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OPINION: Olubadan Olákùlẹ́hìn: Names And Destinies

Published

3 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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OPINION Generals, Marabouts And Boko Haram

Published

17 minutes ago

October 6, 2025

Editor

By Lasisi Olagunju

General Lucky Irabor wrote a book that attracted a gathering of Generals in Abuja last Friday. Irabor, in the book, describes the January 1966 coup as “a shield that became a sword;” a solution that became a problem. He may be right. Bishop Matthew Kukah, who reviewed the book, described the January 1966 coup as the nation’s primary crime scene. I disagree. Nigeria’s real crime scene is located far before 1966. We still have not learnt any lesson.

General Irabor is the immediate past Chief of the Defence Staff. Born 5 October, 1965, he was a baby – three months, ten days old – when January 1966 happened to Nigeria. General Olusegun Obasanjo wrote the Foreword to the book and chaired the Abuja gathering. I have not seen what he wrote in the Foreword but I heard what he said at the book launch. He said Boko Haram was not about politics and not really about religion. So what is it about? He suggested that frustration and lack of “better life” perverted the pervert. He then wondered why terror and terrorism have become Nigeria’s way of life.

There were other Generals there. One of them is the Sultan of Sokoto; he belonged in the Armoured Corps. Another is the Etsu Nupe. Both of them left the army as Brigadier-General. The Sultan said Generals don’t retire. And because they do not retire or get tired, we keep seeing them in our lives beyond the barracks. Irabor’s book launch turned out to be a confab of Generals in search of what eludes them on the battlefield – victory over the collective enemy.

They were there looking for a solution to Nigeria’s interminable terrorism. I watched them and reached for 16th century English statesman, scholar and saint, Sir Thomas More. In his ‘A Dialogue Concerning Heresies’, More wrote a line which became the idiom: “looking for a needle in a haystack.” Our Generals need to interrogate that English clause locked in seven words of frustration. It speaks to their gathering. What they seek they won’t find except they really want to see it.

Irabor’s book carries the title: ‘Scars’ in bold, capital letters of blood. Beyond quotes from the review, I have not seen the book to get what his ‘SCARS’ really talks about. But ‘scars’ as book or as sabre cuts on the face cannot be anyone’s sweet story.

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Bishop Kukah, the book reviewer, said Irabor’s story is about Nigeria’s scars of insecurity; the ugly, unhealed, unhealable wound gashed on our collective face by Boko Haram. President Goodluck Jonathan was there with the Generals; and he got the metaphor right. He said the abduction of Chibok Girls is an everlasting scar on the face of his presidency; he hinted that it was a monument to leadership failure. But is Jonathan the only one with that scar?

Nineteenth century Scottish novelist and essayist, Robert Louis Stevenson (R. L. Stevenson) wrote ‘Treasure Island’, an excellent novel of pirates and blood, hidden treasure chests, death and disappointments. It was published in 1883. If you read more of Stevenson beyond his popular fiction, you would likely come across where he wrote the truth that our “wealth took their value from our neighbour’s poverty.” You would read how this someone who lived and died 131 years ago saw that despite the “free man’s” pretence to kindness, “the slaves are still ill-fed, ill-clad, ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently entreated, and driven to their mines and workshops by the lash of famine.” The passage reads like it is about 2025 Nigeria and its unfed, unclaimed, unclad, untaught children.

I watched the cream of Nigerian Generals, serving and retired, on Friday at that book launch of one of them. I watched them pontificating, one by one, on TV about Nigeria and its scars and I remembered Major-General Sir Thomas Vandeleur in R. L. Stevenson’s ‘The Rajah’s Diamond’, a story in his ‘New Arabian Nights’ published in 1881. Thomas Vandeleur is a General in blind, desperate but fruitless search for his family’s lost jewel. Nigeria’s Generals, like Vandeleur, old adventurers in uniform who once held the diamond of power, have ruled and been ruined by it. The nation’s story, like Vandeleur’s, is one of obsession with that fatal jewel called authority, which brings suffering to all who covet it.

