Opinion
Pounding yams on stubborn bald heads
Pounding yams on stubborn bald heads
Tunde Odesola
(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, June 6, 2025)
Jonathan Love and Taylor Steele are Americans. They are also my buddies at work. Jonathan is black; Taylor is white. The three of us could have perished in a ghastly auto accident on the morning of Tuesday, June 3, 2025, with me behind the wheel. “I need a dip, soda and sausage biscuit,” Taylor said with the expectation of a farmer on a rainy day. “I need soda and a sausage biscuit,” Jonathan stated assuredly like a pilot on a fine-weather day. So, I pulled off the highway into a gas station, and the two hopped out like students returning to school after a long holiday.
Drenching sugar, dripping salt and embalming preservatives; oh, how I dislike fast foods! The US, statistics say, devours more sugar than any other nation on God’s spinning earth. Rather than eat fast food, I’ll snack on rat neutraliser – I don’t want to say poison. I mean, I prefer home-made meals, anytime.
While Jonathan and Taylor were gone, I reached for my phone and entered the fray of modern distraction – Facebook, the ‘bolekaja’ of social media. ‘Bolekaja’ is a Yoruba slang for ‘alight, let’s fight’ – a fitting name for a platform whose oxygen is argument.
None of the drama in the ‘Bolekaja’ was interesting, so I migrated to WhatsApp. WhatsApp is the ‘Face Me–I–Slap You’ apartment of social media, where you’re safe in your room, but the moment you step out to mingle, you could be hit by anything.
A banker friend in the UK, Adeola Ojo, had sent me some skits on WhatsApp. I was watching one of the skits when Taylor opened the passenger door and sat beside me in the front while we waited for Jonathan. Taylor is in the habit of peeking at people’s phones, but I don’t mind. Mouth-watering Nigerian foods were on parade in the skit I was watching when Taylor got in the car. Some of the sumptuous meals being scooped into colourful plates came with orisirisi combinations: amala, gbegiri and ewedu swirling like a brown-and-green river; edika ikong cuddling fufu; eba serenading afang; moin moin hugging eko; cocoyam blessing bitterleaf soup; semo in tête-à-tête with oha; and ikokore – the secret of wateryam discovered by the Ijebu, rich and irresistible…while Taylor peeped away at my phone.
Then the wooden spoon scooped three large portions of snow-white pounded yam into a bowl, and Taylor, mouth ajar and mind afar, shouted, “Oh! Ice cream!” Yes, he screamed. If I were on the highway when he said that, only mercy could have sent us back to the land of the living from the gates of heaven.
Thank God we three got back to work in one piece. Thank God none of us took temporary accommodation in the morgue, pending autopsy, en route to burial. Thank God, no one was injured. Thank God! Thank God!
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Taylor asked me why I was reeling with laughter, I couldn’t explain to him because he would not understand; yam is not an American staple. So, how would he understand pounded yam? I just laughed and laughed for it was the only thing I could do; oro buruku tohun, terin – gloom accommodates laughter. Since I was a kid, I had learnt that when yam transmutes, it becomes pounded yam – isu parada, o d’iyan; but here I am, America is teaching me something different.
When one arrives at work, one must work: ti a ba de ibi ise, a ma n se ni, says a wise saying from my roots. In African culture, labour is sacred, it’s not just a meal ticket. Be you a farmer, hunter, fisherman, weaver, herbalist – no matter the work you do, there’s dignity in your labour.
But there are some jobs I can never, ever do. The topmost of such jobs is the work of Abobaku – the one who is buried with the king. I cannot come and die with any king o. Ah! Lai, lai! The Abobaku concept espoused in yesteryear Yoruba culture leans more on class manipulation and superiority complex than preservation of cosmic balance.
In “Death and the King’s Horseman,” Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka, explores the themes of death, betrayal, cultural identity, duty, colonialism, disruption, metaphysics, etc when Elesin – the Abobaku in the play – refuses to be buried with the king.
