Across several states, particularly in the South-East and South-South regions, communities still uphold long-standing traditional taboos that forbid the killing or consumption of certain animals, including land snails, specific fish species, and the revered python. In these areas, what many might consider a delicacy is regarded as a deity.
In this report, GODFREY GEORGE journeys into these communities where reverence for animals is not inspired by environmental activism or dietary preferences, but by centuries-old, deep-rooted traditions and a profound fear of the unseen
At just 15 years old, Pascal Edu was living under the care of a Catholic priest, Father Boniface, within the chaplaincy of the cathedral in his hometown of Ukwuani.
Ukwuani, a Local Government Area in the Delta North Senatorial District of Delta State, with its headquarters in Obiaruku, is renowned for its deep-rooted Catholic heritage.
In the 1990s, it was customary for parents to send their young sons to live with priests, not only to assist with domestic chores but also to be groomed as altar boys or potential candidates for the seminary.
Pascal was one of those boys. His father, a civil servant, and his mother, a petty trader, lived several villages away.
They only visited occasionally, usually on significant religious occasions like the Christ the King procession or Ash Wednesday Mass.
Among Pascal’s closest companions at the chaplaincy were two boys who, one afternoon, ventured to a nearby river to fish.
They returned triumphantly with their catch, prepared a rich pot of egusi soup, and served it to all the altar boys.
As they ate, Pascal noticed the others whispering and laughing, sneaking glances at him. Curious, he asked what was going on, and their response sent a chill down his spine.
They had caught the fish from a river considered forbidden by Ukwuani tradition.
“I immediately shoved my fingers down my throat and rushed outside to vomit,” Pascal recalled. “My mother had warned me never to eat fish from our river. People from Ukwuani could eat fish from other places, but not from that river; the gods would not be pleased.”
He explained that while some believed the fishes were sacred offerings to the gods, others claimed the creatures themselves were worshipped.
“As a child, I watched my grandfather, a powerful dibia (traditional priest), lead us to the river where he made sacrifices to the deity. So, even as a teenager, I knew something was wrong the moment I swallowed that fish.”
Shaken, Pascal requested permission from Father Boniface and took the next available motorcycle back to his ancestral village. He narrated the incident to his mother, who, concerned, took immediate action.
“Not long after, I developed large rashes all over my body that refused to heal,” Pascal said. “My mother insisted it was punishment for eating the forbidden fish. She applied an ointment, then took me to my grandfather.”
The old man used leaves from a special tree in their compound, the Ukwaboshi, which translates to “cleansing tree.”
The leaves were rubbed all over Pascal’s body, accompanied by incantations. He was instructed to stay indoors for several days.
“After that, the rashes vanished,” he said. “But I was sternly warned never to eat fish from our river again if I didn’t want to suffer a worse fate.”
A cultural custodian in the community, who spoke on condition of anonymity due to his Christian faith, confirmed the taboo still holds sway.
“Those fish belong to the gods. You are not permitted to eat them,” he said. “I am a Christian and an anthropology graduate from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. This is not about illiteracy or superstition. The gods have their reasons.”
He said his household strictly avoids fish from the local river, sourcing theirs from neighbouring communities instead.
“At one point, I instructed my children not to eat fish anywhere outside our home until they turned 18. Then they could decide for themselves if they wanted to continue the tradition.”
The elder added that the community worships a deity known as Onukwu — the god of fertility and wealth, who must be approached with deep reverence.
“I know people may judge me as a Christian, but I believe in giving to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s,” he said.
“As I speak, I remain a committed member of the Onukwu cult group. Every December, I participate in sacrifices to cleanse the land and pray for prosperity for our people.”
Kwale, where snails are revered
It was a shock to this reporter in October 2024 when he asked to be served snails at a local restaurant in Kwale.
The servers looked alarmed, and Ego, a fixer he had met during National Youth Service, quickly warned him not to mention it again.
“Don’t you know it is taboo? As I am like this, I have never, ever tasted snails in my life. It is for the gods. They are the gods in some places here. If you wake up early in the morning during the rainy season, you will see them everywhere. We don’t pick them, we don’t eat them, we don’t sell them. Others who are not from here are not forbidden from eating them, but don’t be caught or reported,” she said.
