Come closer, my village friends and family. Let me tell you the story of Mojoye, the man who became king without a kingdom’s blessing. It is an old tale… or perhaps it is not so old after all.
There was once a prosperous kingdom called Iraye, where every child was taught two sacred laws:
‘A king is not made by desire. A king is made by truth.’
And:
‘Nobody wakes up one morning and declares himself king.’
Every Alaaye Iraye emerged after the Oracle had spoken, after the kingmakers had agreed, after the custodians of the royal beads had performed the ancient rites, and above all, after Obanla, the Supreme Head of the Empire, blessed the choice.
That was how it had been for over six hundred years.
Until Mojoye arrived. Not with an army.
Not because the people loved and went to beg him. He did not arrive with love in his heart.
He arrived with an ambition so huge it had swallowed shame.
Mojoye was not without one or two attributes. He was handsome, eloquent and frighteningly clever.
He could convince a fish that water was poison. He also was a master of the art of smiling while plotting evil.
He loved power more than food and whenever kings rode past in the village and people admired the crowns, Mojoye admired only the throne.
“I will become king,” he often whispered to his friends who always laughed in his face.
‘You are not from the royal household.’
‘I don’t need royal blood.’
‘The Oracle will never choose you.’
‘Then I will find another oracle that will speak differently.”
His friends laughed even louder.
They did not know Mojoye had already begun buying darkness.
He travelled into forests where even hunters refused to sleep.
There he met witches whose laughter sounded like broken calabashes.
He met wizards who drank from old skulls.
He met herbalists who promised impossible miracles.
He met diviners who could manufacture visions and prophecies for the highest bidder.
Night after night he held secret meetings with his newfound support partners
Goats disappeared. Sheep were slaughtered. Mojoye drank warm blood of ducks. He carried huge sacrifices, the kind that overwhelmed even sacred birds. Ebo kanka tii k’agun laya. Owls became messengers.
The forests glowed with strange fires.
Then one morning, the Oracle (yes, Mojoye’s Oracle) suddenly announced:
“The next king shall be Mojoye.”
The village gasped.
Old women looked at one another.
Even the masquerades seemed confused.
The prophecy sounded strange, too convenient and too rehearsed.
But fear is often louder than wisdom. So they wisely kept quiet.
Yet one problem remained.
There was no throne.
The royal throne belonged only to legitimate kings.
Where will he sit?
Will he reign from his father’s compound?
Who will install him?
Mojoye had everything all figured out.
He simply commissioned another.
Secret carpenters worked throughout the night. Master sculptors copied every sacred carving. Goldsmiths duplicated ancient symbols. From a distance, nobody could tell the difference.
Everything looked royal even if it carried no blessing.
Then another problem emerged. Kingship was expensive. Royal ceremonies required enormous wealth.
Mojoye was not a rich man.
Then he met Arikuyeri, the dreaded kingpin whose gang terrorised travelling merchants.
Shortly after, the road became dangerous. Every market day traders vanished.
Caravans were attacked.
Ivory disappeared.
Gold disappeared.
Cowries disappeared.
Alaari and Sanyan disappeared. All reappeared in Mojoye’s hidden chambers.
The villagers blamed spirits.
Nobody suspected a future self-made king.
Every piece of the puzzle was being forced in place for the coronation. The last piece was the crown, not an ordinary crown. A beaded crown that must look sacred.
Mojoye summoned Asinde, the greatest bead maker in the empire.
“I need one crown.”
Asinde measured, threaded, wove and beaded, painstakingly.
Then another request came.
Then another.
Soon Asinde had produced six magnificent beaded crowns.
Each looked worthy of ancient kings.
Each glittered like the morning sun.
Nobody asked why one man needed six crowns. Money has always had a way of silencing questions.
The installation was spectacular.
Drums shook the earth.
Praise singers exhausted their voices.
Palm wine flowed like rivers.
Cows were slaughtered.
Dancers performed till dawn.
People shouted,
“Kabiyesi!”
Long live the king!
Mojoye smiled.
His dream had come true.
He sat upon a throne that did not belong to him, wore a crown that carried no ancestral blessing.
He accepted homage never given by heaven Power steadily intoxicated him.
Soon he stopped pretending.
He seized farms.
He confiscated land.
He imposed impossible taxes.
He collected tributes every market day.
He took the fattest goats, the finest yams and the best harvests.
He even claimed first choice of every bride.
Young husbands slept with fear.
Beautiful wives avoided the palace road.
Those who protested disappeared.
The prison filled.
The palace expanded.
Mojoye became richer.
The people became poorer.
