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OPINION: Olubadan Olákùlẹ́hìn: Names And Destinies

Published

5 months ago

July 14, 2025

By Lasisi Olagunju

Odysseus survived the Trojan War. He experienced “blissful forgetfulness” in the land of the Lotus-Eaters; he was captured by the Cyclops Polyphemus; he escaped the Sirens, and sea monsters, Scylla and Charybdis. Then the enchantress Circe turned his men to swine. Odysseus wandered for several years in search of his destiny. He finally found it. If Prince Hal in Shakespeare’s Henry IV; if the Bourbons of France and Charles II of England were Yoruba, they would be Olákùlẹ́hìn. Read their stories of spectacular comebacks.

Book critic and columnist at the New York Times, Ralph Thompson, in March 1936 wrote a penetrative piece on the life and death of England’s King George V: “The death of a British monarch… is something more than the death of a man.” He wrote, paused and added that when a king dies, “something far weightier than a single human life comes to a pause.” The passing, last week, of Olubadan Owolabi Olakulehin and the transition yesterday of the Awujale of Ijebuland, Oba Sikiru Adetona, remind me of that pulsating passage.

As it is in Thompson’s England, so it is in my Yorubaland. The oba is the human placeholder for his people’s everything. It does not matter how great or ordinary, wise or reclusive, strong or feeble the king is, a king’s death is always the fall of an elephant. Take Muhammadu Buhari’s death yesterday. He was ruinously ineffectual in power for eight years, yet his exit rumbled the forest. Now, ask: who inherits his 12 million votes? Who benefits from his death?

Olákùlẹ́hìn is the name of the Olubadan who joined his ancestors last Monday. He became oba at 89 and died at 90. Now, I think the name which that oba bore ruled his star; it shone brightest at his dusk. His reign was remarkable in the resilient agedness of his person and in the shortness of the term. His stubborn heart beat long enough for him to mark the royal register before exiting the palace. His family would be ungrateful if they sulk in sadness. Many wanted to sit on that throne for just one day but death came for them before their day.

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Olákùlẹ́hìn fits in the tapestry of resilient fate. The name, Olá kù lẹ́hìn, deserves a dissection: Olá means not just material wealth; it refers to all-round elevation, destiny-endowed prestige, or noble essence. It means nobility, prestige, royalty, honour and, let me add, greatness. Kù means ‘to remain, to survive, to endure’. The last part, ‘lẹ́hìn’ signifies ‘behind, rear, at the back, in the aftermath’. Cobble the parts together and salute the late oba’s ancestors who prepared the name for his destiny. Olakulehin is more than a personal name; it is a narrative and a prophecy.

There is this passage in Lewis Carroll’s ‘Through the Looking Glass’:

“My name is Alice…”

“… What does it mean? ”

“Must a name mean something?” Alice asked doubtfully. The question on whether a name should naturally have a semantic content can’t be asked in Black Africa without some rebuke. Here, the content and the case are inseparable. You can read more on this in retired professor of Anthropology and Linguistics, Niyi Akinnaso’s ‘The Sociolinguistic Basis of Yoruba Personal Names’ published in October 1980.

In Yoruba sayings and songs, ‘Olákùlẹ́hìn’ is never a stand-alone name. It comes as Orin Òwe (proverbial song); Orin Ọ̀tẹ̀ (song of battle) or Orin Ọpé (song of thanks): Wọ́n ṣe bí olá tán, Ọlá ò tán, Òlá kù l’ẹ́hìn (They thought ola is finished: ola is not finished; ola remains). From that line alone, three names are formed: Wonsebolatan; Olaotan; Olakulehin. There is an additional derivative or variant: Mosebolatan (I thought ola is finished). This one is a name for the grateful, the one who came back victorious after a defeat, the one who rebuilt from personal ruins.

The rhythm of kingship in Yorubaland may pause and bow to the ravages of death, but it never truly stops its sonic breath. In Yoruba royalty, death in one royal house means elevation and joy of enthronement next door. That is why every Ibadan person is called Omo Agbọ́tikúyọ̀ (rejoicers at news of death). When an oba dies, the one who takes the throne is a beneficiary of death’s wicked act. People benefit from others’ death. If Isiaka Adeleke did not die in 2017, would his brother, Demola Adeleke, be governor of Osun State in 2022? The name Kújẹ́mbólà literally means ‘death allows me to meet prosperity’). It was the death of someone else that made the bearer successful and prosperous. Everyone who becomes oba should really answer that name.