Sadly, the royal manipulation of ancient times has transmogrified into political and religious manipulation today, with many political zombies dying for their godfathers and spiritual fathers. This is evident in the way millions of PSP – Poverty-Stricken People – stupidly support some politicians whose actions have worsened poverty in the land. It also accounts for why some religious leaders would sell bulletproof vests to their adherents while the Papas and Mamas go about in bulletproof vehicles.
I’m yet to find a description worse than national shame the manner the Bola Tinubu administration celebrated the mouthed completion of 30 kilometers of the 750km Lagos-Calabar coastal highway. Adults who dance on the streets, celebrating four percent as a pass mark, should be chained to the iroko tree, lest they stray into the market.
Religious manipulation has produced a multitude of fake pastors like David Ibiyeo-Money and Jeremiah Funfeyin, Idabosky, etc as well as their Muslim counterparts, who preach exploitative doctrines to yoke their gullible followers with fear and guilt, making them part with their money easily.
Another job I can never do, even if it pays $10m per month is the job of an ìwèfà . In ancient Yoruba times, an ìwèfà was the young male who catered to the needs of the king’s harem. To forestall cross-pollination and pollution of the blue bloodline, the ìwèfà is castrated. Slaves were mostly picked for this job. The ìwèfà is preserved to preserve the king’s pleasure. He’s the cockless cock that craves the corn in a bottle.
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Moses saw the Promised Land, but he didn’t enter it with the Israelites. May that not be our portion. I can never take up the job of security official during football matches, backing the field of play while action is ongoing, and watching whether some delirious fan is going to run onto the field. In the UEFA Champions League final played at the Munich Football Arena, Munich, Germany, between PSG and Inter Milan, many stadium security officials backed the pitch and watched the fans to ensure crowd control. To back the field and watch jubilating fans celebrating or mourning the 5-0 worsting of Inter by a merciless PSG side was to suffer a fate similar to that of an ìwèfà.
There are three jobs I covet. I’ve been praying to God to give me the three jobs at the same time. The first is the job of Alhaji Abdullahi Ganduje, the hardworking national chairman of the All Progressives Congress. When I get the job, I’ll be doing absolutely nothing but just busy myself with sewing many starched agbada with pockets large enough to stuff dollars and an elephant.
The second job is that of the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, Nyesom Wike. In the office, I will be croaking and causing wahala in my state, Osun, trampling on the skulls and limbs of the living and the dead, like a crazed cow in a china shop. So simple.
The third job is by no means easier than the first two. It’s the job of the Governor of Osun State, currently held by Asiwaju Jackson Nurudeen Ademola Adeleke. On the job, I’ll work hard, eat, sleep and dance to every sound like ikoto, the spinning toy, which staggers left and right, struggling hard to stay upright by itself without support. I’ll change my first name to Ajobiewe.
But there’s one job I’m unqualified to take because of my ancestry. It’s the job of the King of Iwo. However, I dare to say I’m not a US ex-convict like the present occupier of the stool, Oba Abdulrasheed Adekanbi. If I were the Oluwo, I wouldn’t have opened my mouth to tell the world that I wish to be called the Alaafin of Iwo because I know the title of the Alaafin was only a nickname that eventually became the main name. The actual title of the ruler of Oyo was Oloyo of Oyo, according to world-renowned Ifa scholar and priest, Chief Ifayemi Elebuibon.
In a telephone interview with me, Elebuibon said, “The name of the ruler of Oyo in ancient times was Olóyo Òrò-mòko (the powerful owner of Oyo Òrò who drinks pap) or Oba Eleyo Ajori Aje Olu Eni Gbara (the king who eats choice dishes cooked with shea butter).”
If I were the Oluwo, I would be content with my title, Oluwo, which means the god or lord of Iwo (Oluwa Iwo), instead of seeking the title, Alaafin, whose literal meaning – owner of a palace – is not as powerful as Oluwo.