According to the African Journal of Linguistics and Languages, Kwale, located in the northern part of Delta State, is home to the Ukwuani-speaking people of the state and the headquarters of Ndokwa West Local Government Area.
To further interrogate Ego’s claim, this reporter spoke to an older woman, said to be Ego’s aunt, who was frying garri in a large kitchen built with a mixture of mud and cement.
She paused upon hearing the word ‘snail’, and said, “Please, we don’t eat that here. Ego, you no tell am?”, signalling to her niece.
“It is forbidden. Some people worship it. If you kill it, you will have to go and meet the elders for cleansing. You should go and meet them and not wait for the worst to happen to you,” she said.
Our correspondent spent the rest of the day scanning restaurants in the area, and none had snails of any kind on their menus.
Snail-forbidden parts of Isoko Land
Isoko Mirror, a local newspaper in Delta State, reported in a 2019 article by Michael Ekokoruwe that land snails were a taboo in Isoko land.
Also, in Okpe Kingdom, still in Delta State, the land snail is venerated as a deity known as Egban.
Consuming snails is not only taboo, but transgressors reportedly face dire consequences such as continuous salivation, muteness, or even death. A dedicated cult exists to appease this deity and mitigate the repercussions for offenders.
‘Land snail’ is the common name for terrestrial gastropod molluscs that have shells.
Typical garden snails are usually safe to handle and are eventually eaten by many, but they are forbidden by a majority in some communities due to traditional beliefs and the significance attached to them.
For Ekokoruwe, not everyone finds the snail as a spirit animal pleasant, but it symbolises deep and powerful elements that can bring good tidings.
“This group of animals are often completely misunderstood and now endangered. At the same time, they are an example of how we are dealing with our environment.
“The starting point is, therefore, the immediate environment and the direct experience of the people. A snail’s body consists of five main parts: the head, the neck, the visceral hump, the tail, and the foot.
“The aesthetic appearance and diversity of snails stand in opposition to their very low popularity because of the traditional and customary beliefs of some communities in Isoko land.
“When people think about snails, many associate them with the endless fight against their seemingly invincible protection, owing to the popular traditional instinct of their use during wartime to prepare charms for protection,” he wrote.
He added that the relationship with this diverse group of animals is often reduced to one of invincible protection against enemies.
According to him, snails can cause feelings of disgust in many people due to tradition.
He wrote, “Many communities in Isoko, particularly Ozoro, in Isoko North Local Government Area of Delta State, believe that the snail protects against enemies because, during the war period, it was used by a female traditional doctor as a sacrifice to the gods of the land, known as ‘Odimodi,’ to protect the people from enemies.”
Fear of the unknown
The tradition and customary beliefs also emanated from the respect accorded to the snail because of its symbolic spiritual role in ensuring freedom from enemies during wartime. The snail is regarded as a sacred animal that must not be killed or eaten by indigenes.
According to elders of the land, if indigenes eat the snail knowingly, the repercussion is death, as the gods of the land will punish the person for desecrating the land and its sacred customs.
If a snail is found during the daytime by an indigene, it is shown disgust and respect, typically pushed away using an object. Even touching it attracts an evil curse, which, if not immediately cleansed through the use of a white cockerel, may lead to death.
The snail is forbidden by most indigenous people of the community, except for a few who are products of inter-tribal marriages.
Visitors and non-indigenes, however, are free to eat snails and may collect them for sale in other communities. But they must be picked only at night and taken out at odd hours.
Snails are not kept in homes and are also forbidden in Oleh, another community in Isoko South Local Government Area of Delta State. The animal is not sold in the market nor seen around the popular parts of the community.
According to elders, the snail was once used to express anger and insults—a sign of hatred. This eventually fostered a feeling of disgust towards snail consumption among indigenes, a sentiment passed down across generations.
The elders disclosed that during the war period, snails were used to treat wounds and injuries, particularly from gunshots and machete cuts, with immediate effect.
The importance and reverence for snails as animals that protect lives became intrinsically accepted, thus marking them as forbidden to indigenes. This created a prevailing belief that the snail is a sacred animal that once saved lives and must therefore not be eaten or sold by those from the community. Nonetheless, non-indigenes are allowed to eat and collect them for trade in other communities.
