AWUJALE: MAY NO ONE WHO DESPISES THE ANCESTORS NEVER SIT ON THE THRONE AGAIN
AWUJALE: MAY NO ONE WHO DESPISES THE ANCESTORS NEVER SIT ON THE THRONE AGAIN
The world watched as the Awujale was buried
Not with the sacred drums of his fathers,
Not beneath the chants of the Òrìsà that raised him.
But under borrowed prayers, cast in borrowed tongues,
Stripped of our sacred rites, veiled in foreign prayers.
He was no one until the Òrìsà found him.
The deities breathed life into his dust,
Placed a crown upon his unworthy head,
And called the people to kneel before him.
But he rose only to rise against them.
He turned his back on the shrines,
Unclasped his hands from the ancestors,
And shut his ears to the voices of the land.
A king crowned by tradition, but who warred against tradition.
He sat upon a sacred throne yet denied the Òrìsà that built it.
It was never like this in the days of our fathers.
Those were men who walked with the divinities,
Who knew the names of the winds and feared the silence of the ancestors.
Now, comes the dilemma
what can we do,
When sons can no longer be trusted to uphold the legacies of their fathers.
Can we truly rest?
To the betrayer, I ask, what do you gain
By forsaking your ancestors to embrace strangers?
Can you ever be more Catholic than the Pope?
Can a calabash forget the hands that carved it?
Can the masquerade mock the drumbeat that gave it rhythm?
A child now kneels in temples not his own,
Offers kola nuts to deities who do not know his name,
Worships ancestors from distant lands,
While burning the shrines of his bloodline.
Unknown to the child,
The family Òrìṣà will never accept kola nuts from strangers.
Only the spirit of one’s father can bestow true blessings.
This is why we honor our family gods above all else.
There are hands now that move kings like pawns,
Hands that know no libation or taboo.
They plant crowns where roots cannot hold.
They summon rulers not by signs, but by signatures.,
The so-called Politicians who sit on their high horses
They crown men not by merits or divine instructions, but by ambition.
And the earth watches, wounded and weary.
Let it be known,
May no one who despises the ancestors ever sit on our thrones again.
May the thrones return to those who know whose bones lie beneath them.
For thrones are not for sale,
And even in silk, betrayal walks barefoot.
And may the Alálẹ̀ not sleep,
Until the old ways rise again,
Proud, unashamed, and eternal.
And may the next to rise remember:
To wear the crown is to serve…. not to betray.