A couple of days ago, I jokingly wrote on my Facebook timeline: “Tell Wasiu Ayinde that, ‘Oba nk’oba o!' 'Awa wii.’” The post drew mixed reactions—comments for and against—and even prompted calls from as far as Canada and Japan. People wanted to know why I was insinuating the possibility of Wasiu Ayinde’s enthronement. This article, coupled with the obvious fact that Awujale Sikiru Kayode Adetona leveraged his influence in government quarters to upend the age-old Ijebu royal funeral rites, forms my intellectual rationale.
The passing of the Awujale of Ijebuland, Oba Sikiru Kayode Adetona, on July 18, 2025, marks the end of a monumental era. For sixty-five years—from the dusk of British colonialism to the complexities of 21st-century Nigeria—he remained a constant, an unshakable pillar of tradition and authority. His reign was so long and so defining that, for millions of Ijebu people, he is the only Awujale they have ever known. Yet, this very stability—a period of unprecedented royal peace—may have fostered a kind of collective amnesia, obscuring the volatile and often violent history of a throne that was once anything but secure.
Oba Adetona ascended the throne in 1960 as a young, forward-looking monarch, a symbol of a new Nigeria. He navigated the treacherous political waters of military coups, a civil war, and multiple democratic republics with a deftness that solidified his authority. Yet, his reign was not without peril. In 1981, he was suspended by the civilian Governor of Ogun State, Olabisi Onabanjo, in a direct clash between traditional authority and state power. As tensions with the state government simmered, history seemed poised to repeat itself.
Providence, however, intervened in the form of a military coup. The December 31, 1983 takeover, led by Major-General Muhammadu Buhari, swept away the entire civilian political class, including the state government that had posed a direct threat to Oba Adetona’s throne. This event effectively saved him from a prolonged confrontation—and a possible second deposition—securing his reign for another four decades. This close shave with history underscores the throne’s vulnerability, yet it pales in comparison to the turmoil the Ijebu people seem to have forgotten.
Before the “long peace” under Oba Adetona, the first half of the 20th century saw the Awujale’s stool become a revolving door of colonial manipulation and internal strife. Between 1915 and 1925, the throne experienced shocking instability. Oba Ademolu Fesogbade was deposed in 1915, reinstated in 1916, and deposed again in 1917. His successor, Oba Adenuga Folagbade, lasted only eight years before being deposed by colonial authorities in 1925. This was an era when the Awujale served largely at the pleasure of the British Resident—a far cry from the revered and autonomous institution that Oba Adetona would later embody.
Even more harrowing than the political depositions was the physical violence that once haunted the throne. Oba Adetona’s direct predecessor, Oba Daniel Adesanya (Gbelegbuwa II), carried the physical and emotional scars of such conflicts for life. In 1948, Oba Adesanya survived a brutal assassination attempt. He was shot by assailants linked to fierce disputes over his legitimacy and chieftaincy appointments. Though he survived, he was left maimed and partially paralyzed—a living testament to the fact that competition for the Ijebu throne could descend into life-or-death struggles.
Today, as the Fusengbuwa Ruling House deliberates and kingmakers consult the oracle, the romantic notion of a purely traditional process masks a harsh political reality. The power to enthrone or depose did not vanish with the Union Jack; it was merely transferred. The ultimate arbiter of who will become the next Awujale is the Governor of Ogun State—the direct successor to the colonial authority that once unseated monarchs like Oba Ademolu Fesogbade and Oba Adenuga Folagbade with the stroke of a pen, often with little regard for the people’s will.
In Nigeria’s modern political calculus, the Ogun State's "Eleyi" (sorry, governor’s) subservience to the incumbent president adds another critical layer to this dynamic. The past offers a chilling precedent: the 1983 military coup—a federal action under Buhari—saved the immediate past Awujale from suspension by Governor Olabisi Onabanjo. This historical event demonstrates that the power at the center can supersede that of the state. Consequently, the incumbent president may discreetly lean on the governor to appoint a candidate who aligns with his political interests. This reality could open the door to any bona fide Ijebu prince who enjoys the favor of those in power—even a popular crooner whose name some Ijebu elites cringe to hear mentioned in the succession race.
In this shifting landscape, where politics often trumps tradition and influence outshines precedence, it is not far-fetched that a figure like Wasiu Ayinde Marshal—globally celebrated as the Fuji maestro who has, for decades, been the culturo-political voice and unofficial griot of PBAT—could emerge as a contender in whispers and speculations. His music, steeped in Yoruba history, proverbs, and identity, has done more to immortalize the Awujale’s prestige in popular consciousness than many royal courtiers combined. In an age where cultural relevance is as potent as ancestral pedigree, and where state and federal power can anoint the unexpected, the mere mention of Wasiu Ayinde’s name in the succession discourse is both provocative and symbolic: a reminder that the next Awujale may not just wear a crown of beads, but also the crown of modern influence.
Gbola Oba (Omo Iya Eleja Ni Mushin-Olosha) writes from Lagos
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