How Alágas are building careers from culture
At Yoruba traditional weddings, the Alága’s voice does more than direct ceremonies—it preserves heritage, negotiates identity and animates culture. Now, this once-inherited role is evolving into a thriving profession, as
At Yoruba traditional weddings, the Alága’s voice does more than direct ceremonies—it preserves heritage, negotiates identity and animates culture. Now, this once-inherited role is evolving into a thriving profession, as practitioners transform tradition into structured careers, blending performance, enterprise and cultural stewardship in a modern, opportunity-driven landscape, report Associate Editor ADEKUNLE YUSUF and OLAITAN GANIU
The first sound is not the talking drum, nor the chorus of women rising in greeting—it is laughter. Warm, knowing, contagious. It ripples through the hall as the Alága, draped in aso-oke and authority, steps into the centre, her voice weaving humour with history, performance with protocol. In that moment, she is more than a master of ceremonies; she is memory in motion.
At a typical Ìgbéyàwó, where families converge not just to unite a couple but to reaffirm lineage and identity, the Alága stands as both gatekeeper and guide. With quick wit and practised precision, she calls the room to order, negotiates rituals, and orchestrates the delicate dance between two families who are, for the first time, becoming one. Every chant, every playful demand, every proverb carries the weight of generations.
But beyond the spectacle lies a quieter transformation—one that speaks to enterprise, reinvention, and the economics of culture. What was once an inherited role, passed down through matriarchs steeped in tradition, is now evolving into a structured, income-generating profession. Today’s Alága is as likely to hold a microphone as she is to hold a brand identity, navigating bookings, social media visibility, and client expectations with the same dexterity she applies to cultural rites.
The dual roles of the Alaga Ìdúró and the Alaga Ìjókòó remain intact—anchored in symbolism and respect. Yet, in a rapidly modernising society, these custodians of custom are redefining what it means to preserve heritage. They are not merely sustaining tradition; they are professionalising it, packaging it, and, in the process, building livelihoods around it.
This is the story of how culture, once confined to communal obligation, is being reimagined as a viable career path—where passion meets performance, and heritage becomes both identity and industry.
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Alágas as guardians of tradition
In Yoruba cosmology, tradition is not preserved in books alone; it is performed, negotiated, and lived. At the heart of this living archive stands the Alága—an embodiment of cultural authority whose presence transforms a wedding from a social gathering into a deeply symbolic rite of passage. The role, as structured within the framework of Ìgbéyàwó, is deliberately dual. The Alaga Ìdúró speaks for the groom’s family, often standing—both literally and symbolically—as their advocate, emissary, and sometimes, playful negotiator. Opposite her is the Alaga Ìjókòó, seated with composure, embodying the authority and dignity of the bride’s lineage. Together, they choreograph a ritual dialogue that is as theatrical as it is sacred.
Their responsibilities extend far beyond announcing proceedings. The Alága mediates the intricate protocols that define the ceremony—guiding the groom’s family through the formal introduction, supervising the presentation of the Eru Iyawo, and ensuring the symbolic offering of Owo Ori is conducted with the appropriate reverence. Each step is laden with meaning, and any misstep could dilute the cultural essence of the occasion. It is the Alága who ensures that does not happen.
Yet, what distinguishes the Alága is not just mastery of ritual, but the art of delivery. Through songs, proverbs, chants, and improvisational wit, she sustains engagement while subtly reinforcing values—respect for elders, the sanctity of marriage, and the merging of families. Her voice carries authority, but also warmth; her humour disarms, even as it instructs. “The Alága is the voice of tradition and culture. We are to preserve African heritage,” said Azeez Olabisi, whose rising profile reflects the profession’s growing relevance. “In a country where millions of youth are searching for a white-collar job, the Alága profession stands as a custodian of our culture.”
That custodianship, increasingly, is intersecting with opportunity. What was once an informal, community-based role has evolved into a structured vocation, complete with branding, training, and competitive demand. Today’s Alága is not only versed in tradition but also in performance management—understanding audience dynamics, client expectations, and even digital visibility. This evolution does not dilute the essence of the role; if anything, it amplifies its reach. By professionalising their craft, Alágas are ensuring that Yoruba traditions remain not just relevant, but desirable—particularly among younger generations navigating the tensions between modernity and identity. In this delicate balance between preservation and reinvention, the Alága remains unwavering—a guardian of tradition, now stepping confidently into the realm of enterprise, where culture is not only protected but purposefully projected into the future.
Training the next generation of Alágas
For generations, the authority of the Alága was rooted in lineage, age, and lived experience—an unwritten apprenticeship shaped in family compounds and community gatherings. It was a role absorbed over time, not formally taught; inherited, not institutionalised. Elderly women, steeped in the nuances of Ìgbéyàwó, carried the responsibility with an almost sacerdotal reverence, transmitting knowledge through observation, repetition, and memory.
That model, however, is undergoing a decisive shift. Across urban centres such as Lagos and Ibadan, a new ecosystem is emerging—one that reframes the Alága tradition as a structured profession rather than a hereditary calling. Training academies are beginning to codify what was once fluid, transforming cultural intuition into teachable modules and performance into a marketable skillset.
