THE HOAX OF AGBEEGUNWOMOKA

THE HOAX OF AGBEEGUNWOMOKA

Let me tell you the curious, unsettling story of the case of Agbéégúnwọmọ́kà. It happened in my hometown many years ago. For obvious reasons, I will not mention the town’s real name, I have no desire to stir up old embers or invite needless controversy. But those who lived through it will recognize this story immediately.

My HomeTown, let me call it HOTO from here on, was a serene agrarian village tucked somewhere in Yorùbáland. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone: Christians, Muslims, traditional worshippers, and those who floated quietly between all three. Yet despite our diverse beliefs, we lived in remarkable peace. For generations, that peace held, steady, unbroken, almost taken for granted.

No one imagined it could be threatened by something so strange, so needless, so completely avoidable, an incident I now refer to as the hoax of Agbéégúnwọmọ́kà, for lack of a better phrase.

Everything began a few months before the annual pilgrimage to Mecca. A rumour suddenly swept through HOTO like Harmattan dust. It was whispered that Muslim students from a nearby polytechnic were heading to our village to beat up the head of all masquerade rs, the revered Bàbá Alágbáà, whose real name was Muraina Ìsọ̀lá, fondly called Adálémọfóọògùnlọ́tọ̀.

Before anyone could make sense of what was happening, the only secondary school in the community abruptly closed for the day. Teachers vanished as if they knew something we did not, and we the students were left in a frenzy of confusion. Nobody had the full story. Every rumour we heard came in fragments, like pieces of a broken calabash that no one could fit back together.

My Muslim friends were the loudest. They swore that if they laid hands on the Alágbáà, they would teach him a lesson he would never forget. They insisted he had crossed a sacred line.

When I got home, I discovered that my father, one of the chiefs of HOTO, had been summoned to the Baálẹ̀’s house. That meant the matter was serious. The only person left to question was my mother, but every attempt at inquiry was met with a sharp “Keep quiet!” She was tense, and so were all the women who came to whisper with her at our doorstep.

But slowly, from the scraps of information I gathered at school and from the snippets of my mother’s conversations, a picture began to form.

The Muslim community had been told that the Alágbáà planned to parade his masquerade in Mecca, the sacred land of Islam. To them, this was not just strange—it was sacrilegious. Abominable. Unthinkable.

Rather than report the matter to the police, they mobilized their youths. The youths stormed the Alágbáà’s house, but he was already away at the farm. When word reached the Baálẹ̀, who had only recently converted to Christianity, he was told the youths were now heading to the farm to attack the old man.

That was when panic truly began.

The Baálẹ̀ quickly contacted the police in the neighbouring town and warned that a religious crisis was brewing. He also alerted the principal of our school, which explained why we were dismissed suddenly that morning.

At the time, in my youthful ignorance, I judged Bàbá Alágbáà harshly. How could he even think of taking a masquerade to Mecca? I sided with my Muslim friends. He must be out of his mind. He must be stopped. Something must be wrong with him.

My father returned from the Baálẹ̀’s house that afternoon, but he refused to utter a single word about what was discussed. The whole town felt like a drum stretched too tight, one wrong touch and everything would burst.

By evening, two policemen came to our house. As soon as my siblings and I saw them approaching, we scattered like chickens, leaving my father alone to speak with them. I regret that moment till today. If I hadn’t run, maybe I would have overheard something, some detail, some truth, but fear robbed me of that chance.

When the policemen finally left, my father simply changed his cloth and headed straight back to the Baálẹ̀’s house. Not a word to any of us. Not even a glance.

We were left sitting in confusion, our young minds filling the silence with the wildest possibilities.

(To be continued…)