Our Generals are helpless. That is what I saw at that event on Friday. Power has cast Nigeria’s fortunes into the river of defeat; it has left generations searching the muddy depths for the nation’s lost promise. Dethroned by coups and transitions, Nigeria’s power elite always come back as “handsome tobacconists” of democracy, reinvented messiahs and born-again democrats. They trade in influence and illusion; their scars, like Stevenson’s Vandeleur’s, are the marks of past violence disguised as experience, and their continued grip on Nigeria’s destiny shows that, though the diamond of nationhood is lost, its curse endures.

When I get General Irabor’s book to read, I will search for words that define wounds inflicted by bad and absent leadership, by aborted dreams and betrayed hopes. I will look for phrases, for sentences and paragraphs on heists that cut deeper into the nation’s face. I will love to read through its jagged pages of dreams deferred.

I scanned the Generals’ faces and read their lips. The gashes of insecurity, from Boko Haram’s bombs in Borno to herders’ bullets in Kwara, are the handiwork of decades of neglect and decay. The scar of insecurity has become our national birthmark, neither healed nor hidden; its permanence mocks every promise of reform. Obasanjo said at the book event that “Boko Haram is now virtually becoming part of our life. Should we accept that? If we should not accept it, what should we do? How much do we know? Even from the other side, and from this side, have we been active enough? Have we been proactive enough?” If a General and former president asked us those questions, to whom should we then turn for answers? Like Vandeleur’s scar, Nigeria’s wounds carry an ambiguity; they are signs of survival, yet also of complicity, for we are all, in one way or another, marked by a bad story we refuse to rewrite. General Irabor has done very well by writing a book that has provoked a discourse. We wait for others.

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The Generals who spoke were very eloquent on the scars of Boko Haram. Did I not hear excuses for what the terrorists do and why they do them? One of the Generals even said “they (Boko Haram) never said book is haram.” Valuable minutes were spent doing definition of terms. Is that also a solution to the problem? They said so much but I didn’t hear a word from the Generals on the millions of out-of-school children who feed the machinery of terrorism and banditry. Today, Nigeria has an estimated 20 million out-of-school children, the highest number in the world. Read United Nations’ records: More than 60 percent of these children are in the northern states; they are the almajiri; the system is there till tomorrow; entrenched.

Was it not General Obasanjo who wrote in one of his books that “our fingers will not be dry of blood” as long as lice abound in our clothes? I agree with him.
Because we are a dirty, contaminated nation, lice keep laying their nits in the seams of our garments. The line of Boko Haram lice is lengthened daily by mass child illiteracy and adult disillusionment. Our Generals would not acknowledge that the poverty of our streets is both symptom and scar: proof of the violence of neglect and the betrayal of the future. They, and we, still do not see that in every Almajiri begging for miserable morsels of leftovers, the nation’s unhealed wounds find new violence and new weapons.

Then, there is Bishop Kukah’s jarring charge that marabouts have become a substitute for government and governing. He hinted that we’ve outsourced the leadership of the nation to some “blind clerics” somewhere. That statement should strike a chord with all who heard him. But because it is true, all who heard it pretended it was not said.

The Bishop was on solid ground when he uttered what he said. The proofs are everywhere: In August 2015, the Adamawa State government announced that it had earmarked N200 million to engage prayer warriors against Boko Haram. In March 2016, a certain Aminu Baba-Kusa, once a powerful executive director of the NNPC, appeared before the High Court in Abuja with a witness statement and disclosed in it that a total of ₦2.2 billion was expended, not for arms or intelligence, but for prayers, solemnly commissioned to hasten the fall of Boko Haram. The money went out in two waves: ₦1.45 billion first, then another ₦750 million. It was a contract sanctified by faith and sealed by silence.

