The Yoruba socio-political philosophy has never been comfortable with the idea of permanence, it constantly reminds those with ears of the impermanence of power and the fragility of every human structure built on temporary authority; it treats power instead as a condition that must constantly justify itself through restraint, moral balance, and an awareness of its own fragility. It is within this deeply rooted philosophy of impermanence that one of its most evocative proverbs emerges: “Ohun to n tan l’odun Eegun, omo Alagbaa si maa f’akara je eko.”.
This proverb cannot be understood through literal translation alone; it must be explained through the cultural and symbolic world of the Egungun festival in Yorubaland. To understand its depth, one must first appreciate the sacred position of the Alagbaa—the custodian of the Egungun tradition—and the way the festival temporarily reshapes social order, privilege, and abundance within the community. The Egungun festival is not an ordinary celebration. It is one of the most spiritually significant moments within traditional Yoruba society. During the festival, the masquerade becomes a sacred symbol of ancestral authority, mystery, fear, reverence and communal power. The Alagbaa, as custodian of the masquerade tradition, occupies a unique social position during this period. His household transforms into the centre of communal attention. Drums beat endlessly around his domain. Crowds troop in and out. Honour follows him. Prestige surrounds him. Influence radiates naturally from his household into the wider community; and with influence comes abundance. Food flows endlessly into the Alagbaa’s compound during the festival. Akara is fried in large quantities. Eko (agidi) is prepared in abundance. Visitors are entertained lavishly. The atmosphere is one of overflowing relevance. In those moments, the Alagbaa’s household appears untouchable, elevated above ordinary existence by the force of culture, ritual and temporary communal reverence.
So much akara fills the Alagbaa’s compound that his children become tired of eating it. Meanwhile, the ordinary akara seller in the market suffers quietly because nobody is buying from her during the festival. Why spend money at the marketplace when the centre of power distributes abundance freely?
Yoruba philosophy has always distrusted permanence. It understands that no condition of life is eternal, whether suffering or dominance. So, immediately after elevating the Alagbaa’s temporary glory, the proverb introduces the brutal equalizer of existence. The festival will end. The drums will stop. The masquerades will return to the grove. The crowd will disappear. The sacred excitement will dissolve into ordinary life. And when that moment comes, the same children of the Alagbaa who once had akara in embarrassing abundance will quietly return to the same marketplace to buy akara from the same ordinary seller previously ignored during the season of power.
This proverb teaches us acknowledges not only that power exists, but also that power expires. Warns those in power that temporary influence often deceives men into believing they have become permanent. This proverb is a cautionary wisdom, against the intoxication of temporary authority. It warns those at the centre of applause never to mistake seasonal relevance for eternal dominance, and there has rarely been a more appropriate time to remember that wisdom than now.
It is against this backdrop that the recent press statement issued by the Federal Capital Territory Administration (FCTA) must be read with careful constitutional attention. The recent statement threatening revocation of titles belonging to hotels, event centres and public facilities allegedly used by what it called “illegal organizations” reveals something deeply troubling about the psychology of power in Nigeria today. Beyond the official language of security and public order lies a more dangerous reality: the growing temptation of government to weaponize administrative authority in ways that quietly shrink democratic space.
The most dangerous forms of authoritarianism are rarely dramatic in their early stages. They often begin with vague warnings, administrative threats, regulatory intimidation. Carefully worded statements designed not necessarily to prosecute people, but to frighten society into silence. That is precisely what makes the FCTA statement disturbing. The phrase “illegal organizations” is dangerously elastic. Undefined power is always dangerous power. Who determines what constitutes an illegal organization? Through what process? Under what law? Has a court made such declaration? Has there been judicial pronouncement? Or are Nigerians now expected to interpret governmental preferences as judicial pronouncement? The danger of vague state language is that it creates fear far beyond its actual words. A hotel owner who merely wants to run a business suddenly becomes afraid of hosting civic organizations, political meetings, student groups, activists or opposition figures because nobody wants to attract governmental hostility. Fear begins to regulate public life more effectively than law itself, and once fear becomes the silent regulator of civic participation, democracy itself begins to die.
The most politically revealing aspect of the FCTA statement was not even the threat against “illegal organizations,” but the warning that hotels and event centres must ensure they deal only with “INEC recognised leadership” of political parties during “this political season.” That sentence reveals the deeper political undercurrent beneath the bureaucratic language. In a country like Nigeria where political parties are perpetually engulfed in factional disputes, conflicting court orders and endless litigation, such a directive effectively places private businesses inside volatile political warfare. Suddenly, a hotel owner seeking to rent out a hall for survival must now navigate complex electoral disputes before approving reservations.
This is how fear kills democratic freedoms. No law may formally ban opposition activity. No decree may openly prohibit lawful gatherings. Yet businesses become afraid, venues become unavailable. Civic participation becomes risky. Society begins regulating itself through fear of consequences not yet fully defined; and that is always how democracy dies.
Power has a unique ability to distort human perception. It convinces governments that moments are permanent. It seduces political actors into believing institutions exist merely to protect entities rather than society and democracy itself. It creates the illusion that public fear equals public loyalty. It blinds those at the centre of authority to the temporary nature of influence.
That is why the story of the Alagbaa matters so profoundly.
Because during the Egungun festival, the children of the Alagbaa genuinely experience abundance so overwhelming that ordinary life begins to look permanently distant from them. The marketplace becomes irrelevant while the festival lasts. The ordinary akara seller appears insignificant beside the overflowing privilege of the Alagbaa’s compound. But Yoruba wisdom insists on one uncomfortable truth: The festival always ends. Always. And when it ends, life returns men to reality.
History is filled with governments, empires, political parties and powerful individuals who believed their own festivals would never end. They controlled institutions. They commanded fear. They influenced narratives. They intimidated critics. They weaponized state authority. They mistook temporary control for permanent ownership of society. Yet eventually, history humbled them all, because no political power is eternal and no atmosphere of fear survives forever. The society survive only when leaders understand limits. The lesson of the Alagbaa is not hostility toward power. Yoruba society respects authority deeply. The lesson is humility before the temporary nature of influence. It is the understanding that no matter how loud the drums beat around a man today, silence will eventually return. The crowds praising today may disappear tomorrow. The institutions defending today may become distant tomorrow. The fear protecting today may evaporate tomorrow.
And eventually, like the children of the Alagbaa returning to the marketplace after the festival, those who once occupied intimidating heights of authority must stand once again before the same public they previously ignored, threatened or dismissed.
Opatola Victor Esq. Is the National Coordinator, Lawyers for Civil Liberties and can be reached via victor@lacivler.org