Also, I will not rant in a viral video that Iwo was never under Ibadan when Ibadan had a standing army that defended Yoruba land, which included Iwo, against Fulani incursion. If I were the Oluwo, I’d keep my mouth shut and not belch when needless.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
X: @Tunde_Odesola
Pounding yams on stubborn bald heads
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Opinion
Driving 756km to watch soccer god, Messi
Driving 756km to watch soccer god, Messi
Tunde Odesola
(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, June 12, 2026)
Cool fire emits from the potted plant in the backyard at night; it is the glowworm. A yawn, roll on the back, with four powerful paws playfully punching the air; it is the lion, king of the jungle. Water gently hits the shore, sings a splash-splosh song, and rolls back silently into the night; it is the ocean. Formally called Aurea, an eagle, America’s symbol of strength, freedom and resilience, soars up above the 88,000 heads gathered at the Jordan-Hare Stadium in Auburn, Alabama, gliding in and out of sight repeatedly, to the wild ecstacy of the crowd, before finally perching right on the kick-off spot in the centre-circle. Fireworks disappeared into the sky. The four natural elements – fire, land, air and water – are complete. They combine in equal proportions to forge the extraordinary spectacle fans are about to witness as they scream for the football messiah, the magic, the Messi.
About a month ago, when I learned that the god of soccer was leading Argentina to Auburn University for a friendly against Iceland national team on Tuesday, June 9, 2026, I knew none of the four elements could stop me from watching the match. I had long looked forward to an opportunity to pay yet another glowing tribute to the little man who climbed to football’s Olympus without exhibiting the arrogance of gods. Messi, the king who lives in his people, not among his people – like Nigerian leaders who live in abundance among the poor.
So, I got tickets for my soccer-loving children and me. How many are they? Ssshhhh! The Yoruba say: “Aí kọmọ fún ọlọ́mọ.” It’s a taboo to mention the number of one’s children publicly. Hahaha! Maybe that’s why population control is a big issue in Africa. So, I took two days off work. The 756-kilometre journey to and from Auburn is approximately eight hours. When citizens are happy, they gladly obey the laws of the land. Messi fans from far and near stopped at nothing to behold their king.
Messi earned the hero-worship of his fans, who saw him over the years dedicate his entire being to football, from age four when he joined his first local club, Albanderado Grandoli, in his hometown of Rosario, where his father was the coach. Commitment, consistency and dedication earn trust, love and loyalty. Nigeria teaches the opposite lesson daily.
Therefore, if I describe Messi as: “The extra drop of sweat on the farmer’s brow. The extra stroke of the sculptor’s chisel. The extra mile walked by the determined soul. Indeed, the little excess of effort poured into the chores of everyday life, crowning the ordinary with the diadem of the extraordinary,” I am not wrong. That is Messi, the leader who worked his way into the hearts of his people. The king who stopped to conquer.
The king is coming to town! The news caught fire. Leo, the son of Messi, is coming to town!! Everywhere is buzzing!!! Everyone waits with bated breath to see “the little man from Rosario, Sante Fe, who pitched up in heaven, climbed into a galaxy of his own, and shook hands with paradise, as he lifted his heart’s dearest desire, the World Cup, four years ago”.
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The journey to Auburn was on a smooth black road. Driving was a pleasure; no potholes, no police tollgates, or army arm-twisting checkpoints, no dirt, no fear of bandits or terrorists or armed robbers. My car ate up kilometres upon kilometres of tar, and suddenly I saw a little object drop from the open truck in front of me. It was a metal that looked like a padlock. The vehicle sped ahead, but its dropping sped towards me. In that arresting moment when all there was to do was to simply look, I heard a thud on my windshield, less than an inch above the wiper on the passenger side. The hit left an impact that looked like a bullet was trying to get in. It was an impact without an opening, like congealed blood covering a stab, leaving some lines of cracks.
