Tunde Odesola

Welcome, the ancient Land of Akoko beckons, where man lived in peace with nature until the day when the king, OlúfimoÀkókó, decided to let his wife into the secrets of Orò, forgetting the stern warning, “A woman is free to partake in Egúngúnfestival, she is free to partake in Gèlèdé festival, but the day she sets her eyes on Orò, she’s doomed!” Juju music legend, King Sunny Ade, amplifies this forewarning in his 1974 chart-bursting album, ‘E Kilo F’omo Ode’, crooning, “Awo egúngúnl’obirin le se, awo gèlèdé l’obirin le mo, b’obirin f’oju d’oro, oro a gbe! E kilo f’omo ode…”

Anyone who commits an unprecedented abomination, his eyes will witness an unexampled calamity, goes a Yoruba proverb captured thusly, ‘Eni ba se ohun ti enikan o se ri, oju re a ri ohunti enikan o ri ri’. Wasiu Ayinde’s ignominy at the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, Abuja, was not a solitary case in the history of infamy. By its sheer repulsiveness, Wasiu’s àsàkasà ranks alongside the desecration of royalty by Oba Olúfimo Àkókó, a long time ago, when the eyes were at the knees.

But let’s be clear; the eyes were never located on the knees, literally. ‘When the eyes were at the knees’ is an imagery that explains the limited view, the eyes can see if they are embedded in the knees, as opposed to how far they can see when they are socketed in the head. ‘When the eyes were at the knees’ is a Yoruba expression which means ‘when there was little awareness’.

So, the story of Olúfimo Àkókó and his clingy wife, as documented in the Ifa corpus by Orunmila, dates back to ‘time immemorial’, with ‘time immemorial’ being the white man’s equivalent of ‘when the eyes were at the knees’.

According to the story rendered to me by the one and only Awise Agbaye, Prof. Wande Abimbola, the wife of Oba Olúfimo Àkókó knelt before the throne, saying, “My lord, I wish to know how the egúngún metamorphoses in the grove.” The bewildered king screamed, “Ha! No! Never! No woman sees the robing and the derobing of the egúngún. Èwò! Abomination!”

But the queen won’t take no for an answer. “Please, my lord,” she begged, cringing on her knees and blinking tears away from her eyes. For a minute, time and air froze between the king and the queen. “Uhmm!,” the kabiyesi exhaled, tilting his head to the left in thought as his horsetail sashayed in his right hand.

“Okay, my queen. You will hide in my footstool. From there, you can watch the egúngún metamorphosis,” the king said. “Thank you, my king,” the happy queen rolled on the floor to the right and the left, in gratitude.

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As planned, the ruler hid his queen in the footstool and placed his feet on it. The atmosphere was charged as different shades and sizes of egúngún sprouted in the grove and stormed out to the delight of the ‘moríwo’, egúngún adherents. The queen watched how the ‘visitors from heaven’ chanted and sang in guttural voices while performing the rites of passage from the grove to the outer world.

Paje-Polobi is an amazing egúngún in Oyo. Its chief priest, the Alagbaa, shouted, “Paje-Polobi o o o o!” The egúngún burst forth in its colourful attire, running and jumping, chasing and dancing…out of the grove. One after the other, various egúngúnemerged from the grove. Alapansanpa was resplendent, so also was Oloolu, followed by Ologbojo, a most fearsome egúngún.

No matter how long the egúngún festival lasts, the child of the Alágbáà will eventually return to eating cornmeal. So, the festival came and went. And, Akokoland looked forward to the egúngún festival next year, even as the incoming Oro festival looms around the corner.

The Akoko queen had long fancied the Oro festival. So, she went to the king and poured out her heart’s desire, cooing in soft tones the sagas that mythify Akoko in honour and glory. “Impossible!” the king boomed, “No woman sees the Oro!” The queen whimpered, “My lord, no one saw me in the grove of egúngún; how can anyone see me in the grove of Oro when I’m inside the protection of your footstool?”

“Woman, pray, this endeavour won’t kill you,” the king blurted out, “Ok, we’ll repeat the egúngún tactics.” “Thank you, my lord,” the daredevil smiled, eyed the king flirtatiously and sang his panegyrics.

The Oro deity is chauvinistic and patriarchal. On the first night of the Oro festival, spirits and gods are evoked to commune with the sons of man. In the custom of the grove, young oros engage in call-and-response chants. The first oro booms, “Ewe meje-meje ni ege ni! (Cassava has seven leaves)” But, instead of the chant reverberating in and outside the grove, it hardly left the mouth of the oro. “What is going on?” Oro disciples began to wonder. A second oro chants, “Ewe meje-meje ni…,” but the second oro couldn’t finish the chant. Clearly, something was amiss. The third Oro burst into the chant, “Ewe me…,” and stopped abruptly like a rat caught in a gum trap.

