Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Lasisi Olagunju

The Oluwo of Iwo, Oba Abdulrasheed Adewale Akanbi, recently threw a challenge at Yoruba spiritual leaders. His target was the forest where terrorists are holding schoolchildren and teachers abducted from Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State.

“All the Babalawo, Araba and Alfas who are always boasting of one charm or another, the time has come to use your powers to rescue the abducted children of Oriire. If money is the problem, I will provide it. Or are your charms effective only when it is time to afflict innocent people? Isé ti dé. War is here. The children are still in the bush.”

The oba did not stop there. He mentioned Chief Yemi Elebuibon and a few other prominent custodians of Yoruba spirituality by name. It was the sort of challenge that would earn applause in the marketplace. Many heard it and nodded in agreement; some clapped for the Oba. After all, if spiritual powers are as potent as their possessors claim, why should they not be deployed against kidnappers and terrorists?

But there was a problem. The challenge may have sounded attractive; it was not one that an Oba should throw.

Chief Elebuibon, like every able elder of Yorubaland, did not leave his vocal cords at the launderette. He responded with characteristic wit and lyrical force.

“What Oluwo said was not properly said,” he declared. “He should have called on pastors, mallams and babalawo alike to help. We know how things are done in Yorubaland. We do not invite farmers to deliberate on warfare, nor do we summon traders to teach farming. No one fights a war with a babalawo’s staff, just as no one uses an ìrùkèrè to sack a town.

“If you see a babalawo at the war front, he is there to prepare the ground for victory, not to fight the battle himself. Warriors fight wars; babalawo perform the duties assigned to them by tradition.”

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A professor friend listened to Oluwo. She listened to Chief Elebuibon. Then she exclaimed: “What stops the Oluwo himself from leading the war as the kings of old did?”

“That is true,” I replied.

Oduduwa came to Ile-Ife not as a social commentator but as a conqueror. His descendants inherited crowns and swords together. In old Oyo, Alaafin Ajaka lost his throne because he could neither confront nor defeat the enemies threatening his kingdom. Only after the death of his warlike brother, Sango, did he return to power and redeem his reputation on the battlefield.

If, therefore, the Oluwo believes the forests of Yorubaland are overrun by terrorists, perhaps the challenge should begin closer to home. Let the king do as his forefathers did. Let him enter the forest and emerge with victory. Ogun dé! The war drums are sounding.

Yet, that is precisely why an Oba should be careful with challenges such as the one the Oluwo threw at priests, pastors and mallams.

An Oba may possess the mystery of Ọbatálá, who “sits on the skin of an ant.” Yet he is not permitted to drag a priest about like a bag of beans. They should work together.

The Yoruba say that the crown is not merely worn on the head; it is carried in the mouth. Once a king speaks, his words cease to be ordinary words. They acquire the weight of the throne. That is why our fathers insisted that certain utterances belong to the marketplace and must never escape from the palace gates.

The palace and the street are not the same institution. The marketplace thrives on noise; the palace survives on measured dignity. An Oba may be criticised, but he must never sound like a critic. He may be angry, but he must never appear quarrelsome. The throne is diminished when it descends into the arena of everyday disputation.

As the Yoruba wisely observe, ọba kì í jà; aṣojú rẹ̀ ńii jà fún un (the king does not fight; his emissaries fight on his behalf). They also say: ọba kì í péjọ; ìjọ ni ń péjọ fun ọba (the king does not go seeking gatherings; gatherings come seeking the king).

The late economics historian, Professor Wale Oyemakinde, captured this ideal brilliantly in his ‘The impact of nineteenth century warfare on Yoruba traditional chieftaincy.’ He wrote that the Yoruba Oba was “distinct and distinguished.” He was Kabiyesi—one whose authority could not be casually challenged; Alaiyeluwa—the earthly representative of divine order. He was expected to be the eyes and ears of the people, the bridge between the living and their ancestors, the custodian of peace and, when necessary, the inspirer of war.

For that reason, the Oba’s conduct was governed by restraints as much as by privileges. Oyemakinde reminds us that while all roads led to the king’s palace, the king hardly travelled. While subjects visited him, he did not go about visiting subjects. While others paid homage, he paid homage to no one. Distance preserved dignity; restraint protected majesty.