Most communities in Isoko North and South Local Government Areas forbid the eating of snails.
Similar reasons were cited in communities like Olomoro, Irri, and others, where elders explained that the snail was once used as a sacrifice to the god Odimodi for protection against enemies during wartime. For this reason, it cannot be killed or eaten.
Yet, in many other parts of Nigeria, the snail is a delicacy, highly prized due to its rich, collagen-heavy mucus, which some cosmetic firms now consider more valuable than gold.
Snail is a major dietary ingredient in many eateries and high-end malls. It is processed as meat and either sold on its own or added to soups, particularly vegetable soups.
The demand for snails in such areas has driven traders to the Isoko communities.
Private markets have sprung up where non-indigenes scout for snails at night and sell them discreetly at designated locations.
A small bag of snails sells between N46,000 and N68,000 due to their high market value. This demand has led to the rise of snail farms, with increased competition driven by both price and volume.
Favour Oghene, an Isoko indigene, said, “In some parts of Isoko land, eating snail as food does not kill, but the desecration and anticipated fear of the unknown, which the elders describe as inviting the wrath of the gods, constitutes danger and has therefore made it forbidden.”
She added that non-indigenes and some, mostly Christians, eat snails secretly. According to them, there are no consequences because they do not subscribe to the traditional customs or the perceived dangers tied to snail consumption.
Another indigene, Praise Ejiro Kisson, said her father never ate snail a single day in his life, but she enjoys eating it because she does not hold on to the traditional customs as strongly.
Idemili and the python goddess, Eke
In September 2018, Thankgod Jaja arrived in Idemili, Anambra State, for his mandatory National Youth Service Corps posting. A graduate of Microbiology from the University of Port Harcourt, Jaja had looked forward to spending a year in the South-East, learning a new language and teaching science to eager pupils. But nothing could have prepared him for the kind of cultural immersion that awaited, not merely of food, dress, or dialect, but something far more primordial.
His three-week orientation took place at the NYSC camp in Umuawulu/Mbaukwu, in Awka South Local Government Area, where the typical regimen of drills, lectures, and national integration activities unfolded under the searing sun.
Soon after, corps members were dispersed across Anambra State to their various places of primary assignment. Jaja was posted to a government secondary school in Umoji, a quiet community in Idemili North.
But during his first visit to the Local Government Secretariat, he was greeted with a jarring surprise.
“A representative of the Local Government Inspector came to brief us,” Jaja recalled, sitting upright, his voice tinged with the same disbelief he felt years earlier. “He looked serious, stern, like someone who had seen things.”
After delivering the usual warnings about safety and decorum, the official veered into an unexpected set of instructions.
“Please, always try to stay indoors at night. Lock your doors and windows. And don’t kill what you don’t know,” he warned.
“That was exactly how he said it, ‘Don’t kill what you don’t know,’” Jaja stressed, his eyes wide with incredulity.
Initially, the room of young graduates chuckled, assuming the advice was metaphorical, perhaps a warning about dangerous insects or unfamiliar plants. But the official pressed on.
“Even if you see a wall gecko or a lizard that makes you uncomfortable, just quietly move away. You’re not in your village,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.
The laughter faded.
As the briefing wound down, the man dropped what Jaja described as “the final bombshell.”
“He said that snakes, especially pythons, must not be harmed in any way. In fact, they are worshipped. He explained that if anyone killed a python in Idemili, they’d be required to give it a full burial, just like a human being. Sew burial clothes, buy a coffin, perform rites. I thought he was joking.”
But he wasn’t.
The official was referring to the sacred python deity of the Idemili people, known locally as Eke. In this part of southeastern Nigeria, the python is far more than a serpent. It is a spiritual embodiment, an earthly representation of the goddess Idemili herself. In traditional communities here, pythons slither freely through compounds, across footpaths, and even into homes, without harm. Elders often speak to them in respectful tones, asking them to turn back or bless the household. To harm one is to risk misfortune.
For Jaja, a native of Opobo in Rivers State, it was unthinkable.
