As a child, I lived in a remote village in Ondo State for about a decade. I can still recall how people used to frighten us with Ayelala whenever someone's cocoa beans or kola nuts were stolen. The Ayelala people, usually from the Ikale area, would be hired to identify the thieves. They would go around the village beating a gong and announcing that whoever was responsible for the theft should return the stolen items or die within seven days. Sometimes the stolen property would be returned; many times it would not, and nothing happened.

But those Ayelala practitioners were masters of ìhalẹ̀ (scare tactics).

Many Yoruba villages, especially those with a smaller Muslim presence, are filled with such superstitions. When I later moved to Osun State in the early 1990s and visited several villages, I found that such practices were less prominent. Although many people there also held traditional beliefs, the stronger Muslim presence had considerably reduced their influence.

There is a common concept known as "má dẹ́ja" ("don't dare the taboo"), which has long been used to instill fear among the Yoruba.

Years later, during one of my visits back to that Ondo village, I found that, alhamdulillāh, things had begun to change. We no longer believed in such nonsense. I felt it was my responsibility to demonstrate to both the Muslims and the wider community that it is only Allah who controls all affairs.

One night, I had an unexpected opportunity to challenge one of those taboos. There is a widespread belief that if it is raining with thunder and lightning, one must not lather soap while washing, otherwise thunder will strike the person. Those who hold this belief are very emphatic about it.

That night, I was washing my clothes beside our house when it began to rain heavily with thunder and lightning. All the elderly women in the compound came out, pleading with me to stop washing because of àrá (thunder), which they believed was controlled by Ṣàngó—the legendary Yoruba king of the old Oyo Empire who, according to tradition, later died by suicide. My dear mother was among them. May Allah have mercy on her. Alhamdulillāh, by the end of that night, she had abandoned that belief.

I told them, "If I stop washing because of what you are saying, then my belief in Allah is not genuine." I even said that I challenged Ṣàngó to do his worst.

By Allah, I continued washing for another thirty minutes until the rain, thunder, and lightning subsided. I knew that if Allah willed, I could still be struck by lightning—as there is a natural explanation for such events—but I prayed that it would not happen that night, lest those elderly women conclude that Ṣàngó had punished me.

Allah answered my prayer.

Some of the elderly women, however, concluded that I must have possessed some supernatural power that prevented Ṣàngó from striking me. One of them remarked, "Ẹyin Alfa, ẹ ti jẹun tẹ́lẹ̀ ikùn." ("You Muslim scholars have your own charms.") My mother knew I possessed no charms, so she understood that I had relied solely upon Allah.

I had another opportunity to show them that these people cannot harm anyone who truly relies upon Allah. On one occasion, I openly challenged the village's leading Babaláwo in front of many villagers, yet nothing happened. That is my well-known Babaokuta story.

This was the atmosphere in which many of us grew up in Yorubaland. Much of it was based on fear and intimidation. That night, when the women insisted, "Kò dá kí eeyan má dẹ́ja o," I asked them whether any of them had personally witnessed someone being killed by thunder after the Ṣàngó devotees invoked him during theft investigations. None of them could provide an example. Their answer was simply, "That is what we heard."

Similarly, Àjàngílà, whom I believe came from Oshogbo, used to visit our Ondo village with public performances designed to amaze and frighten people. On one occasion, they supposedly transformed someone into eré (an anaconda). Even as a child, I knew it was a trick. It was simply a person hidden inside a sewn costume with a carved snake-like head performing for the audience.

When viewed against this background, the recent Oloolu saga appears to follow the same pattern—fear and intimidation. Many women have reportedly seen Oloolu in the past without suffering any mysterious consequences.

The famous Ajagbemakeferi incident of 1977 continues to undermine such claims. Those behind Oloolu apparently expected that Shaykh Abdulazeez Ajagbemakeferi and his wives, who publicly saw Oloolu, would die mysteriously. Instead, nothing happened, and their expectations were disappointed. The recent Wasilat case has only added further scrutiny to these claims.

Those defending the Elebos now appear to be scrambling to contain the fallout. Whether they succeed remains to be seen.

From my perspective, Islam has consistently challenged these practices because it teaches absolute reliance upon Allah alone. That is why Muslims have often been at the forefront of questioning such superstitions. 

(So shameful that many Yoruba Christians teamed up with these Elebos in wreaking havoc to the sensibilities of the people). 

We hope the Muslim Ummah will pursue Wasilat's case through the appropriate legal channels until justice is achieved. If any crimes have been committed, those responsible should be held accountable under the law.

Aboo Aamir, Ibadan, Nigeria. 

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