Think of name as destiny. The Yoruba believe that what a child would be is right there in their name. The late Awujale was Olukayode (God has brought happiness). He enjoyed life for 91 years, 65 of those years as a very consequential, respected oba. There was an Aare Ona Kakanfo Kurunmi. The surname (Kurunmi) is extinct because it fulfilled what it promised the bearer: Iku (death) ruined him: all his children perished in a war in which he himself died. A state governor is Lucky Aiyedatiwa. The luck in the man’s ‘Lucky’ needs no analysis but more prescient is the surname, Aiyedatiwa (the world/life has become ours). Death shifted his boss for him to move up and inherit the world. What he does with that inheritance is a different thing altogether.

There are uncanny happenings in other climes which would suggest that some spirits may be living in names. The German name, ‘Drumpf’ crossed to the US and got anglicised to ‘Trump’. Scholars say its roots are in some German term for drumming and drummer. Old French linked it to trumpets or trumpeting. If our popular Trump entertains exceptionally today, he is just keeping family tradition alive. The white man may dismiss this as arrant nonsense.

“What’s in a name?” from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet will not be answered here the way the playwright answered it. Here, we would swear there is so much in a name. Yoruba names are sacred to the Yoruba. That explains why no one would do what the English man does with their child with names that damn. The Ijesa, for instance, can be beautifully descriptive in coining and giving names. Their last oba before the new one was Aromolaran (the one who wraps his child with velvet). He was a power-dresser. The oba before Owa Aromolaran was Agunlejika (the broad-shouldered one). Check his photos, his physique.

‘Good name’ is both literal and metaphor here. All I hear around me are pleasant names. There is Eyitayo (This is enough joy); there is Oladimeji (honour becomes two; honour is doubled); Omopariola (child completes honour/ child epitomizes wealth). Adebayo is the child who arrives to meet joy. Titilayo is forever is joy. Titilola, forever is ola. My mother’s very uncommon name is Orímọ́láwá (Her head brought Ọlá to her). There is my father’s name, Ọlágúnjú. If you bear Ọlágúnjú as I do, just apply all those meanings of Ọlá to ‘gún’ and ‘jú’. Ọlá gún ojú/Ọlá + gún + ‘jú. ‘Gún’ is a verb which, in this tonal context, means ‘to fit’, ‘to be well-formed’, ‘to be properly constructed or shaped’. Ojú, here does not mean ‘eye’, it means ‘face’. Ọlágúnjú thus means “honour fits the face; nobility shapes the countenance.” Now you know.

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But wrongly pronounced Yoruba names can have unintended infelicity effects. One of the most commonly mispronounced Yoruba names is ‘Awosika’ (Awóòsìkà) which means ‘Awo (Ifa oracle) has not been wicked’. I asked a friend who bears that name how he feels each time he hears it mispronounced as Awósìkà (‘Awo has acted wickedly’). He sighed and said he was tired of correcting people. Again, if for instance, Olákùlẹ́hìn is pronounced Olákúléhìn, the meaning is the very opposite of the original. Sometimes, the misspeak is not a symptom of linguistic incompetence but pure mischief. I had a university classmate, Gbenga Fádíyà. For rascally reasons, some of us would routinely put the wrong tonal marks on the three syllables that make up the surname; a bad boy would say Fàdíya. The ‘victim’ would laugh, his naughty friends would laugh. Both sides were aware that the meaning dripped of negativity.

Across the seas, the white man has been historically crazy with names. ‘Stone’ as surname is not strange in English-speaking countries of the West. Lawyers and judges are familiar with the renowned jurist, Sir William Blackstone (1723-1780). He was a scholar famous for his ‘Commentaries on the Laws of England.’ But why would someone proudly answer Blackstone as a name? If ‘Blackstone’ (and even ‘Blackburn’) sound odd to your African understanding of what a name should be, think of ‘Hogsflesh’ and ‘Gotobed.’ The latter (Go-to-bed) is actually proven to be a real surname from Suffolk, England. A Jannik Sinner won the Wimbledon at the weekend. There is ‘Pigg’ and there is ‘Smellie’, both pronounced as spelt. Google says Smellie is a real Scottish surname. Some people’s ancestor also answered Death (pronounced ‘Deeth’).