The driver in the offending vehicle did not know a thing. It wasn’t his fault. It was an accident. My car had no camera. I can’t put it on him, though I saw the metal drop from his vehicle. If he denies the metal, I lose. How do I even begin to look for the metal? What if he owns up and says sorry? I won’t be able to bring myself to have him repair my car. I pondered all these thoughts. I let them slide and came to the conclusion that God was the ultimate protector, no matter what man does. Remember, I told you nothing was going to stop me from watching Messi, even if the whole of my windscreen shattered.
So, I journeyed on. My children did not drive with me. They drove in another car because we took off from different points. We talked intermittently along the way. They asked me for my Estimated Time of Arrival (ETA). I was six minutes ahead of them. Then my fuel signal went up. I veered into the next exit, thinking it led to a town. Behold, it was a link to another highway, with no gas station in sight. Quickly, I traced my way back to the Auburn highway and continued my journey. Shortly, I sighted a filling station. I drove in, relieved to find fuel and a place to take a leak. In less than two minutes, my children pulled up into the gas station as though they were monitoring me. Hugs. Pleasantries. Fuel. We all headed towards the temple to see Messi.
Auburn had never witnessed a mammoth crowd in its existence. It was like a pilgrimage. All the parks were filled. Federal cops, state cops, county cops and Auburn University security officials were on hand. All matted into the crowd in an unintimidating, but friendly way that exuded safety and service. The police matted into the crowd like ushers in a carnival, not bouncers in a concert.
Auburn University brimmed. Car parks were filled up, fans parked along the road in a single file, leaving a portion of the road for police, emergency services, etc. Thousands, including yours truly, parked far away from the stadium and embarked on an inevitable trek on the sidewalk. The last time I had a road walk in Nigeria was for one protest or another. But this walk was for pleasure, not pain. There was joy in the air. Vendors made quick money selling only one jersey, the Number 10 jersey of Messi. There was food, soda and beer for sale.
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Though I am a Jerusalem pilgrim, JP for short, it was Auburn that gave me a glimpse of the massive crowd that followed Jesus Christ when he preached during his 33 years of existence in a mortal body. Curiosity didn’t kill my cat, but being a journalist, I looked out for a squabble, altercation, or fight among the crowd; I found none. Everything seemed choreographed. Perfect. I trekked along with the crowd to Gate 16, where my children were waiting for me.
The game was billed to start by 7:30 pm, but, America being the summit of razzmatazz, there was so much fun lined up before the kick-off, with the crowd yelling and yelling nonstop. From outside the stadium, I thought the game had begun, only to discover that the players had not even filed out when I got into the stadium. America for show!
Soon, each team filed out; Argentina, without their little god. Nicolas Otamendi led Argentina out. The centre referee had a word with both captains, and the match got underway. For those expecting a drubbing, Iceland were third behind France and Ukraine in their World Cup qualifying group. And against the run of play, the first big chance of the game fell to Iceland, whose striker fluffed his lines in the fifth minute.
Argentina soon pegged Iceland back and took dominance, resulting in a ninth-minute left volley by Valentín Barco to score the opening goal from just outside the box. Then the song ‘Olé, Olé, Olé,’ rent the air. What is ‘Olè’? ‘Olè’ is a thief in the Yoruba language. In Spanish, however, ‘Olé’ means bravo or encore. La Albiceleste were dominating, and the partisan crowd were enjoying it. Before the half-hour mark, the crowd began to chant, “We want Messi.” Then the camera zoomed in on the small but mighty god on the bench, chatting with teammates. Fans went mad and started chanting “Messi, Messi, Messi”.
Argentina continued their dominance in the second half, but the Icelanders made up for their blunt attack by exhibiting tactical discipline in the midfield and defence. When Coach Scaloni made a couple of changes after the hour mark, the “We want Messi” chant boomed in the stadium. But Scaloni wasn’t going to bring on the GOAT simply because the fans were calling on him to do so. Messi had suffered muscle fatigue in his last match for Inter Miami, his club team in the MLS, and was subbed off.