William Shakespeare understood this burden of kingship. In Henry IV, Part II, as the king broods over the burdens and anxieties of office, he contrasts his own restless nights with the tranquil sleep of his lowliest subjects and concludes: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” The crown is heavy not because it grants power but because it demands discipline and sacrifice. A king must often resist saying what every other person is free to say.

That is why Oluwo’s challenge, though entertaining, sounded misplaced. There are words that may come from a warrior, a politician, a priest or a columnist. There are words that should not come from the throne.

The Yoruba compare the king to the eagle perched atop the iroko tree. From that lofty height, the eagle sees farther than every other bird. Yet it does not, like the restless ẹyẹ ẹ̀ga (weaver bird) or the ever-chattering ibaka (canary), flutter noisily from branch to branch advertising its presence. The eagle’s authority lies in its stillness; its majesty in its composure.

The throne is diminished when it competes with the marketplace or the cyberspace. Whenever a king abandons the elevated language of the palace for the rough-and-tumble of public controversy, he risks exchanging majesty for momentary. But applause is like the crackle of dry leaves in harmattan—briefly loud, then gone with the first dews of dawn.

Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Tinubu proved me wrong in Kwara, By Farooq Kperogi

If Nigeria Is Not Divided, We Will Never Have Any Sense in the North

By Mohammed Bello Doka

There is a rumour circulating through Nigeria’s political underbelly that President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, after completing his second term in office, is seriously considering the unthinkable: the formal division of the country. Could it be that the man from the South-West, who many believe has never fully embraced the idea of one Nigeria, has grown tired of the endless strain on our collective sanity? Could it be that the Northern experiment, which began with such promise in 1960, has finally revealed itself as a failed enterprise of monumental proportions?

And here is the question that should keep every Northerner awake at night: if the sword of division never falls, will the North ever produce a single ounce of sense?

My answer, as bitter as it may sound, is no.

Let us begin with the Northern elite. Their obsession with the federal purse is not merely an obsession; it is a pathology. For decades, the so-called leaders of the North have clung to federal revenue allocation like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood. They have been paid, rewarded, and accommodated repeatedly. What have they offered in return?

A region where children beg for food while governors travel in private jets. A region where life expectancy remains among the lowest in the country while politicians build mansions in Abuja, Dubai, and beyond. The Northern elite have turned federal allocations into a feeding bottle and have sucked it dry.

They have neglected the welfare of their people, failed to protect lives and property, and presided over a situation in which banditry, kidnapping, and insecurity have flourished. When villages are attacked and families are displaced, where are these leaders? They are often in Abuja, lobbying for more federal allocations, more appointments, and more privileges. To many of them, more public money simply translates into more wives, more mansions, and more luxury.

Then we have the educated class of the North. What a tragedy they have become.

Armed with degrees from Ahmadu Bello University, the University of Maiduguri, Bayero University Kano, and even prestigious foreign institutions, many have done little with their knowledge beyond decorating their résumés and feeding their egos. They sit in air-conditioned offices, write elegant policy papers that gather dust on shelves, and remain silent while their communities crumble.

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They know the solutions. They understand the economics. They see the decline unfolding in slow motion. Yet they refuse to speak, refuse to act, and refuse to lead. They have traded conscience for comfort and duty for government vehicles, foreign trips, generous allowances, and plaques celebrating questionable achievements. The educated Northern elite has become one of the most disappointing and self-serving classes in contemporary Nigeria.

Then there is the business elite.

Their philosophy appears simple: profit above all else. They have watched their region descend into chaos and, in many cases, found ways to benefit from it. Displaced communities require food. Insecurity creates opportunities for middlemen. Crisis becomes commerce.

Rather than investing substantially in agriculture, solid minerals, manufacturing, renewable energy, and other productive sectors that could transform the region, many prefer quick profits and short-term gains. They are not builders of lasting prosperity; they are beneficiaries of dysfunction.

Then we come to the so-called Yan Boko—the educated youth who should have become the vanguard of reform.

Instead, many have become willing instruments of political manipulation. They spread division disguised as conviction and bigotry disguised as piety. They have learned little from education except how to argue more eloquently and hate more efficiently. They march proudly toward their own ruin, armed with polished English and intellectual arrogance, while contributing little to meaningful change.

Let me be clear: I do not place primary blame on traditional rulers for the current crisis.

