In the penultimate Saturday I was invited to Ofiki, near Ago Are, in Oke Ogun, Oyo State, Nigeria, to deliver a talk at a walimah nikaah. The groom used to be one of our students back in Ẹdẹ; he is from Ago Are, a Salafi, in shaa’ Allaah. The bride too is upcoming—baarakallaahu feeha.
At the event, all the ‘ulema of the town and its suburbs, as far as Tede, were present. Those ‘ulemaa are all staunch Sufis, (except most likely one shaykh from Tede) and they looked ready for any showdown with a Sunnah preacher.
I arrived late, so I was the last “Shehu’’ to come in. Their resentment was obvious as I walked in. I never knew it would be so “brutal.’’ They started their serenren: collecting money and making jibes at the few people of Sunnah present.
There were a lot of people at the event—àwọn alasalatu, mureedi àti mureeda.
I had to be present because I needed to correct things if necessary, especially the aqdu nikaah session, which I already suspected they would not get right.
When I got there, I made tasleem to them and shook hands with them where they sat, although some of them gave me the “who invited this one here” look. I was introduced as an Ustaadh from Saki. Toor!
The programme continued: owo ọpẹ (about forty minutes), ad‘uā from the elders, and all sorts of unnecessary things. Then came the aqdu nikaah. It was haphazard but partially okay. Nothing was heard from the groom; he just stood there like a zombie. I planned to correct that when it came to my turn. They spent about forty minutes on it.
Then came the first lecture by the leading Shehu of the Tijaniyyah in the area. He even had a Seessey nisbah to his name. About thirty ajanasis stood behind him during his lecture. The ajanasis first did about ten minutes of serenren before the Shehu Agba spoke.
My talk was coming after his, with a short interlude in-between. People were already tired and hungry. The aqdu nikaah had been done anyhow, so no one was in the mood for another lecture.
Deep inside, I knew I had to speak. One, I needed to tactically respond to the shehus for their passees at the people of Sunnah, and two, I needed to correct an aspect of the aqdu nikaah.
When it was my turn, many of the shehus had stood up (including the young Chief Imam), some heading to the masjid and others to wherever Allaah knew. I thought they were trying to avoid my talk, thinking I would “give it to them hot.’’
I am not an orator, but by Allaah, I have experience handling events like that—alhamdulillaah.
After my Khutbatul-Haajah with its “kullu bid‘atin dalaalah,” I praised Allaah and His Messenger, and I acknowledged the presence of the shehus. Subhaanallaah! Some of them were surprised.
I then charged the organisers, saying they had not honoured the ‘ulema enough. I told them that if it were elsewhere, there would be chin-chin and assorted treats on their table. As I said that, I noticed some of the ‘ulema returning to their seats—some who had said they were leaving. Even the Chief Imam came back. The PAS was very loud—like those of Pasuma and Saheed Osupa.
I said, in shaa’ Allaah, I would not exceed ten minutes, since the shehus before me had already spoken at length. I acknowledged that everyone was hungry and that eating was an important part of the event.
By then, many people who had been standing in the tents had sat down to listen. I looked under the ‘ulema’s tent—it was filled again. And then chin-chin arrived. Allaahu Akbar! I said to myself, “Ó má dá bí ẹ ni pé mo ń make sense.”
Deep down, I had two main assignments: to correct an aspect of the aqdu and to give these ‘ulamaa a gentle but clear response to their comments about the people of Sunnah.
I continued. I said I had a special word for the groom. When the Chief Imam had earlier asked him if he accepted the bride, he only nodded. I said that was not respectful enough. I asked him to come out again—gbam!
I said, “He is my student; I know him well. He is this and that.” I wanted him to publicly accept the full responsibility upon his new wife.
I looked towards the bride’s father and summoned him out—a very gentle baba. I said, “Baba, as you have given out your daughter, so-and-so, as wife to this young man, I want him to accept the responsibility publicly, because the way he nodded earlier to the Chief Imam’s question, I was not satisfied.”
(Actually, the Chief Imam did not conduct the aqdu but was fair enough to correct some things afterward. When he asked the bride’s father if he consented to the nikaah, he did. But when he asked the groom—who was already seated and had no mic—the groom only nodded emphatically. I felt that was not sufficient.)
As this “drama’’ unfolded, I had the full attention of everyone.
After confirming the father’s consent again, I turned to the groom. Before giving him the mic, I reminded him of the implications of accepting the responsibility. Then he took the mic and gave an emphatic, official qabool.
The crowd shouted, “Allaahu Akbar!” I said to myself, “Yes, I’m almost there.”
Before I knew it, some prominent people stood up and walked toward my direction—bí wọn ṣe ń ju owo sínú agbada mi niyẹn o. The large pocket of my agbada began to swell with money! I didn’t ask them.
(I remember a similar event where I spoke to some millionaires from Oyo in Ibadan. They nearly “wounded’’ me with money. Even when I said “enough, enough,” they kept laughing at my ara oko.)
I then asked the groom to return to his seat.
I turned to the bride and gave her a brief two-minute admonition, then addressed the crowd about Tawheed and Salaah. I spoke to the non-Muslims present too and invited them to Islam.
Then I moved to drop the mic and turned to face the shehus.
I said, “Ah! Before I sit, I need to greet you again.” I told them I had heard all the jabs they had thrown at the people of Sunnah earlier.
“A rí wo bá sọ!”
The ariwo was not that of a fight but of general excitement.
I spoke to them about the importance of the Sunnah and the need for all of us to come to it. I said we are not onijagidijagan, but we do not joke with the Sunnah. I told them to learn more about the Sunnah and its people—they would appreciate us more.
As I dropped the mic, they all began praying for me: “Jasaakumulai hayra! Jasaakumulai hayra!”
I stayed about ten seconds, sought permission from the closest among them, and excused myself to go for salaah.
I went for salaah—mission accomplished, walhamdulillaah—and I did not return to them.
I went to the reception on the other side of the town. Later, I heard that all of them were praising me; some even said they should have allowed me to be the main speaker.
THE END
