Among the Yoruba, an enduring proverb echoes through generations: “Ọmọ Ọ̀rúnmìlà kò lè sọnù.” – The child of Ọ̀rúnmìlà can never be lost.
It is a declaration rooted not merely in folklore but in the vast treasury of Ifa, where countless verses uphold the conviction that the offspring of the sage who witnessed destiny can never wander beyond the reach of providence.
Yet, hidden within the same sacred corpus, lies a haunting paradox.
Ifa preserves the painful account of a time when the child of Ọ̀rúnmìlà was not only lost but, in a cruel twist of fate, was sacrificed in error. That tragedy became the watershed that ended the practice of human sacrifice in Yorubaland. So, whenever anyone hastily labels the Yoruba—or indeed the Black race—as practitioners of human sacrifice, this ancient narrative deserves to be told before judgment is passed.
In the days when myths breathed alongside men and the ant was said to tower above the elephant, there lived a woman whose greatest sorrow was barrenness. Year after year, she remained childless, becoming, in Yoruba expression, “obìnrin tó fi ọwọ́ ọ̀sùn nu ògiri gbígbẹ” – the woman who wiped her camwood-stained fingers on dry walls. Despair eventually led her to the doorstep of Ọ̀rúnmìlà. She desired nothing extravagant—only the privilege of motherhood before death claimed her.
The great sage, mindful of the kindness the woman had once shown him, cast the sacred divination. Ifa unveiled only two paths before her. She could remain childless and live a life of peace, for, after all, whether a woman bears children or not, there will always be hands to commit her body to the earth when her journey ends.
The second path promised motherhood, but at a devastating cost. She would conceive through a man endowed with profound wisdom, yet destiny decreed that the child would not survive to bury her mother. There was no third option. Heaven had spoken. Such is why Ifa is revered as Eleri Ìpín – the Witness of Destiny.
Without hesitation, the woman embraced motherhood, regardless of its bitter end. And in that age, there was no man whose wisdom eclipsed that of Ọ̀rúnmìlà himself. Their union blossomed into conception, and in due season, the woman brought forth a daughter whom they named Ọlọ́mọ.
The little girl grew under the roof of Ọ̀rúnmìlà, nurtured by both father and mother. Then, one mysterious day, mother and child vanished without a trace.
Ọ̀rúnmìlà searched relentlessly. The finest Babaláwos of the age consulted the Oracle, yet every divination returned the same immutable verdict: the prophecy pronounced at Ọlọ́mọ’s birth would surely be fulfilled. Time might delay destiny, but it could never defeat it.
Years later, calamity descended upon Otu Ife, the ancient cradle of humanity. Disorder engulfed the land, and the people sought divine counsel. Ifa demanded a human sacrifice. Yet Ọ̀rúnmìlà laid down an unbreakable injunction: the child of an initiate must never be offered upon the altar – “A kì í fi ọmọ ọ̀rẹ́ bo ọ̀rẹ́.” He therefore instructed the young men to venture beyond the town’s boundaries in search of a stranger suitable for the sacrifice.
After days of raiding a neighbouring settlement, they returned with a beautiful young woman captured as a slave. Without consulting Ifa to determine whether she was acceptable to the gods, they hurriedly offered her in sacrifice.
Heaven responded with ominous signs.
Alarmed, Ọ̀rúnmìlà once again sought the counsel of Ifa. The revelation shattered him. The young woman slain upon the altar was none other than Ọlọ́mọ—his long-lost daughter.
Overwhelmed by grief, the sage mourned not only the death of his child but the terrible consequences of human error. From the ashes of that tragedy emerged a decree that would forever alter Yoruba history: never again would human sacrifice be practised in Yorubaland.
To seal the covenant, Ọ̀rúnmìlà prepared a symbolic offering with iyerosun (divination powder) ikin mẹ́rìndínlógún (16 divination chains), roasted yam and seven wooden combs. Then he proclaimed another timeless ordinance: no father or mother whose child has gone missing should ever cease searching or speaking until that child is found.
