Máa Jó Lọ́ Mọ́, Mo Ńwẹ́yìn Rẹ — The Awùjalẹ̀ Stool, By Otunba Abiodun Olufowobi ( Pabiekun)

When the Awùjalẹ̀ stool became vacant, the palace air filled with drums long before wisdom arrived. Names of all sorts of persons—even rich strangers—were whispered; lineages were recited; histories selectively remembered. And in the corridors—far from the sanctity of the throne room—the chants began.
“Máa jó lọ́,”
Come onto the royal parade,
Ijẹ̀bú-Ode urged the interested aspirants—especially those who had met Ajẹ́, the god of money.
“Mo ńwẹ́yìn rẹ,”
I’ve got your back, intoned Ijẹ̀bú-Ode.
The wise aspirant hesitated. He knew the terrain was sacred—mined with tradition, law, and ancestral consequences. But the voices of Ijẹ̀bú-Ode were many, and they sounded confident.
Then came the sweeter lie again, from the raging chorus:
“Máa jó lọ́ mọ́, mo ńwẹ́yìn rẹ.”
Dance on; we are behind you.
What Ijẹ̀bú-Ode did not say was that she knew of the pit ahead.
She knew of the Declaration.
She knew of the ruling house order.
She knew of the precedents of judgment.
She also knew that the kingmakers’ unanimity was imperative and non-negotiable.

Beyond Ijẹ̀bú-Ode, however, the Lords of Ìtà-Òsùgbọ̀, long forsaken by the stool—and whose Ilédì abutting the Post Office had degenerated into wanton neglect—looked on disinterestedly.
The Tàmì and his fifteen Aládẹ̀s, long handed the wrong end of the stick and deprived of the King’s dance for the “offence” of inadvertently revealing the UPAWO vest beneath the Ẹkù—that sacred garb meant to be apolitical—also watched, forlorn and resigned.

Meanwhile, with every step Prince Ohunọ̀júnwà took forward, the drums grew louder. Every doubt he raised was dismissed as cowardice; every caution was reframed as weakness.
“History is on your side.”
“Public sentiment favours you.”
“The times have changed.”
But Ijẹ̀bú-Ode knew that tradition had not.
The long-forgotten and long-suffering Awórósàsàs—victims of the modernisation drive of Òkè-Mọ̀sàn, yet the true custodians of the spirit, nuances, and temperament of the Ijẹ̀bú red earth and its essence—knew better. But they chose silence.
The advisers who should have warned chose influence.
The drummers were paid and had work to do.
The chanters too were paid and had no stake in the fall.
And when the pit finally opens—as pits always do in Ijẹ̀bú matters—it will open quietly, legally, and irrevocably.
Court judgments will speak where drums could not.
Ijẹ̀bú custom will assert itself where noise once reigned.
Suddenly, those who sang “Máa jó lọ́ mọ́, mo ńwẹ́yìn rẹ” will be nowhere to be found.
They will later say:
“We never pushed him.”
“We only encouraged.”
“He chose to dance.”
But Ijẹ̀bú wisdom knows better.
For “Máa jó lọ́ mọ́, mo ńwẹ́yìn rẹ” is never innocent when spoken by those who know the ground—and it is wicked when the chanter plans to retreat.

Milords, my point is simple: the Awùjalẹ̀ stool is not a dance floor. It is an altar of law, lineage, restraint, and silence. Anyone who urges a person — known to be unqualified pursuant to the laws, spirit, character, and nuanced traditions irretrievably linked to the Awùjalẹ̀ stool—to dance toward it while standing safely behind is not a supporter. He is a pptential spectator of disaster.
And history, as always, records not the drums,
but who dug the pit,
who knew it was there,
and who sang anyway.
From experience, whenever my late father, Alhaji Alli Olatunji Olufowobi (Dodondawa), intoned “Ijẹ̀bú-Ode” on any matter, it meant a fatal conspiracy had just been survived—or narrowly avoided.
Míkéré ajágbálùrá.
Mo bẹ̀rù rẹ o. — PABIEKUN