I watched my grandfather split open a kola nut with his bare hands, and for a moment, I thought it was magic. The nut cracked open effortlessly, revealing the pale lobes inside. He caught my curious stare and chuckled.

In the Limpopo province of South Africa, the Balobedu people hold a centuries-old belief in the power of rainmakers. At the center of their tradition is the Rain Queen, Modjadji, a mystical figure whose lineage dates back to the 16th century. Unlike most African monarchs, the Rain Queen does not rule through war or political alliances. Her power comes from the skies. She is believed to possess the ability to summon rain.

I looked at my grandmother’s face one evening and I must have stared for so long because she shouted “What?!” at me. But I was just intrigued at the marks that lined her face. And so I asked, “Did your parents not love you? Is that why they cut your face?” The room became silent. No one had ever asked her about the several black marks against her fair skin, or the blackness of her lower lip. She was the most marked person I knew, with long lines and swirls running down her arms and down her legs.

For centuries, the way Africans dressed was a reflection of their environment, beliefs, and status. Kings and scholars alike were adorned in woven fabrics of gold-threaded cotton, while skilled artisans dyed clothes in pits that were renowned across the Mediterranean. Fashion was never just about covering the body—it was a statement of identity, craftsmanship, and culture.

The first time I attended the Osun Festival, I was eight years old. I had traveled to Osogbo to spend the long holidays with my Aunty Adeola, who had a way of taking me on adventures, so she was my favorite family member to spend the holidays with. She told me one morning that we had an outing to attend.