Oba Onisile, Read How Power Kills, By Funke Egbemode 

Oba Amuniwaye was an Alaafin who died between the legs of a woman. But that is a matter for another day. Today is about his successor, Oba Onisile, the powerful leader who didn’t know that power has limits.

Many years ago, in the old Oyo Kingdom, there once reigned an Alaafin called Onisile. He was a respected warrior whose many successful exploits earned him many nicknames of admiration. He was fearless and focused. For his fearless and indomitable spirit, he was called the warrior whose horse could leap over the wall.

In addition to being a king and leader who took his warring serious, Onisile also loved the good things of life. For instance, he was reported to have installed seven silver doors at the entrances to his quarters in the palace. It was also recorded that it was during his reign that Sekere (the beaded calabash drum) moved from just wearing cowries to costly beads, such as iyun (corals), segi (blue pipe beads), erinla (yellow pipe beads) and even okun (the Benin stone beads).

According to Reverend Samuel Johnson’s The History of the Yorubas,  in spite of Onisile’s prowess and popularity, his rashness and fearlessness was the ultimate cause of his death. At some point, the point that signposted the end of reign and life, Alaafin Onisile was warned against experimenting with the ‘sun leaf’, a plant belief to possess electrical properties that can attract lightening. Did Onisile listen? He didn’t. A warrior who held down many prisoners with his clanging chains after leaping over many walls with his uncommonly powerful horse was a man whose power had gone to his head and blinded his eyes. Onisile said he would do whatever he wanted to do. The king was unquestionable. He was father of all and ‘husband of the town’. He was ruler over everybody and everything. He forgot that if the Yoruba call you ‘Aleeba’ – the runner that you cannot catch up with, it is because the other runners are deliberately giving you a respectable head start and distance to lead. When they decide it’s time to cut you to size, they will not only catch up with you, they will overtake you, hiss and spit in your face as they speed pass. The Sango worshippers, let us not forget, were in ‘charge’ of lightning and they brooked no competition. Imagine if an Alaafin had succeeded in taking away their powers and clout, broken their monopoly, everything bestowed on them by Sango Olukoso, the one whose eyes were permanently red whether he was spitting fire from his mouth or not. It was unimaginable. So, the Sango worshippers managed to attract lightning on the palace while Onisile was trying to use the sun leaf to do the same. The king was struck and from the shock, he became paralyzed. Thus, he was incapacitated from performing the duties of his office. The chiefs of Oyo, seeing the Oba was now depending on servants to carry him, swooped on the palace and accused him of challenging the one and only god of thunder to a duel, and losing. They told Onisile, he had to ‘behave like a man’, a flowery choice of words to instruct him to commit suicide by opening the calabash.

I like the way Reverend Johnson concluded the story. “Unchecked despotism, unrestrained license, insatiable greed and wanton voluptuousness should not be allowed to flourish throughout the full term of a natural life time”. That summed the guiding principles of checks and balances to the throne in the old Oyo. No king ruled without the kingmakers who watched the Alaafin closely under bushy hooded lashes and knew when to, on behalf of the people, present him with a calabash of parrot-eggs, three powerful lines and end an era and reign.

Things are different now. The ‘kingmakers’ are too full and fat to talk or even consider that every good thing comes to an end, eventually. And it is time to remind them. Our men of power and caliber must self-censor, lest the power they are named and hailed for nail them. They must learn to read the times, know when to war, when to negotiate and when to wisely nicely do nothing.

 Hailing and hyping is part of our culture. It is even more pronounced in our political culture. An aspirant picks a form to contest the gubernatorial seat (that may not be vacant, really) and his hangers-on start calling him ‘Your Excellency’. They cook up ‘polls and statistics’ while drinking beer and sumptuous pepper soup.

My dear brother in power or politics, never forget yourself on the stage of the hailers because when you fall, they are not likely to help you up. They will take their drums to the next arena. Do not lose yourself in the pool of those who see you as nothing more than a meal ticket. Hangers-on and ‘Area boys’ are not always in tattered jeans and head-warmers. They do not always speak in weed-laden voices. They also wear expensive perfume and designer suits. They shake with soft palms and speak in even softer voice. They nicely convincingly tell their ‘meal ticket’ that he’s on the right path, even when he’s at the edge of a precipice. Power ruins. Power kills. It does not just corrupt absolutely

However, the good news is, power does not kill suddenly. It kills slowly. It kills the unsuspecting, the undiscerning, the careless. It kills the foolhardy cripple who sees the gathering storm and cloudy sky but refuses to start making his way slowly but steadily home to shelter. Is this the same thing as ‘power is transient’? No. There were wise men who remained powerful till the end, and even in death their memories are still of their clout. This is about knowing how to hold and wield power, knowing when to soft-pedal or back-track, knowing that constant consistent aggression leads to destruction

The elephant is big, feared and respected but the day it succumbs to the drumbeats of the hypers and hailers is the day his reign ends. The day he actually starts believing, that he is too big to just be king of animals is the day he signs its death warrant. The day he agrees to follow the hailers to the grave dressed like the throne room is the day he becomes food for the gods. Those who read the ‘A o m’erin joba’ story in the Yoruba primary school text called Alawiye by J.F. Odunjo know the sweet lyrics of that deadly song. The song once played in Abuja and a big man kissed the canvas spectacularly. It is playing now again, less loudly in Rivers. The orchestra convinced a certain Governor that ‘Nothing do am’. Now that ‘something don do am’, only he knows the pain and loneliness of one governor living in one boy’s quarters of another, the grayness of the governor going to Sunday service without an advance party or a loud long convoy. But this is not about any suspended music. It is about all of them in power, the suspender and the suspended.

Alaafin Onisile was ‘convinced’ to bite the cyanide by the same people who called him fearless warrior. Those who tell our leaders whatever they tell them that make them misbehave do so because they profit from it. They hail because it works for them, their businesses. They urge the elephant on but leave him in the hole alone when he falls. An elephant is an ‘Ajanaku’ until he falls. The drums won’t always beat. The demons will soon move on to their next prey, their next source of income. Powerful men who are swayed by nicknames and hyped trumpets don’t last. There is a limit to what you can do on that throne, especially because it is a four-year rush. If the world is hailing you today, be careful how far you go, how many enemies you acquire because the last drumbeat you’ll hear may be:

No matter how powerful people tell you or you think you are, you owe yourself a duty to caution yourself, know when to pull the brakes because when things go bad, you’ll be left all alone.