At the forefront of this transition is Azeez Olabisi, founder of the BGold Alaga Academy. Her intervention is both practical and symbolic: an attempt to formalise a cultural role without stripping it of its authenticity. “What was once a traditional role is now a professional skill. You can learn it, refine it, and build a career from it,” she said, articulating a philosophy that mirrors broader shifts within Nigeria’s informal economy.
Though the academy has operated informally for over five years—mentoring aspiring practitioners through ad hoc sessions—it is now transitioning into a fully structured institution. Its first official intake marks a significant milestone, signalling the codification of a role that has long resisted formal boundaries. “We’ve been tutoring students for years, but this year marks our first formal admission,” Olabisi explained. A graduate of The Polytechnic Ibadan, she brings both academic grounding and cultural fluency to the initiative. “We currently have ongoing training, and one set of students just graduated.”
The programme, scheduled to commence on May 1, adopts a hybrid model—blending virtual instruction with in-person rehearsals across Lagos, Ibadan, and Ogun State. This dual approach reflects an awareness of contemporary learning dynamics while preserving the tactile, performative aspects of the craft. “Our training is practical,” Olabisi noted. “We teach event planning, stage presentation, cultural protocols, and even the use of musical instruments. We also revisit online lessons during physical sessions to ensure mastery.”
The curriculum is deliberately expansive. Beyond mastering chants and ceremonial dialogue, trainees are exposed to the mechanics of event coordination, audience engagement, and cross-cultural adaptability. The beginner class includes a one-year internship, structured mentorship, and integration into a professional network—elements typically associated with formal industries rather than traditional roles.
Crucially, participants are prepared to navigate diverse contexts, including Christian and Muslim weddings, as well as inter-ethnic ceremonies. This adaptability underscores a key evolution: the Alága is no longer confined to a singular cultural script but is increasingly positioned as a versatile cultural consultant. This professionalisation is unfolding against a broader socio-economic backdrop. In a country grappling with high youth unemployment and limited access to formal job opportunities, the emergence of the Alága as a viable career path is both timely and consequential. It offers an alternative economic model—one that leverages cultural capital as a source of income and identity.
Demand, notably, is not in short supply. As Nigerian families invest more heavily in elaborate and curated wedding experiences, the need for skilled cultural anchors has intensified. The modern wedding is no longer a modest family affair; it is a production—meticulously planned, aesthetically driven, and often amplified through social media. Within this ecosystem, the Alága occupies a central role. “I get booked almost every week,” Olabisi said. “Not just in Lagos, I travel to Abuja, Lokoja, Benin, Port Harcourt and other states. The opportunities are there.”
Her experience reflects a broader trend: geographic mobility and service diversification. Today’s practitioners are expanding beyond ceremony anchoring into adjacent services—offering consultation on wedding planning, drafting formal family correspondence, and even reimagining the presentation of traditional elements such as the Eru Iyawo into more refined, contemporary formats. This expansion signals a subtle but important shift—from performer to entrepreneur. “In Nigeria today, you can’t sit and wait for white-collar jobs. You have to create your own path,” Olabisi asserted.
In that assertion lies the essence of this transformation. The Alága, once defined by inheritance, is now being shaped by intention, training, and enterprise. Tradition is no longer merely preserved; it is being systematised, scaled, and strategically deployed. What emerges, then, is not a dilution of culture, but its recalibration—where ancestral knowledge meets modern structure, and where the guardians of tradition are, increasingly, architects of opportunity.
Passion over profit
For all its growing visibility and commercial promise, practitioners insist that the Alága profession is not a quick path to wealth but a discipline anchored in passion. Azeez Olabisi recalls her early days with candour. “If I joined this industry because of money, I would have quit the day I was paid N3,900 for a full day’s job,” she said. That experience, she noted, underscores a critical truth: longevity in the craft is driven less by immediate financial reward and more by commitment to cultural expression.
According to her, passion is the differentiator between those who endure and those who fade out. “In this industry, passion is everything. If you don’t genuinely love it, don’t bother. Some people think it’s a quick way to make money, but that mindset is wrong,” she added. While the profession can indeed become lucrative with experience and visibility, it demands rigorous training, consistency, and a high level of professionalism. She is quick to dispel a common misconception—that success as an Alága depends solely on humour or theatrics. “You don’t have to be overly funny or an entertainer. Once you master the craft and package yourself well, you can succeed.”
Even as the role remains rooted in Ìgbéyàwó, its reach is expanding. Modern practitioners increasingly navigate inter-tribal and interfaith weddings, bridging cultural divides with adaptability and linguistic dexterity. “I’ve anchored weddings between Igbo and Yoruba families,” Olabisi said. Communication, she explained, often blends English, Nigerian Pidgin, and interpreters to ensure clarity and inclusion. However, the profession’s rising demand has also exposed vulnerabilities. The influx of untrained entrants—often described as quacks—has raised concerns about declining standards. “Some people just show up at events and demand money without understanding the procedures,” she warned.
To safeguard the integrity of the craft, stakeholders are pushing for formal structures—training, certification, and professional accreditation. “Going forward, if you cannot trace your training to a recognised academy, you won’t be considered a professional,” Olabisi stressed, reinforcing the urgent need for accountability in a rapidly evolving cultural industry.