Nothing that has happened in the last ten years suggests a change of strategy. Marabouts still cash out from a mugu nation and a leadership that worships in unworthy shrines. Kukah stepped on toes; he said the manipulation of religion for politics, using religion to enforce power, has become destructive to religion in northern Nigeria. It took remarkable episcopal courage for Kukah to say publicly that northern politicians use Islam for political cash-out. I watched the Sultan, calm and angry at Bishop Kukah for daring to stray away from the book he was asked to review into a realm angels fear to tread. As the Sultan spoke, the TV man’s camera panned to a defiant Kukah fiddling with a piece of pamphlet.

Speaker after speaker spoke on what they thought caused insecurity in northern Nigeria. I waited in vain to hear the Generals acknowledge that northern children, denied books and purpose, are the soldiers of chaos in Zamfara, Sokoto, Niger and, now in Kwara. In vain I listened to hear the truth from our Generals that today’s violent elements, products of a past of negligence, are proof that unattended scars can erupt again in new forms of pain.

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Our Generals are searching for what is not lost. The spring head of terror and terrorism in northern Nigeria is the wrong religious philosophy which atrophies millions of children. Every child anywhere, including in northern Nigeria, wants and deserves what General Obasanjo called “better life.” A child who has opportunities for self-discovery and development won’t be readily available for employment by merchants of terror. Terrorism will dry out the moment its recruitment market winds up. Educating the street children of the North, and equipping them with the right skills will sound the death knell of Boko Haram and banditry, its brethren. But this is where even the Generals feared to tread last Friday. They were afraid of the clerics in whose hands lie the yam and the knife of power and privileges.

The people who spoke at that event were not up to ten. Several scores of other big men and women were there, silent and quiet, sometimes clapping. They either did not have the chance to be called to speak or they did not want to speak and be quoted into trouble. But, really, what is trouble? Trouble can sneak into the hole of silence. Jeff T. Johnson writes in his ‘Trouble Songs’ that “Trouble may appear in a title and disappear in a song,” and “’Trouble’ may sneak up in a song without warning.”

Trouble is Nigeria, the sick, denying its illness. Real trouble is homicidal or suicidal silence; it is treating eczema when leprosy is the ailment.

So, at the risk of courting abuse and insults and threats, I join Bishop Kukah in urging Nigeria to stop keeping quiet in the face of evil. Enough of saying that you do not want to ruffle feathers or open old wounds. Wounds that refuse to heal should be opened and given the right medicine. That is what heals.

A broken nation, sworn to silence, or to denial of truth, hurtles down a roller coaster of failure. Silence scars with ugly gashes. Screaming within, yet saying nothing out is sickness. The Yoruba say silence is the foundation of misfortune. Speaking out does not mean you will die young, broke and broken. Not speaking out when you have a voice is no guarantee for safety and comfort. Bishop Kukah’s Hausa proverb is the ultimate counsel here: “Not going to the toilet does not mean you won’t be hungry.”

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Group Defends VC Selection At FUGUS, Alleges Sabotage By Petitioners

Published

2 hours ago

October 6, 2025

Editor

A Civil society organisation, Kwararafa League for Good Governance has raised the alarm over what it described as a coordinated attempt to undermine the ongoing process of appointing a new Vice Chancellor at the Federal University, Gusau (FUGUS), Zamfara State.

In a strongly worded petition addressed to the Honourable Minister of Education, Dr Tunji Alausa, the group condemned a recent lawsuit filed at the National Industrial Court, Abuja, by three academic staff of the university, namely Professors Ahmad Galadima, Ibrahim Garba Zurmi, and Dr. Anas Sani Anka, against the university’s Governing Council and Management.

The petitioners had challenged the Council’s adoption of a minimum of ten (10) years post-professorial experience as requirement for applicants vying for the position of Vice Chancellor, a criterion they argued was designed to disqualify certain candidates.

In a counter petition to the education minister, the Kwararafa League insisted that the criterion was valid and aligns with directives issued by the Federal Ministry of Education and the National Universities Commission (NUC), particularly a pronouncement made by the Minister in May 2025, which emphasises on adherence to this standard by all university councils.