“I knew instantly that there was no way I would survive in that place,” he said. “I hate snakes. I cannot stand them. I’m not just afraid, I’m angry that they exist. The idea that I might one day walk into a classroom and find a python curled up in the corner, and I would be expected to just walk away respectfully, it was too much.”
He pleaded for redeployment. But officials urged him to give it some time.
Desperate, Jaja refused to report to his assigned school. Instead, he checked into a guest house some distance away, hoping to figure out his next move.
“I was restless. I didn’t even unpack. At night, I would hear the wind rustle the leaves and panic, imagining that a snake had come,” he said. “For days, I lived in anxiety and dread. I knew I had to leave.”
“In Opobo, snakes are a menace. You see one, you kill it. Simple. I know we don’t allow dogs into our community, but letting pythons roam freely?” he scoffed.
Eventually, his redeployment was approved, allegedly after a financial inducement, and he was reassigned to the Ministry of Agriculture in Awka.
“Some of my friends who stayed behind said they saw pythons roaming freely, especially during the season of sacrifices,” he said.
Idemili: Where pythons rule
Arguably, the most renowned centre for python worship in Nigeria is Idemili, a town in Anambra State named after the Idemili River deity. In Igbo cosmology, Idemili is a powerful goddess associated with morality, protection, and purity. The python, believed to be her messenger, is therefore revered and protected.
“You don’t kill a python in Idemili,” said 71-year-old Chief Nwafor Okeke, a traditional priest in the town. “If it mistakenly enters your house, you gently help it back outside. Killing it is a taboo that brings curses.”
Pythons found dead are accorded full burial rites, complete with coffins, dirges, and funeral feasts.
It is a ritual spectacle that reinforces the community’s bond with the sacred animal and with their ancestry.
In 2019, BBC Pidgin ran a documentary on the Idemili python cult, highlighting the role of the traditional custodians and the deep reverence held for the snakes.
In it, villagers narrated how pythons were not only protected but often offered food and drink as acts of devotion.
Worshipped in other regions
While Idemili is the most prominent, other Nigerian communities also venerate serpents.
In Delta State, certain communities among the Urhobo people also consider snakes as reincarnations of ancestors.
In Edo State, some aspects of Esan folklore include tales of snake deities protecting families or villages from spiritual attacks.
Madam Izevbizua told our correspondent that snakes were revered in some of the villages in the area, adding that they were seen as goddesses of fertility and protection from evil.
In Oke-Ero, a local government area in Kwara State, some communities, including Idofin and Ayedun, celebrate festivals where masquerades invoke the spirit of snakes, especially during planting and harvest seasons.
“These beliefs are not just superstition,” said Ebunoluwa Akinlade, a cultural anthropologist. “They are part of complex religious systems that link the living, the dead, and the spiritual world. Snakes, especially pythons, symbolise continuity, rebirth, and divine protection.”
Living with serpents
Contrary to the popular fear of snakes, these communities have developed a cohabitative relationship with the reptiles. In Igbo communities like Ogidi and Nri, residents share stories of pythons slithering into homes without causing harm.
“One entered our compound last year during the rainy season,” said Ifeoma Eze, a trader in Ogidi. “My husband called the shrine, and a priest came and carried it away. We offered kolanut and poured libation. It was a blessing.”
A newlywed woman was said to have received several visits from the snake for her to move her things to her husband’s home.
These rituals are often passed down through generations, with shrines serving as centres of worship and education. Children are taught early never to harm snakes and to understand their spiritual symbolism.
Traditional worship and Christianity.
With the rise of Christianity and Islam, many of these traditional practices have come under pressure.
Churches in Idemili and other towns have held deliverance sessions for individuals accused of being “possessed” by the spirit of the python.
“Many young people are torn between the traditions of their forebears and the teachings of their faith,” said Chika Obi, a youth leader and Anglican church member in Idemili. “Some still participate quietly in shrine rituals but keep it hidden.”
Yet, the python cult remains resilient. Festivals such as the Igu Aro (calendar ritual) and Ofala still honour the sacred snake, albeit sometimes in more symbolic forms to avoid conflict with newer religious doctrines.
A pastor of the Assemblies of God in the area, who said he wanted to speak anonymously because of the sensitivity of the matter, said he had had to suspend several members for following such practices.
