Among my Igbo people in Nigeria, there is a saying: N’ezuo ka aha eri udele, atopu ngiga. “The true assembly begins only when everyone who belongs has arrived.”
Last month, I lived that proverb in the Saguenay region of Quebec, sitting among Innu, Naskapi, Atikamekw, and Cree elders. In the Innu Nation of Mashteuiatsh, at their annual gathering, the circle widened to include me. What unfolded was more than an event. It was a sacred moment of storytelling and memory-making, a homecoming of the spirit where ancestral drumbeats and African echoes converged.
Curiously, in their stories I heard the echoes of my own ancestors—those who once walked the red earth of Africa and those scattered across the Black Atlantic. It was more than a meeting. In that moment, I realized that we are only now beginning the true assembly—the one our ancestors, both African and Indigenous, have long awaited.
As a Missionary Oblate of Mary Immaculate, I recognize that the Saguenay carries a layered memory. On Oct. 15, 1844, four Missionary Oblates first entered this region to take over the Catholic mission among the Innu. For generations, these lands were shaped by encounters of various kings—many painful, often marked by misunderstanding and erasure. But when I came, I was not there to rehearse the missionary’s tale. I came to listen.
Listening is not passive. In Indigenous cultures, listening is a sacred act—a way of entering into the memory of the land and the wisdom of the elders. Sitting in a circle with Innu, Naskapi, Atikamekw, and Cree wisdom keepers, I was drawn into a silence where the Spirit speaks louder than words. The drumbeat at the heart of the gathering was not entertainment. It was a heartbeat, an ancestral reminder that every culture carries its own way of knowing the Creator.
Ancestral Echoes Across Continents
As I listened, I thought of my grandparents in Igboland, of evenings when stories were told under the gaze of the moon. I remembered how stories were not simply entertainment but lifelines, carriers of wisdom and resilience. I thought, too, of my ancestors who endured the Middle Passage, who lost their homeland but held on to dignity and song.
In the stories of the Innu, Naskapi, Atikamekw, and Cree, I heard a mirror of African resilience. In their reverence for the land, I recognized echoes of African spirituality, where the earth, water, and forest are not resources to be exploited, but relations to be honoured. It was as if the scattered fragments of our histories were coming together again, weaving a fabric of survival and hope.
In that moment, one truth became clear: the Gospel does not arrive to erase anyone’s identity. It reveals how the Creator has always been speaking through every culture’s sacred story. This is a lesson the Church must continue to learn. Too often, evangelization has been confused with cultural domination. But the Gospel’s true power lies in its ability to meet people where they are, to reveal Christ not as a stranger but as the fulfillment of what their ancestors already knew.
The Innu, Naskapi, Atikamekw, and Cree do not need a “new faith” imposed upon them. They invite us to recognize how God has long been dwelling among them—in their songs, in their ceremonies, in their deep relationship with the land. And when we see that, we find a more human and more catholic Gospel—one that honours the dignity of every people.
A Communion of Memory and Hope
One Sunday morning, during a sacred meal, we shared bannock in a sacred circle around the altar. It was not a Eucharist, yet it carried the same sacramental weight. My ancestors would have understood that moment. They would have recognized holiness in the simple act of eating together, in the honouring of elders, in the rhythm of the drum.
That meal became for me a vision of what the Church could be: not a force of erasure, but a family that welcomes every culture’s gift, every people’s story. The Second Vatican Council spoke of active participation in the liturgy. Perhaps our task now is to learn what active participation in culture means—honouring not only the universal but also the particular, not only the past but also the possibilities of the future.
This encounter is not only about memory. It is also about mission. If the Church is to be credible in the 21st century, it must be a community of reconciliation, where Indigenous, African, and diasporic voices move from the margins to the very center. Pope Francis, in “Laudato Si,” reminds us that “everything is connected.” In these gatherings, I saw that connection come alive. Environmental justice, cultural survival, and the Gospel are not separate conversations; they are interconnected. They converge in the recognition that to wound the land is to wound the people, and to wound the people is to wound the Body of Christ.
For Africa and its diaspora, this insight is urgent. The same extractive industries devastating Indigenous lands in Canada also devastate African soil. The same colonial legacies that silenced Indigenous voices once silenced ours. But when we stand together, the story changes. We become allies in a common struggle for dignity, justice, and hope.
The Proverb Made Flesh
Ezuo ka aha eri udele. “When everyone has arrived, the assembly can begin.”
In Saguenay, I witnessed this truth. Elders and youth, Indigenous and African, settlers and newcomers. When all voices are present, something sacred begins. The Church, too, must learn this rhythm. It must remember that synodality—journeying together—is not about efficiency but about fullness. It is about waiting until every voice is heard before moving forward.
In North America, African ancestral voices have not been heard enough. The voices that accompanied our ancestors during years of struggling in these lands have not been heeded enough among the Catholic Church’s synodal gathering. Our spiritual legacies have yet to flourish on this Turtle Island.
Far from a simple visit, my recent sojourn among the Indigenous elders was a homecoming of the spirit. It was a reminder that when we gather all who belong, when we honour the drumbeat of every ancestor, we begin the real assembly. And in that assembly, we discover who we are: more fully human, more deeply connected, and more alive in the Creator’s embrace.
The drumbeat is calling. The ancestors are waiting. The assembly has begun.
Fr Nnaemeka Ali, OMI was born and raised in Eastern Nigeria and is a doctoral student at Saint Paul University in Ottawa. He has over seven years of missionary experience with the Innu in Quebec. His research focuses on postcolonial identity, Indigenous spirituality, and decolonial theology. He also teaches part-time and works as a research assistant at the university’s Centre on Churches and Truth and Reconciliation with Indigenous Peoples.