Then, his head became swollen, bigger than his reach and influence and pride destroyed caution. He insulted those who had manufactured his miracle. The witches started demanding more sacrifices.
He refused.
The herbalists wanted extra rewards.
He delayed.
When the pumped-up diviners requested land, he mocked them.
Even Arikuyeri the robber wanted greater influence, public recognition.
Mojoye laughed.
‘I am king now, the one that cannot be questioned. You work for me.’
Dark alliances rarely survive success.
Soon everyone who built the lie wanted a larger share.
Meanwhile, another story was travelling faster than the harmattan wind.
Merchants arriving from the capital frowned.
‘What king?’
‘The new king.’
‘Who crowned him?’
‘Our Oracle.’
“Was Obanla here to crown him? Did his crown come from Obanla’s sacred chambers?
Silence. The villagers’ heads were bowed. They looked at one another and shook their heads.
‘What do you mean? The Supreme Head of the Empire did not announce this new king?’
Confusion spread. Clouds gathered in the sky. The elders predicted that Mojoye’s rain of shame was imminent.
The custodians of royal history became alarmed.
The recognised kingmakers quickly denied involvement. The keepers of the sacred beads denied releasing any crown.
Priests of the ancient shrine denied conducting any installation.
The royal messengers denied carrying any proclamation.
Questions multiplied. Denials rented the air.
The whispers became conversations.
The conversations became arguments.
The arguments became investigations.
Investigations became scandal.
Then scandal exploded like thunder.
The entire empire froze.
How?
How could a kingdom produce a king nobody authorised?
How could a throne appear from nowhere?
How could sacred crowns be manufactured like market baskets?
How did travelling merchants lose fortunes while one unknown man suddenly became wealthy?
How did the Oracle speak words it never spoke?
How did kingmakers remain silent?
How did wise men become fools?
How did everyone sleep while one ambitious young man quietly crowned himself?
The empire had no answers, only embarrassment.
Even Obanla lowered his head, not because he approved but because such a deception had slipped through the cracks of an ancient system built on trust.
Messengers rode in every direction.
Witnesses emerged.
The carpenters confessed.
The bead maker trembled.
“I only made what I was paid to make.’
The goldsmith wept.
‘The designs were copied.’
Former robbers began naming names.
The false prophets contradicted one another.
The witches magically disappeared with ‘egbe’ into forests.
The herbalists fled.
The fake diviners denied ever meeting Mojoye.
Everyone who helped build the fraud suddenly developed hazy memories.
Then came the reckoning.
Mojoye stood before the true council of the empire.
Gone was the expensive robe.
Gone was the beaded splendour.
Gone was the thunder in his voice.
Only fear remained.
He insisted the Oracle chose him.
The Oracle denied him.
He claimed destiny.
Destiny rejected him.
He blamed enemies.
Evidence blamed him.
He blamed jealous elders.
The stolen treasures blamed him.
He blamed conspiracies.
The counterfeit throne blamed him.
He blamed fate.
The six beaded crowns blamed him.
Truth, unlike lies, never forgets.
Sentence was swift.
The counterfeit throne was burnt.
The fake crowns were destroyed.
The palace was dismantled stone by stone.
The stolen wealth was recovered where possible and returned to its owners.
The false prophets were disgraced.
The robbers were imprisoned.
The conspirators scattered across distant lands.
As for Mojoye…
He was led away in chains.
Not to another palace.
Not to exile.
To the deepest dungeon beneath the empire.
There, where sunlight visited only as a rumour, the man who had crowned himself sat alone.
No praise singers.
No drummers.
No palace guards.
No cheering crowds.
Only silence, the brand of silence that follows ambition without legitimacy.
Till today, Iraye grandmothers still gather children beneath moonlight to tell the story of the fall of a king who built his own throne in the night.
Not because it was entertaining.
But because every generation must learn that deception, however brilliantly staged, eventually stumbles over the truth. No matter how far or fast lies travel, it takes only one day for truth to overtake it.
The elders still point towards the ruins where Mojoye’s counterfeit palace once stood and say:
Never confuse costume with authority. A borrowed crown cannot hide a stolen head.
A throne built on fraud always has termites beneath it. And remember this above all.
No matter how clever a man may be, he cannot permanently outsmart an entire kingdom built on truth.
For a lie may wear a beaded crown.
It may even sit on a magnificent throne.
It may fool a village for a season.
But sooner or later, the rightful custodians of truth will ask the one question every impostor fears:
‘Who made you king?’
And when that question can no longer be avoided, even the loudest pretender discovers that a self-made king is only a prisoner waiting for his dungeon.
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