By Babafemi Ojudu
There are moments in the life of a people when difficult questions must be asked—not for provocation, but for the preservation of conscience. This is one of such moments.
Across Nigeria today, there is a growing perception—fair or unfair—that the Yoruba, once regarded as a stabilizing moral force in the national equation, are retreating into a posture that appears insular, defensive, and at times indifferent to the concerns of others. In politics and nation-building, perception—if left unchallenged—often hardens into reality.
It is painful to admit this. Historically, the Yoruba earned respect not merely for their achievements, but for their values: fairness, justice, equity, and the courage to speak truth to power—even when it was inconvenient, even when it came at great personal cost. From the struggle for independence, through the turbulence of the First Republic, to resistance against military dictatorship, our voice was never defined by who held power, but by what was right.
Today, that voice risks being muffled.
Across the country, one senses a subtle but troubling shift. The bridges we once took pride in building—between the South-West and other regions—are showing signs of strain. Old suspicions are resurfacing. Historical grievances, particularly with the Igbo, which we hoped time and shared struggles had softened, are finding new expression. Even our longstanding engagements with the North seem less firmly anchored.
Nations are not broken in a day. They unravel slowly—through silence, compromise, selective outrage, and the quiet normalization of what we once rejected.
A few months ago, an elderly friend called me. His tone was calm, but his message was firm. He urged me to temper my criticism of the government, describing it as “our own.” He added that he and a prominent lawyer had discussed me at length and agreed that someone needed to speak to me.
I listened—as one must listen to elders. But I also responded—as conscience demands.
I told him that if there is no Yoruba man willing to call attention to what is going wrong, then we must deliberately create one. A people who find their voice only when those in power are not from among them lose the right to be taken seriously when they eventually speak.
Today will pass, and those who wield power now will become yesterday, just as those before them have receded into history. In time, a new generation will rise to judge them, just as today’s actors sit in judgment over the past.
Is it not, therefore, both wise and necessary that some voices speak now—so that when tomorrow’s powers seek to trample the rights of today, distort their deeds, or condemn them unjustly, there will remain a record, a conscience, and a defence against the tyranny of hindsight?
History is unkind to selective outrage.
What we excuse today, we legitimize for tomorrow. I am not unaware that the “ídì bẹ̀bẹ̀rẹ̀” and “àwa lọ́kàn” chorus will rise in response. But does it matter?
The point is simple: when human rights are bent or broken and we look away, we create a future where such abuses become normal. When corruption deepens and we rationalize it because “our own” is in charge, we erode the very moral ground we once stood upon. When nepotism and exclusion creep into the system and we remain silent, we become complicit—actively or passively—in the erosion of justice.
And when the tide inevitably turns, we may find that our protests carry no weight. We would have spent our credibility.
This is not opposition for its own sake. Nor is it disloyalty to one’s ethnic group or political affiliation. It is something deeper—fidelity to principles that transcend the accidents of identity and the fleeting nature of power.
The Yoruba have never been defined by tribal triumphalism. At our best, we are defined by intellectual honesty, moral courage, and a cosmopolitan outlook that sees beyond narrow boundaries. That is the legacy we inherited. That is the standard we must uphold.
To defend what is right when it is inconvenient is not betrayal—it is leadership.
To question power, even when it is “our own,” is not sabotage—it is responsibility.
