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About 3yrs ago, my dad came to stay with me for the most part of that year.
Cos of his jovial & friendly nature he quickly made friends around the estate & was always asking me “do you know so so so”, how about Mr xyz? Me weh be say na to comot for morning, come back at night.
they called me a madman when I said I would love to gather every Sunday, do psychedelics and discuss true spirituality and its connection to attaining true happiness.
they called me a madman when I said I would love to gather every Sunday, do psychedelics and discuss true spirituality and its connection to attaining true happiness.
go find every podcast in your niche with under 5k listeners and pitch yourself as a guest. they need content, you need distribution. do 20 of these and you'll have more inbound than your cold outreach ever produced - and you're borrowing their credibility every time they introduce you.
The Kiriji War, Part One: The Headless Messenger and the Arrogance of Power (1877–1880)
The Republic of War
To understand why the hills of Yorubaland were about to run red with blood for sixteen long years, you first have to understand the bully in the playground. You have to understand Ibadan.
By the late 19th century, the old Oyo Empire, that glorious and sophisticated machinery of state that once commanded respect from the coast to the Niger, had collapsed. It died of internal decay and external pressure from the Fulani Jihadists. But nature abhors a vacuum. From the ashes of that collapse rose a new power, but this was not a kingdom of royal blood and ancient traditions. It was something terrifyingly modern.
Ibadan was not founded by princes. It began as a refugee camp. It was a settlement of rough men, mercenaries, displaced warriors, and opportunists who had fled the destruction of the old northern towns. If Old Oyo was the aristocratic grandfather who spoke in proverbs and wore velvet, Ibadan was the rugged grandson who smoked hemp, carried a heavy club, and punched you in the face if you looked at him sideways.
Ibadan was a military republic. In this town, your daddy’s name did not matter. It did not matter if you were born a slave or a prince. The only thing that mattered was how well you could swing a sword and how many enemies you could capture. It was a meritocracy of violence. War was not just a necessity for Ibadan; war was its primary industry. They did not farm much because farming was backbreaking work for peasants. Instead, they farmed their neighbours.
They looked at the surrounding territories, specifically the Ijesha and the Ekiti peoples to the east, not as brothers, but as a pantry. The Ekitis were industrious farmers who produced hills of yams and rivers of palm oil. To the war chiefs of Ibadan, these people existed solely to feed the belly of the war camp. They called them their slaves and treated them with a contempt that would eventually rot the very foundation of their empire.
The General Who Challenged Death
At the helm of this military machine in 1877 was a man named Obadoke Latoosa.
Latoosa held the title of Aare Ona Kakanfo, the Generalissimo of the Yoruba armies. It is a title that comes with a heavy spiritual price. History and superstition dictated that holders of this title were destined to die violent deaths and were often required to commit ritual suicide if they suffered a military defeat. It was a cursed seat.
But Latoosa was different. He was a man of colossal ego and terrifying ambition. He did not intend to die young. He intended to swallow the whole of Yorubaland and spit out a unified empire with himself at the head. He was not satisfied with being a mere general; he wanted to be the absolute ruler.
He surrounded himself with sycophants who told him he was greater than the gods. He treated the nominal King, the Alaafin of Oyo, as a quaint relic to be tolerated rather than obeyed. Latoosa believed that the iron in his hand was stronger than the spirits in the shrine. He pushed the boundaries of tradition, executing chiefs who disagreed with him and confiscating property with reckless abandon. He was a man drunk on power, staggering towards a cliff edge, and he was dragging the entire Yoruba race with him.
The Terror of the Ajeles
The true instrument of Ibadan’s oppression was not the army that marched out once a year, but the administrative stranglehold known as the Ajele system.
An Ajele was a resident representative, a sort of colonial district officer or tax collector stationed in the vassal towns of Ekiti and Ijesha. But to call them tax collectors is to be far too polite. They were licensed extortionists.
Imagine having a houseguest who refuses to leave, eats all your food, sleeps in your master bedroom, demands your money, and then beats you if the soup is not hot enough. That was an Ajele.
Read the rest here: https://t.co/Nq5xonFQOR