It didn’t start today. As early as the eleventh century, contempt for someone got them Rump (meaning buttocks) as name. Some people’s surname was (is) Belcher – a testament to their ancestor’s “habit of eructating after a heavy meal.” You will see more of this in Robert M. Rennick’s ‘Obscene Names and Naming in Folk Tradition’ (1968). You will read, in there, allusions from Robert Ferguson’s ‘English Surnames and Their Place in the Teutonic Family’ (1858); you will gape reading what examples are drawn from Henry Barber’s ‘British Family Names, Their Origin and Meaning’ (1903); you will encounter unbelievable origin of names in Elsdon Smith’s ‘The Story of Our Names’ (1950).

A child’s name is not just a label. The Yoruba say name is a force that shapes character and actions. We say Orúko omo ní í ro omo (name influences a child’s behaviour; it determines their life choices; it is their compass). Exactly like Bankole who ends up a bricklayer. That parallel is with apology to Funwontan, Gbenga Adeboye of blessed memory.

But things are fast falling apart. Where we used to have Olusegun, there you find now, not Victor or Victoria, but Victory. Our fathers paid attention to the home environment before assigning names to a child (Ilé l’àá wò k’á tó s’omo l’órúko). They knew that Orúkọ ọmọ ni ìjánu ọmọ (A child’s name is a restraint on the child). The name is the bridle that cautions, guides and points the way.

May the souls of Awujale Adetona, Olubadan Olákùlẹ́hìn and Buhari rest in peace. Just like their very long lives, every outing must come to an end. I wrap this too long piece up with this passage in Rennick’s work cited above: “A popular nineteenth century anecdote recounts the trials of a young lawyer who is setting up his practice by performing the most obvious initial act. He hangs a sign outside his office door with his name: ‘A. Swindler’. His first client can’t help remarking that his sign is bound to deter potential clients, and advises him to write out his first name in full. ‘Oh I couldn’t do that,’ the lawyer answers; ‘as bad as this must seem to be, it would be infinitely worse if I added my full given name – Adam.’” Imagine a lawyer whose full name is Adam Swindler!

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Out-of-school: Group To Enroll Adolescent Mothers In Bauchi

Published

2 days ago

December 10, 2025

Editor

Women Child Youth Health and Education Initiative (WCY) with support from Malala Education Champion Network, have charted a way to enroll adolescent mothers to access education in Bauchi schools.

Rashida Mukaddas, the Executive Director, WCY stated this in Bauchi on Wednesday during a one-day planning and inception meeting with education stakeholders on Adolescent Mothers Education Access (AMEA) project of the organisation.

According to her, the project targeted three Local Government Areas of Bauchi, Misau and Katagum for implementation in the three years project.

She explained that all stakeholders in advancing education in the state would be engaged by the organisation to advocate for Girl-Child education.

The target, she added, was to ensure that as many as married adolescent mothers and girls were enrolled back in school in the state.

“Today marks an important step in our collective commitment to ensuring that every girl in Bauchi state, especially adolescent who are married, pregnant, or young mothers has the right, opportunity, and support to continue and complete her education.

“This project has been designed to address the real and persistent barriers that prevent too many adolescent mothers from returning to school or staying enrolled.

“It is to address the barriers preventing adolescent mothers from continuing and completing their education and adopting strategies that will create an enabling environment that safeguard girls’ rights to education while removing socio-cultural and economic obstacles,” said Mukaddas.

She further explained to the stakeholders that the success of the project depended on the strength of their collaboration, the alignment of their actions, and the commitments they forge toward the implementation of the project.

Also speaking, Mr Kamal Bello, the Project Officer of WCY, said that the collaboration of all the education stakeholders in the state with the organisation could ensure stronger enforcement of the Child Rights Law.

This, he said, could further ensure effective re-entry and retention policies for adolescent girls, increased community support for girls’ education and a Bauchi state where no girl was left behind because of marriage, pregnancy, or motherhood.

“It is observed that early marriage is one of the problems hindering girls’ access to education.

“This organisation is working toward ensuring that girls that have dropped out of school due to early marriage are re-enrolled back in school,” he said.

Education stakeholders present at the event included representatives from the state Ministry of Education, Justice, Budget and Economic Planning and Multilateral Coordination.

Others were representatives from International Federation of Women Lawyers, Adolescent Girls Initiative for Learning and Empowerment (AGILE), Bauchi state Agency for Mass Education, Civil Society Organization, Religious and Traditional institutions, among others.

They all welcomed and promised to support the project so as to ensure its effective implementation and achieve its set objectives in the state.