So, Scaloni was going to introduce his most prized jewel with utmost caution, measuring the minutes and seconds Messi was going to play, because on Messi’s shoulders rests the hope of the Argentinian team to the FIFA World Cup, starting the next day. At the 67th minute, Argentina had a free kick right outside of Iceland’s 18-yard box. The free kick was in an area of the pitch fans worldwide call the ‘Messi area’. The spectators yelled for Messi, who was already warming up. They wanted him to come and do his thing.
But Scaloni was not to be hurried. He brought Messi on in the 70th minute, and the match came alive immediately. The attack became sharp and penetrating. Five minutes after he came on, Messi, crowded outside the centre-circle, gave a defence-splitting pass to Lautaro Martinez, who was brought down by goalkeeper Elías Rafn Ólafsson. Penalty!
Messi placed the ball on the spot, stood back, looked Ólafsson in the eye, and sent the ball through the middle, as the keeper went the wrong way. 2-0. Aside from the “Messi” chants, fans also performed ‘The Wave’ for their soccer idol. To perform this iconic crowd movement, adjacent groups of fans stand, raise their arms, and sit back down in quick succession, creating a visual effect of a rolling wave travelling continuously through the stands.
‘The Wave’ first emerged in North American sports arenas, such as at U.S. baseball and American football games in the late 1970s and 1980s, gaining global popularity during the 1986 World Cup in Mexico.
The fans were not done yet. As if on a cue, they switched on the lights of their phones, jumping and singing and chanting the name of the GOAT.
I’m sure Messi won thousands of converts that day. I mean spectators who were not primarily soccer-loving, but who came in company with soccer-loving fans. My children were formerly Ronaldo fans, but they couldn’t help jumping and yelling for the king when they saw him in his majesty.
In all the merriment, there was no ‘bigmanism’, no VIPs. Asians, blacks, whites, Latinos, Arabs, Jews, etc dissolved into one humanity. There was no siren, no pushing or shoving, everyone was equal. No unemployed youths were stamping their feet on the ground, hands up in the air, in total submission, for a few crispy currencies from the rich.
Everyone knows that if they misbehave, they won’t be sleeping at home later in the night. A young white man in the row in front of me came to the stadium with his two beautiful daughters. He heard my accent as I spoke with my children, and he asked where I was from in Africa. I said Nigeria. He said he had worked in Uganda, Zambia and Ghana, and that he gave birth to his younger daughter in Ghana. I asked him if he enjoyed Africa. He said yes, but that the sun was too much. “It’s like the Texas sun. Too hot!” he said, laughing. He asked me where I was from in Nigeria, and I told him the South-West. “Oh, that’s close to Ghana,” he said, revealing his familiarity with Africa.
People behave themselves in public because parents can call the police on you if you utter profanities in front of their children. Though the stadium was brimming with reckless abandon, the crowd knew the law and the limits of their freedom. You don’t say the ‘f’, ‘n’, and other prohibited words in public because parents and individuals can call the police.
In all of these, I looked at the effect one man could have on his country’s image. I looked at the effect of sport as a unifying tool for global harmony. I’m sure police officers, who witnessed the Messi spectacle in Auburn, would have a place of admiration for Argentina in their hearts and are more likely to treat Argentinians with respect.
Messi, the greatest, yet the humblest. Combining greatness with humility is what sets Messi apart from any sportsperson, dead or alive. He has never publicly uttered a word of pride all his life. This virtue cements his legacy, apart from his unparalleled creativity, vision, and genius. The accomplishments of Messi are the dreams of some of his rivals, like Ronaldo.
Messi, the Ultimate.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
X: @Tunde_Odesola
Driving 756km to watch soccer god, Messi
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