Lion of Eastern Nigeria, and Light of the Igbo Nation!”

The generator coughs.

The microphone dies.

Darkness falls.

For one honest second, the chief is silent, the knight is invisible, the professor cannot be found, and the Distinguished Member is just Collins.

 

For readers interested in a separate line of thought, the titles in my “Brief Book Series” are available on Google Play. Read them here on Google Play or in Barnes & Noble bookstore: Brief Book Series.