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OPINION: Fubara, Adeleke And The Survival Dance

Published

2 days ago

December 10, 2025

Editor

By Israel Adebiyi

You should be aware by now that the dancing governor, Ademola Adeleke has danced his last dance in the colours of the Peoples Democratic Party. His counterpart in Rivers, Siminalayi Fubara has elected to follow some of his persecutors to the All Progressive Congress, after all “if you can’t beat them, you can join them.”
Politics in Nigeria has always been dramatic, but every now and then a pattern emerges that forces us to pause and think again about where our democracy is heading. This week on The Nation’s Pulse, that pattern is what I call the politics of survival. Two events in two different states have brought this into sharp focus. In both cases, sitting governors elected on the platform of the same party have found new homes elsewhere. Their decisions may look sudden, but they reveal deeper issues that have been growing under the surface for years.

In Rivers, Governor Siminalayi Fubara has crossed into the All Progressives Congress. In Osun, Governor Ademola Adeleke has moved to the Accord Party. These are not small shifts. These are moves by people at the top of their political careers, people who ordinarily should be the ones holding their parties together. When those at the highest levels start fleeing, it means the ground beneath them has become too shaky to stand on. It means something has broken.

A Yoruba proverb captures it perfectly: Iku to n pa oju gba eni, owe lo n pa fun ni. The death that visits your neighbour is sending you a message. The crisis that has engulfed the Peoples Democratic Party did not start today. It has been building like an untreated infection. Adeleke saw the signs early. He watched senior figures fight openly. He watched the party fail to resolve its zoning battles. He watched leaders undermine their own candidates. At some point, you begin to ask yourself a simple question: if this house collapses today, what happens to me? In Osun, where the competition between the two major parties has always been fierce, Adeleke was not going to sit back and become another casualty of a party that refused to heal itself. Survival became the most reasonable option.

His case makes sense when you consider the political temperature in Osun. This is a state where the opposition does not sleep. Every misstep is amplified. Every weakness is exploited. Adeleke has spent his time in office under constant scrutiny. Add that to the fact that the national structure of his party is wobbly, divided and uncertain about its future, and the move begins to look less like betrayal and more like self-preservation.

Rivers, however, tells a slightly different story. Fubara’s journey has been a long lesson in endurance. From the moment he emerged as governor, it became clear he was stepping into an environment loaded with expectations that had nothing to do with governance. His political godfather was not content with being a supporter. He wanted control. He wanted influence. He wanted obedience. Every decision was interpreted through the lens of loyalty. From the assembly crisis to the endless reconciliation meetings, to the barely hidden power struggles, Fubara spent more time fighting shadows than building the state he was elected to lead.

It soon became clear that he was governing through a maze of minefields. Those who should have been allies began to treat him like an accidental visitor in the Government House. The same legislators who were meant to be partners in governance suddenly became instruments of pressure. Orders came from places outside the official structure. Courtrooms turned into battlegrounds. At some point, even the national leadership of his party seemed unsure how to tame the situation. These storms did not come in seasons, they came in waves. One misunderstanding today. Another in two weeks. Another by the end of the month. Anyone watching closely could see that the governor was in a permanent state of emergency.

So when the winds started shifting again and lawmakers began to realign, those who understood the undercurrents knew exactly what was coming. Fubara knew too. A man can only take so much. After months of attacks, humiliations and attempts to cage his authority, the move to another party was not just political. It was personal. He had given the reconciliation process more chances than most would. He had swallowed more insults than any governor should. He had watched institutions bend and twist under the weight of private interests. In many ways, his defection is a declaration that he has finally chosen to protect himself.

But the bigger question is how we got here. How did two governors in two different parts of the country end up taking the same decision for different but related reasons? The answer goes back to the state of internal democracy in our parties. No party in Nigeria today fully practices the constitution it claims to follow. They have elaborate rules on paper but very loose habits in reality. They talk about fairness, but their primaries are often messy. They preach unity, but their caucuses are usually divided into rival camps. They call themselves democratic institutions, yet dissent is treated as disloyalty.

Political parties are supposed to be the engine rooms of democracy. They are the homes where ideas are debated, leaders are groomed, and future candidates are shaped. In Nigeria, they increasingly look like fighting arenas where the loudest voices drown out everyone else. When leaders ignore their own constitutions, the structure begins to crack. When factions begin to run parallel meetings, the foundation gets weaker. When decisions are forced down the throats of members, people begin making private plans for their future.

No governor wants to govern in chaos. No politician wants to be the last one standing in a sinking ship. This is why defections are becoming more common. A party that cannot manage itself cannot manage its members. And members who feel exposed will always look for safer ground.