“It is important to note that for the fact that some universities refused to abide by the directive does not make it legal or constitutional,” the group stated in the petition signed by its coordinator, Samuel Bature.

The group also accused the petitioners of pursuing selfish agenda and attempting to destabilize the institution.

They alleged that the Pro-Chancellor, Hon. Aminu Sani Isaac, may have prior connections to one of the claimants who reportedly received informal assurances of being appointed Vice Chancellor despite not meeting the advertised requirements.

Describing the lawsuit as “baseless and malicious,” the group maintained that the university has operated in full compliance with applicable laws and guidelines, and called on the minister not to recognise or support the ongoing legal challenge.

“This representation is made in good faith, as a body committed to fairness, justice, and the development of education in Nigeria,” the petition stated.

The League also urged the Minister to direct the University’s Governing Council to take disciplinary action against the trio involved in the litigation, citing their actions as detrimental to the peace and credibility of the university system.

Copies of the petition were also sent to the Executive Secretary of the National Universities Commission (NUC), the President of the National Industrial Court, and the Pro-Chancellor of FUGUS.

As the legal and administrative battle continues, stakeholders in the education sector await the ministry’s response and the final outcome of the Vice Chancellor selection process.

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Oba of Benin Renews Bond With Ancestral Relations, Nigerians During Emorhọ Feast

Published

16 hours ago

October 5, 2025

Editor

The palace of the Oba of Benin was agog with activities during the 2025 Emorhọ fest, declared by Omo N’Oba N’Edo Uku, Uku Akpolokpolo, Ewuare II, Oba of Benin as part of activities to mark the ancient Emorhọ, otherwise known as the ‘New Yam Festival’.

Oba of Benin, who reenacted the age-long festival, renewed the bond that exist between him and his ancestral relations from Issele-Uku in Aniocha North Local Government Area of Delta State at the event, which attracted dignitaries, including Benin people, indigenes and non-indigenes across Edo State.

Members of the Benin Royal family, Edionwere (village heads), youth leaders across the various communities in Benin, market women group, palace chiefs, traditional priests and priestesses in Benin, were also in attendance.

A special prayer offered on behalf of the palace by Chief Enorense Ozigbo-Esere, the Osuma of Benin, paved the way for the commencement of the feast, where Secretary to the Benin Traditional Council, Frank Irabor, welcomed guests and highlighted the essence of the gathering.

Speaking in an interview, Oba Ewuare younger ancestral relations from Issele-Uku led by Chief Michael Odiakosa, expressed delight for the privilege to be part of the historic celebration.

He explained the relationship between Benin and Issele-Uku, reaffirming that, “Issele-Uku is an extension of Benin Kingdom. We are all descendants of Benin. So, we are at home”.

“We are in a safe place. We came to celebrate the festival with our father, the Omo N’ Oba, and we are happy to be here”, Odiakosa said.

On his part, 99-year-old Pa. Paul Osarumwense Oyemwen, the Odionwere of Orior-Ozolua community in Uhunmwode LGA who thanked the Oba for the gesture, said the festival is not new in Benin and it’s devoid of sacrifices.

Expressing her appreciation to the Oba of Benin, the ‘Edo markets leader’, Pastor (Mrs) Josephine Ibhaguezejele, noted that members of the group have been waiting anxiously for the opportunity to partake in the yearly festival, while praying God that the blessings of the festival to transform lives.

Also speaking, Pa. Daniel Osunde, the Odionwere of Idumwun-owina, N’ Iyeke-orhiomwon, also prayed for the Oba and thanked the first Class traditional ruler for his foresight.

Excited guests in their numbers were fed with African delicacy, amid dancing and jubilation, while members of Isikhian women group who gave a good account of their stewardship, were not left out in the celebration by the Oba who rewarded them with cash gift and other items in acknowledgement their duties in Benin.