A kìí ni jàbà jàbà ká fi téfòn
Olúkólú kan ò tó Oòni o
Òkèkókè kan ò tó òkè ìgbàdì
Òkè ìgbàdì ló pàtàkì
Ló gbé mi lórí, ló senu bonbo bí erínjinwó
A dífá fún Ọba aládé ajítòrosègi
Kí ayé le ye òhun ní n dífá sí
Èbó làwo ní ó wá mú ṣe
Ó rúbọ, èbó rè dà
Ó ń yìn awo, awo ń yìn Ifá
Njẹ omi tí mo dá jí pon
Omi tí mo fi òwúrò pon
Ìwà mi kàsàìtòrò o
Omi tí mo dá jí pon
Omi tí mo fi òwúrò pon
Ìwà mi kàsàìtòrò o
— Èjì Ogbè (Ifá App)
Empires rise and fall. And when empires fall, so too does the power of the emperor.
It happened with Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon, where grandeur gave way to ruin, leaving his successors without the awe or dominion once commanded.
It happened in Rome, when the mighty Caesars, once rulers of the known world, were reduced to powerless figures as the empire fractured under the weight of invasions, corruption, and overreach.
It happened in Persia, where Darius and Xerxes ruled vast territories stretching from the Indus to the Aegean, only for Alexander the Great’s conquest to strip their successors of both throne and dignity.
The Pharaohs of Egypt, once seen as gods on earth, lost not only their divine aura but also their sovereignty when Greeks and later Romans absorbed their kingdom.
That is why in Yorubaland, the contest of primacy between thrones like that of the Ooni and the Alaafin cannot be settled by military or political power, because those expire. It must be settled by cultural logic, the kind of logic that endures through generations. Ooni represents the source of the Yoruba people, as the spiritual and ancestral centre in Ile-Ife, while the Alaafin historically represents imperial power derived from conquest and expansion. One embodies origin; the other, empire. And history has always shown us: empires rise and fall, but the idea of origin rarely fades.
The only reason a father is above his son, no matter how powerful the son becomes, is that it is logical: the source is always greater than what it produces. This is not conquest, nor force, nor theology. It is cultural reasoning.
When Oyo fell, the Alaafin’s imperial power fell too, because logic demands so. It is illogical, for example, for the Alaafin to claim superiority over the Egba, whose hero Lisabi defeated Oyo’s forces and won their freedom. It is equally impossible for the Alaafin to claim supremacy over the Ekiti or Ijesha, where Oyo never truly held sway.
Even in territories once conquered by Oyo, Alaafin’s supremacy cannot be indefinitely sustained. If he insists on ruling where Oyo once conquered, then by the same reasoning, the Emir of Ilorin, whose Sokoto-aligned emirate dealt the final blow to Oyo, would stand above him. And if the Alaafin is head of the Yoruba race, then by extension, the Yoruba themselves become subjects of the Sultan. That logic is absurd, and it collapses under the weight of history.
The truth is clear: even if the Oyo Empire still stood, the Alaafin would only be lord over his conquered territories, not the entirety of Yorubaland.
History is clear on one thing: imperial power isn’t inherited. It is fought for and sustained with force. Once a greater force emerges, the empire crumbles. But cultural power is eternal. Wherever a people go, their origin (history) goes.
Babylon fell. Rome fell. Mali fell. Songhai fell. Oyo itself fell. But Ile-Ife, as the cradle of Yoruba origin, can never fall, because its authority is not imperial, but cultural.
This Ifá verse should settle it: Olúkólú kan ò tó Ọòni o!
Alaafin lost his imperial power when his empire ceased to exist. What remains today is the reverence we voluntarily accord him as the memory of a king who once ruled a significant part of what is now Yorubaland.
By Damilola Ayeni, the former editor of the Foundation for Investigative Journalism (FIJ), writes at the intersection of memory, justice and technology.
Credit the cable