Their powers were stripped away long ago by military decrees and constitutional arrangements. Today, an emir cannot raise an army, levy taxes, or even discipline a district head without government approval. Traditional rulers have largely become ceremonial custodians of culture with very limited authority over governance and security.

However, I do blame many Islamic scholars.

You have failed, and failed spectacularly.

You spend your days arguing over minor ritual differences—whether a finger should be raised during supplication, how a beard should be worn, or which sect possesses the correct interpretation of doctrine. Qadiriyya versus Tijaniyya. Izala versus Darika. Endless disputes over labels and loyalties.

Meanwhile, the core teachings of Islam—justice, knowledge, accountability, compassion, and the advancement of society—receive far less attention. Where is the emphasis on education? Where is the call for economic productivity? Where is the reminder that Allah does not change the condition of a people until they change what is within themselves?

Too many scholars have transformed religion into a tool of control rather than enlightenment. An ignorant follower is easier to command. An informed follower asks questions, and questions threaten authority.

Although traditional rulers possess little real power today, many have also contributed to their own decline. Some have traded prestige and influence for financial rewards and political patronage. As a result, public respect has diminished. A traditional institution that cannot protect its people or meaningfully influence governance struggles to maintain moral authority.

And what of the ordinary Northern man?

He, too, has failed himself.

Too often, he has neglected the pursuit of knowledge. Too often, he has accepted sentiment in place of reason and emotion in place of evidence. He has allowed himself to become a tool in the hands of politicians and religious opportunists. He applauds leaders who mortgage his future and supports systems that perpetuate his own suffering.

The tragedy is that the North sits atop resources capable of transforming not only Nigeria but much of Africa.

Agriculture: vast grazing lands and fertile soil suitable for groundnuts, cotton, sorghum, maize, rice, and livestock production. The North could feed much of West Africa.

Solid minerals: gold in Zamfara, tin in Plateau, lead and zinc deposits across several states, limestone, barite, and countless other resources that remain underdeveloped.

Rare earth elements: strategic minerals that power smartphones, batteries, and modern technologies.

Energy resources: coal deposits, hydroelectric potential along major rivers, and abundant solar radiation capable of powering entire cities.

Human capital: a youthful population that, if properly educated and empowered, could become one of Africa’s greatest assets.

Yet what do we see?

Farmers driven from their lands by insecurity. Illegal mining operations enriching foreign interests while destroying the environment. Abandoned energy projects. Unemployment. Migration. Frustration. A generation either fleeing abroad or falling into cycles of crime, extremism, and hopelessness.

Compare this with other countries. Botswana discovered diamonds and built one of Africa’s most stable economies. Chile transformed copper into national prosperity. Norway turned oil wealth into a sovereign wealth fund designed to benefit future generations.

The North possesses resources comparable to, and in some cases greater than, those that transformed these nations. Yet it remains trapped in poverty, insecurity, and underdevelopment.

What the North needs is a baptism of fire—not the fire of violence, but the fire of a profound and unavoidable awakening.

The comfortable lies must be shattered. The false prophets must be challenged. The educated class must leave its comfort zones and engage directly with society’s problems. The business elite must contribute meaningfully to development. Ordinary citizens must recognize that no saviour is coming. They must save themselves.

That is why the title stands.

If Nigeria is not divided, we may never develop any sense in the North. Division would force the region to stand on its own feet. There would be no federal purse to blame, no Southern revenues to contest, and no convenient excuses. There would only be the North, its people, and its resources.

Would we survive? Or would we collapse?

The answer to that question would reveal whether we are capable of genuine self-reliance.

Perhaps separation is the only lesson the North has not yet ignored, resisted, or corrupted. Perhaps the breaking of Nigeria would force a long-overdue confrontation with our failures. It is a harsh prescription, but harsh illnesses sometimes require harsh remedies.

So let the rumour be true.

Let the North stand alone and prove its worth.

Because only when dependence ends will accountability begin. Only when external lifelines disappear will we discover whether we possess the wisdom, discipline, and determination required for survival.

My deepest fear is that we do not.

And if we do not, then division will merely expose what has always existed beneath the surface: a region blessed with immense wealth and potential, yet crippled by greed, complacency, and self-inflicted decline, waiting for the final verdict of history.

Mohammed Bello Doka

Abuja Network News

bellodoka82@gmail.com

If Nigeria Is Not Divided, We Will Never Have Any Sense in the North