But while these moves make sense for Adeleke and Fubara personally, the people they govern often become the ones left in confusion. Voters choose candidates partly because of party ideology, even if our ideologies are weak. They expect stability. They expect continuity. They expect that the mandate they gave will remain intact. So when a governor shifts political camp without prior consultation, the people feel blindsided. They begin to wonder whether their votes carry weight in a system where elected officials can switch platforms in the blink of an eye.

This is where the politics of survival becomes dangerous for democracy. If leaders keep prioritizing their personal safety over party stability, the system begins to lose coherence. Parties lose their identity. Elections lose their meaning. Governance becomes a game of musical chairs. Today you are here. Tomorrow you are there. Next week you may be somewhere else. The people become bystanders in a democracy that is supposed to revolve around them.

Rivers and Osun should serve as reminders that political parties need urgent restructuring. They need to rebuild trust internally. They need to enforce their constitutions consistently. They need to treat members as stakeholders, not spectators. When members feel protected, they stay. When they feel targeted, they run. This pattern will continue until parties learn the simple truth that power is not built by intimidation, but by inclusion.

There is also the question of what these defections mean for governance. When governors are dragged into endless party drama, service delivery suffers. Time that should be spent on roads, schools, hospitals, water projects and job creation ends up being spent in meetings, reconciliations and press briefings. Resources that should strengthen the state end up funding political battles. The public loses twice. First as witnesses to the drama. Then as victims of delayed or abandoned development.

In Rivers, the months of tension slowed down the government. Initiatives were stalled because the governor was busy trying to survive political ambush. In Osun, Adeleke had to juggle governance with internal fights in a crumbling party structure. Imagine what they could have achieved if they were not constantly looking over their shoulders.

Now, as both men settle into new political homes, the final question is whether these new homes will provide stability or merely temporary shelter. Nigeria’s politics teaches one consistent lesson. New alliances often come with new expectations. New platforms often come with new demands. And new godfathers often come with new conditions. Whether Adeleke and Fubara have truly found peace or simply bought time is something only time will tell.

But as citizens, what we must insist on is simple. The politics of survival should not become the politics of abandonment. Our leaders can fight for their political life, but they must not forget that they hold the people’s mandate. The hunger, poverty, insecurity and infrastructural decay that Nigerians face will not be solved by defection. It will be solved by steady leadership and functional governance.

The bigger lesson from Rivers and Osun is clear. If political parties in Nigeria continue on this path of disunity and internal sabotage, they will keep losing their brightest and most strategic figures. And if leaders keep running instead of reforming the system, then we will wake up one day to a democracy where the people are treated as an afterthought.

Governors may survive the storms. Parties may adjust to new alignments. But the people cannot keep paying the price. Nigeria deserves a democracy that works for the many, not the few. That is the real pulse of the nation.

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Human Rights Day: Stakeholders Call For More Campaigns Against GBV

Published

2 days ago

December 10, 2025

Editor

Panel of discussants at an event to commemorate the International Human Rights Day, 2025 on Wednesday called for more campaigns against Gender-Based Violence, adding that it must start from the family.

The panel of discussants drawn from religious and community leaders, security agents, members of the civil society community, chiefs, etc, made the call in Benin in an event organised by Justice Development & Peace Centre (JDPC), Benin, in collaboration with Women Aid Collective (WACOL) with the theme: Multilevel Dialogue for Men, Women, Youth and Critical Take holders on the Prevention and Response to Gender-Based Violence (GBV).

The stakeholders, who said causes of GBV are enormous, called for more enlightenment and education in the family, community and the religious circle.

Security agents in the panel charged members of the public to report GBV cases to security agents regardless of the sex Involved, adding: “When GBV happens, it should be reported to the appropriate quarters. It doesn’t matter if the woman or the man is the victim. GBV perpetrators should not be covered up, they must be exposed. We are there to carry out the prosecution after carrying out the necessary investigation.”

Earlier in his opening remarks, Executive Director, JDPC, Rev. Fr. Benedicta Onwugbenu, lamented that (GBV) remains the most prevalent in the society yet hidden because of silence from victims.

According to him, GBV knows no age, gender or race, adding that “It affects people of all ages, whether man or woman, boy or girl.”

“It affects people from different backgrounds and communities, yet it remains hidden because of silence, stigma, and fear. Victims of GBV are suffering in silence.”

On her part, Programme Director, WACOL, Mrs. Francisca Nweke, who said “women are more affected, and that is why we are emphasising on them,” stressed “we are empowering Christian women and women leaders of culture for prevention and response to Gender-Based Violence in Nigeria through the strengthening of grassroots organisations.”