“If I catch any python in my church premises, I kill and bury it at once. I have no time for all that traditional nonsense. God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. If I get any of our members doing any of those fetish practices or partaking in those worships, I quickly ostracise them before they infect the rest of the congregation with demons,” he said.
Another pastor, Elvis Oko, of another well-known Pentecostal church in the area, shared similar beliefs.
“I will not go and start killing any python I see on the road, but if I find any in my home that I consider a threat, I kill and bury it and act like nothing has happened. There is a claim that the priestesses can see or feel when a python is killed. I don’t believe all that, please. I serve a God who is present and alive,” he added.
Legal protection and modern challenges
Interestingly, in places like Idemili, the python is protected not just by tradition but by local laws. It is illegal to harm or kill a python, and violators are subject to fines and compulsory rituals to cleanse the land.
However, modern development is threatening these beliefs. Urbanisation, deforestation, and increasing migration are disrupting the natural habitats of pythons. Younger generations, more influenced by social media and Western education, are growing indifferent to the traditions.
“We need to document and preserve these practices,” said Akinlade. “They are part of Nigeria’s intangible cultural heritage. Even if fewer people worship the snake, understanding why it was worshipped is key to understanding our history.”
A deeper meaning?
Why snakes? For many African spiritual systems, the snake embodies both danger and protection, fertility and death. Its ability to shed its skin is seen as a symbol of renewal. In the Dahomey religion of the Benin Republic (which shares cultural links with Nigeria), the rainbow serpent deity Dan is associated with cosmic balance.
In Yoruba mythology, the Oro cult sometimes incorporates serpent imagery in its rituals. In some Itsekiri communities, elders speak of sea serpents guiding fishermen or warning of impending danger.
“The snake is not evil,” Chief Okeke emphasised. “It is misunderstood. We see it as a bridge between the physical and spiritual worlds.”
Social media and digital revival
Interestingly, social media is playing an unexpected role in reviving interest. Instagram accounts such as @NaijaAncient and Twitter threads under hashtags like #AfricanSpirituality have begun showcasing these traditions.
In 2023, a viral TikTok video showed a python crawling across a market in Nnewi, with vendors respectfully making way. The caption read, “Idemili is passing.”
This digital visibility is creating a counter-narrative to decades of demonisation, allowing younger Nigerians to ask questions, learn, and even participate in cultural rituals once considered backward or fetish.
Ethical concerns
Not all is sacred, however. Some unscrupulous individuals have commercialised snake worship, charging tourists and spiritual seekers exorbitant fees for staged rituals. Others have been accused of using the guise of tradition to exploit vulnerable believers.
Traditional rulers and cultural custodians are therefore calling for self-regulation and transparency. “We must protect our heritage from abuse,” said Igwe Kenneth Okwuosa of Nnewi. “Sacred practices must not become profit-making schemes.”
This is why the governor of the state, Prof. Charles Soludo, has clamped down on several religious merchants who have turned traditional worship into business ventures, scamming many.
Respect for others’ customs and traditions
Respecting people’s customs, regardless of one’s religious affiliation, is crucial for fostering social cohesion in pluralistic societies. Traditions are often deeply rooted in the histories, cosmologies, and values of a people, and disregarding them can amount to an erasure of cultural identity.
An article by P. Nwosu in the African Journal of Indigenous Studies argues that indigenous practices in Nigeria, ranging from food taboos to animal reverence, are not merely superstition, but expressions of spiritual and communal order.
“Even when individuals adopt new religious worldviews, traditional beliefs often coexist or linger in cultural memory, guiding moral decisions and community life,” the scholar wrote.
Inter-religious and intercultural tolerance is especially important in countries like Nigeria, where ethnic and religious diversity are entwined with everyday life.
Adebayo and Ayantayo (2017), writing in the Journal of Religion and African Culture, contend that mutual respect between religious and traditional systems prevents conflict and deepens democratic coexistence.
“Respecting another’s tradition, even when it contradicts one’s faith, is not an act of compromise but a necessary ethic of shared humanity. It means recognising that sacredness can wear many faces, and that honouring the ‘other’ is part of what keeps a society whole,” they added.