There is one fascinating question that arises out of the contemplation of mud sculpture. Why should anybody use unbaked mud, the most perishable of materials? Is it because no other material is readily available? The question is not easy to answer definitely. Mud, is, of course, the cheapest and most readily available material. Yet there is ample proof that mud is not used merely because it is easy to get hold of and cheap. Many Igbo Mbari houses are the only buildings in the village that have an imported corrugated iron roof – which prove that the people who built them shun no cost to make them look important. In all the areas where I have seen mud sculpture, wood carving and brass casting are also known and practiced. In Yoruba country, stone is also used as a medium for sculpture.
One important thing to realize is that different materials are not necessarily used because they have lasting, durable qualities. In Yoruba country today, brass can only be used by Oshun or Ogboni worshippers. Ivory can only be used by Obatala worshippers, copper by Sonponna, iron by Ogun and so on.
Materials are used for their mystic properties of absorbing or repelling human radiation. The Obatala worshippers used Ivory as protection, in the sense that it is protecting him from the destructive psychic influences of a man whose mentality is basically different or opposed to his. Similarly Oshun worshippers uses brass figure in their shrines – not because brass last longer than wood, but because brass possesses certain magical qualities that are sacred to Oshun.
It is not difficult to understand why mud is considered the appropriate medium for Ala (the Igbo earth goddess). Olokun (the Bini god of the ocean), or Legba (originally an earthgod of the Fon). The fact that the material is perishable and sometimes does not even last five years does not enter into the consideration. One does not interfere with the natural life of a carving. When it perishes, a new one simply has to be made.

  No journey can be quite soothing as a voyage on the Nile from Cairo to Philae. Day after day as you sails upstream nothing in the general pattern changes. Tonight’s incredibly bright stars are the same as last night’s and tomorrow’s. Each new bend in the river discloses the same buffalo circling his waterwheel, the same pigeon-lofts on the houses, the same dark Egyptian faces swathed in white.
The banks are surprisingly green, a patchwork of rice fields and sugarcane, of palms and eucalyptus, and then beyond them, like a frame set around a picture; one sees the desert and the hills. There is always s a movement somewhere, but it is of a gentle, ambulatory, kind and one feels oneself going along in a rhythm with the processions of camels and donkeys on the bank, and the feluccas gliding by, and the buffalo, released at last from his wheel, sliding to the blessed coolness of the water in the evening. Occasionally a whiff of humanity comes out from the mud-hut villages on the shore, and it contains traces of the smoke of cooking forest, of dried cow-dung and of Turkish coffee, of some sweet and heavy scent, jasmine perhaps, and of water sprinkled on the dust. It is not unpleasant.
Lying on deck, one idly observes the flight of birds, one dream one lets the hours go by, and nothing can be more satisfying than the sight of the brown pillars of a ruined temple that has been standing alone on the edge of the desert for the last two thousand years. This is the past joining the present in a comfortably deceptive glow, and the traveller, like a spectator in a theater, remains detached from the both, he would not for the world live in the dust and squalor of these villages he finds so picturesque, and the ancient ruins he has come to see do not really evoke the early civilization of the Egyptians.