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The gods are angry. The chief priest rose, looked up and down, and brought out his kola nuts for divination. He threw them on the ground. None looked up. “There’s an intruder in the grove,” he declared. Wizened with age and wisdom, the chief priest sang, “Baye ba ye won tan, iwa ibaje ni won n wu. O difa fun Olufimo Akoko ti o fi aya re mo oro, a pe ita, ita o je, a pe oro, oro o mi titi; e jeka ye inu apere oba wo, e je a ye inu apere oba wo. Translation: When they become successful, they begin to misbehave. This is the Ifa tale of Olufimo Akoko, who showed the secret of Oro to his wife; we called ‘ita’, ita didn’t respond, we called oro, oro didn’t vibrate – let’s look into the footstool of the king!)

Therefore, the footstool was flung open. The queen was brought out. A sword was unsheathed before her eyes, but she never lived to see it sheathed – ‘won ti oju e yo ida, won ti eyin e kiibo’.

Abimbola, a former vice chancellor of Obafemi Awolowo University, concludes in Yoruba, “Wasiu has become successful; he is now misbehaving. When you become successful, you should be careful. The plane would have cut his head off like the wife of Olufimo Akoko was beheaded. May our land not witness evil. Wasiu should be careful.”

What is in a name? Wasiu calls himself Arabambi, a name similar to Olubambi, the name of Sango, the Yoruba god of thunder and lightning, whose death was wrapped in mystery and controversy. Some say Sango committed suicide by hanging, but some say he never did. Abimbola said, “It’s a lie. Sango never committed suicide. It’s not in the Ifa corpus. The lie that he committed suicide was spun by the Anglican Mission to malign the memory of Sango. Sango’s name was not Arabambi; he was Olubambi.”

Well, Wasiu is a music icon and cultural asset to Nigeria, but may he not use his hands to undo himself, I pray. I say this prayer because a psychoanalysis of Wasiu’s actions reveals an expert in the art and science of arrogance and bootlicking. In the video of his disrespectful telephone conversation with President Tinubu, Wasiu put his left hand behind him – a sign of respect – when he talked to the President respectfully, using the pronoun ‘e’, but he put the same hand in his pocket when he talked to the President disrespectfully, using the pronoun ‘o’, like he was talking to his band boy.

In his unbashful character, Wasiu, in an old video, boasted on stage that he could stop a traveller from landing at the Murtala Muhammed International Airport, Lagos: “Emi gangan, walahi, ti n ba ni o ni de Murtala, o le wo Murtala; eniti o mo oba lo n fi oba sere o.” Jatijati.

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The conciliatory way the police, NCAA, FAAN and Keyamohandled Wasiu’s case, in contrast to the way authorities hurriedly bundled the daughter of a nobody, Emmanson, into prison, paints the picture of tigers tearing at the godfatherlessand a pride of lions caressing a bull. The Federal Government’s appointment of Ayinde as aviation security ambassador without the conclusion of the investigation amounts to an abuse of justice.

Some argue that Wasiu should not be brought to justice because he had tendered an apology. If an apology were the price for freedom for offenders, there would be no convicts in Nigerian prisons. R. Kelly and P. Diddy, by music achievements and success, are far better than Wasiu. But they are behind bars in the US today for criminal offences. If ‘I’m sorry’ could fetch them freedom, both would churn out Grammy-winning monster hits. If ‘I’m sorry’ could fetch ex-CBN Governor, Godwin Emefiele, freedom, the 64-year-old banker would use numbers to write “I’m sorry”. Despite saying sorry, the troublemaking singer, Portable, was arrested and made to pay fines when he beat up Ogun State environmental officials. He also corrected the building infraction he committed.

With a brand of Fuji relying more on beats than pearls of wisdom, Wasiu has endeared Fuji to the younger generation who prefer form to substance, but with his airport show of shame, he has dragged Fuji into the mud of shame.

Can Wasiu ever change? I doubt it. In his first show after the meltdown, Wasiu, in a most unrepentant manner, referenced the airport saga as ‘isele kekere’ (a minor incident), in a song in which he was begging for forgiveness. To say Wasiu cannot replicate his Abuja dishonourable display in countries such as the US, UK, Canada, etc., is far-fetched. He cannot do such in the Republic of Benin. I doubt if he could do that in Anambra, Abia, Rivers, etc. Cowards bully in their areas of influence.

One thing still beats me in all of this Fuji House of Commotion; it is the shocking realisation that some passengers on the Value Jet plane have not come together to file a class action lawsuit against Wasiu for endangering their lives. If I were on that plane, I would personally and jointly sue Wasiu, who needs to be taught a lesson.

Can Wasiu ever change? Yes, when the cock grows teeth.

* Concluded.

Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com

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NB: This column goes on a break from next week.

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