From that solemn declaration sprang yet another enduring Yoruba saying: “Isu àtẹnumọ́rò kì í jóná” – the yam of one who never stops reminding others never gets burnt. As the sacrificial yam roasted, Ọ̀rúnmìlà repeatedly urged his apprentices to keep turning it. Their vigilance preserved the meal, just as persistence preserves hope.
That ancient injunction came rushing back to memory on the morning of Friday, May 15, 2026, when heartbreaking news emerged from Oríire Local Government Area of Oyo State. Armed bandits had invaded schools, abducting pupils and teachers. One teacher was reportedly killed during the attack, while another, Michael Oyedokun, was later gruesomely beheaded in captivity.
Shock rippled across Nigeria. Yorubaland descended into collective anguish. Mass abduction of schoolchildren was never considered one of the afflictions of Oduduwa’s homeland. Instinctively, the Yoruba remembered Ọ̀rúnmìlà’s timeless command: no parent must remain silent while a child is missing.
The cry for justice became deafening. From newspaper columns to radio studios, from community meetings to the bustling streets, voices rose in unison. Journalists, public affairs commentators, traditional leaders and ordinary citizens refused to let the story fade. The search for the missing children became a shared moral obligation.
So, the noise in the South-West was deafening. Virtually everyone was involved in the search for the missing children and their teachers. Columnists, opinion leaders and public affairs analysts did not sleep. Musical artistes and content creators including Simi, Baeyu Barbie among others, did not relent in their ardent cries for the release of the victims.
While Simi went to the studios to produce one of the most tear-inducing lyrics of our age, David Adeleke, popularly known as Davido seized the opportunity of a global audience to drum up the beat for a prompt release of the Oriire abductees. It was like there had never been a mass abduction of school children in Nigeria before the Oríire incident.
At the forefront stood Governor Seyi Makinde of Oyo State. Rather than embark on the familiar pilgrimage to Abuja in search of sympathy, he remained rooted in Oyo, directing efforts from the state where the tragedy occurred. He appeared to understand that leadership, in moments of crisis, is measured less by ceremony than by steadfast presence.
I don’t want to go into the politics of the abduction and the loud silence from the highest quarters over the issue. We would leave that for posterity to judge. Nevertheless, we must record it that the Oríire abduction, and the ‘rescue’ or ‘release’ of the victims, 56 days later, leaves an ugly indelible mark in the history of politics in Nigeria.
Governor Makinde himself noted that on Friday, July 10. While speaking in Bauchi State, he said that Nigerian politics, especially as it affects the opposition, “…is very toxic. It is in the darkest moments, I can say that to you.” Nothing can be far from the truth. We all can only hope, as the governor expressed that the day would break and Nigeria would experience “a new dawn…when “the sun will start rising again for Nigeria.”
It was in that Bauchi engagement that Governor Makinde made the most instructive statement about the Oríire abduction, when he submitted thus: “You need to situate things in proper perspective… The insecurity you mentioned happened two months ago, May 15. So, for several years, we didn’t witness anything like this in Oyo State. I declared to run for the presidency of Nigeria at 4 o’clock. And by 9 a.m. the following morning, the children were abducted.”
I said the “most instructive statement” because while the saga lasted, a lot of government apologists castigated those of us who insisted that looking for the pupils, rescuing them and bringing them back to their parents is the sole responsibility of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, who is the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. We owe nobody any apology for that stance. The latest event over the matter has justified our stand on the issue.
And Makinde, again, hinted at that when he quipped further in Bauchi, that: “And it’s so unbelievable. When Chibok happened, it was the fault of President Jonathan. They went all over the world, asked Jonathan to bring back the children. But this happened, now and, it is the irresponsibility of the State Governor and the State Government.”
He enunciated this by stating that the appellation of ‘chief security officer’ given to any state governor is a huge joke. No governor, Makinde reiterated, has control over the Commissioner of Police, the Director of the Department of State Security (DSS) or the State Commandant of the Nigeria Security and Civil Defence Corps (NSCDC).
This is why it is heartwarming that President Tinubu rose to the occasion and hours after Makinde alluded to the coincidence of his declaration for the nation’s presidency and the abduction of the school pupils and teachers, the victims were ‘rescued!’ Nigeria is indeed the seventh wonder of the world!
