History, when stripped of myth and bias, yields truths that are not easily erased. Among the many voices that contest the Yoruba identity, one assertion remains unassailable: Ọ̀yọ́ is the heart, crown, and abiding essence of the Yoruba nation. From language to culture, from politics to cosmology, what is celebrated today as “Yorùbá” finds its clearest and most enduring form in the achievements of Ọ̀yọ́.
The standard Yoruba language in written and spoken form is not an arbitrary amalgam of dialects; it is unmistakably the Ọ̀yọ́ idiom, shaped and refined through centuries of imperial reach. When Bishop Samuel Ajayi Crowther and subsequent scholars codified the language in the 19th century, it was not Ife, Ìjẹ̀bú, Ìjẹ̀ṣà, nor Òndó that supplied the template—it was the speech of Ọ̀yọ́, the imperial tongue that resonated across vast domains. The so-called “dialects” of other Yoruba subgroups—Ìjẹ̀bú, Ìjẹ̀ṣà, Òndó, Ẹ̀gbá, Awori, Ọ̀nkọ́, and more—are not languages in their own right but derivatives and inflections of the Ọ̀yọ́ matrix. They retain local flavors, yet their root and structure reveal the authority of Ọ̀yọ́’s linguistic tradition.
Culturally, Ọ̀yọ́ has always been the model and the measure. The grandeur of the Aláàfin’s court, the constitutional balance between the Aláàfin, the Òyó Mèsì, and the Ògbóni, and the military genius embodied by the Are-Ọ̀nà-Kakanfò stand as a testament to statecraft unparalleled in West Africa. Other kingdoms held their own splendor, yes, but none rivaled the scale, order, and imperial prestige of Ọ̀yọ́. It was Ọ̀yọ́ that extended influence into Dahomey, into the fringes of the Niger, and deep into the forest belts—projecting power that echoed far beyond its borders.
By contrast, the Ọọ̀ni of Ife, while draped in sacral authority, is not and has never been a sovereign king in the political sense. Ife is the cradle, the mythic hearth where the Yoruba trace their cosmogony; the Ọọ̀ni remains its high priest, custodian of rituals, guardian of sacred memory. But it is Ọ̀yọ́ that wore the crown, Ọ̀yọ́ that bore the sword, Ọ̀yọ́ that commanded the allegiance of towns and vassals across Yorubaland. In the scheme of Yoruba history, priesthood cannot be mistaken for kingship, nor ritual for empire.
During the colonial amalgamation of Nigeria in 1914, the British encountered a Yorubaland already imprinted with Ọ̀yọ́’s legacies. The dialects of Ìjẹ̀bú, Ìjẹ̀ṣà, Òndó, Egba, and others retained their vitality, but when it came to administration, schooling, and print, it was the Ọ̀yọ́ tongue that prevailed as the unifying medium. Even in diaspora communities—from Brazil to Cuba—the rhythms of speech, drumming, and chant reveal an unmistakable Ọ̀yọ́ cadence. The so-called pan-Yoruba identity is thus less an equal mosaic than a projection of Ọ̀yọ́’s supremacy.
To deny this is to indulge in historical amnesia. Ọ̀yọ́ owns the morning greeting, Ọ̀yọ́ owns the crown, Ọ̀yọ́ owns the empire. What other towns preserved as dialects and traditions are tributaries to the great river of Ọ̀yọ́’s civilization. The debates of today—whether on social media or in academic corridors—cannot diminish this truth. If anything, they call us to deeper honesty: to acknowledge that without Ọ̀yọ́, there would be no coherent Yoruba identity as we know it.
Ọ̀yọ́ l’ó ní ilé. Ọ̀yọ́ l’ó ní adé. Ọ̀yọ́ ni Aláàfin.
By: Jide Adesina | 1stafrika.com
