By Festus Adedayo
A man listened to the erratic command of his libido and slept with the daughter of his friend. In a twinkling of an eye, the act became public knowledge. The offender faced such immense social shame that one would think he had been isolated in the forest as lepers were in previous centuries. The circle of friends connecting him to the girl’s father ostracized him completely; he could not step out of his home. Wherever the scandal was discussed, the rhetorical phrase that sealed the conversation was a throwback to traditional Yoruba thought of “Àà tìí gbó̩?” It translates to mean, What will the world say?
That story is neither a fable of pre-modernity nor a Nollywood screenplay. It was an ad-lib from a live story shared recently by Africa’s foremost historian, Prof. Toyin Falola. He did this during a public lecture organized by the Ibadan Social Group (ISG) on its 60th anniversary, a session I had the privilege of compering.
Most of the structural and moral crises we face as a nation and as individuals today, if broken down to their finest granules, stem from the complete collapse of “Àà tìí gbó̩?” The Igbo have their rendering of this concept; the Hausa have theirs.
Consider how Nigerian politicians lie without hesitation, how their promises lack ethical footing, or how they plunder the public till with brazen abandon. The EFCC Chairman recently revealed how an official deployed ₦29 billion earmarked for a power project to acquire personal real estate. He faces prosecution primarily because he falls on the wrong side of the political divide, while many who looted far more sums walk free. Why? They align with the prevailing establishment.
I have dwelt ad nauseam on the falsehoods routinely issued from Aso Rock as a metonymy for falsehoods from President Bola Tinubu. I have similarly refrained from focusing on Atiku Abubakar, persuaded that his presidency – God forbid – could never deliver the structural renewal Nigerians require. Meanwhile, public perception often paints Peter Obi’s narrative as equally questionable, indeed labeling him as living a life of lies.
Step away from politics onto the everyday social plane, and the retreat of moral hesitation is just as stark. Recently, a young man was captured on CCTV in Lagos bolting away from a bridal party’s suite at a hotel with a bag containing a laptop and valuables. Unbeknownst to him, his face – like that of the man who breached his friend’s fiduciary trust – has been broadcast throughout the world for public scorn, permanently tarnishing his family’s name. If the lives of these actors were governed by “Àà tìí gbó̩?”, none would have strayed so casually from the path of decency.
Falola invoked “Àà tìí gbó̩?” to address the flight of shame and honour from Nigeria’s social and political engagements. Deeply ingrained in the Yorùbá moral worldview, “Àà tìí gbó̩?” literally translates to an instinctual sense of shame. Among my people, “Àà tìí gbó̩?” is not interpreted merely as a negative emotion, nor is it a sign of personal weakness; it is a foundational ethical and social virtue which is also approximated as Ìtìjú. They both share same ethical foundation. What differentiates both Ìtìjú and “Àà tìí gbó̩?”is that they diverge sharply from the Western ethical tradition’s interpretation of shame. Unlike West’s reading where shame is frequently categorized as a destructive psychological state or a toxic vice, in Yorùbá ethics, Ìtìjú and “Àà tìí gbó̩?” function as active moral compass. They are sentries of conscience, self-restraint and modesty.
When a social order is guided by these principles, actors remain conscious that no individual acts solely for themselves, but on behalf of the community. When you achieve genuine honour, you do so on behalf of the collective; when you commit an abomination, the community shares in the disgrace. This interconnectedness forces the individual to ask an existential question before taking action: “How does this choice affect my name, my lineage, and my community?” When a society abandons those two words, moral decay inevitably takes root.
This dynamic aligns with the insights of the late Ghanaian philosopher Kwasi Wiredu, who noted that traditional African ethics are humanistic and community-dependent: “Morality in traditional African societies is based on human interests, social harmony, and duty to community, where wrong actions are condemned because they tear the social fabric, not merely because they breach an abstract rule.”
Pardon my brief detour into philosophy; I was momentarily seized by the spirits of my teachers at the University of Lagos – Profs. C. S. Momoh, Sophie Oluwole, T. D. P. Bah, Kolawole Ogundowole, Jim Unah, and their peers. By the way, within the traditional Yoruba cognitive map of honour and shame, the man in Falola’s narrative who slept with his friend’s daughter ultimately took his own life. I will soon liken him to the Bariba ethnic group of Nigeria and Benin Republic.
Today, Nigerians across all strata proudly wear badges of dishonour without qualms. Leaders display it, the impoverished endure it, and the wealthy flaunt it. The executive manifests it, the judiciary mirrors it, and Senate President Godswill Akpabio epitomizes legislative shamelessness at its peak. With the internment of Ìtìjú and “Àà tìí gbó̩?”, we are merely fiddling with the carcass of a country built on a compromised ethical foundation.
When Ìtìjú retreats, the social fabric breaks down irretrievably. Modern Nigerian political culture operates as an inversion of Wiredu’s ethos, relying on the death of public reproach. Reproach no longer deters our political actors; instead, shamelessness is treated as a strategic asset.
Look at recent developments in the judiciary, which recall the biblical narrative of Babel, where human hubris provoked divine intervention, resulting in linguistic and structural chaos. That account has it that God was so overtly provoked that His punishment was the confusion He threw into the speeches of builders of the Tower, leaving “Babel” to symbolize linguistic chaos.
Justice Peter Lifu of the Federal High Court in Abuja nullified the Senator David Mark-led National Working Committee (NWC) and Caretaker Committee of the African Democratic Congress (ADC). He cited violations of the party’s constitution, the Electoral Act, and the 1999 Constitution. This ruling effectively voided all congresses and primaries conducted under that leadership, including the 2027 presidential candidacy of Atiku Abubakar.
Yet, earlier on July 2, 2026, Justice Musa Liman of the same Federal High Court in Abuja (Suit No. FHC/ABJ/CS/1637/2025) had affirmed that exact same NWC. When two courts of coordinate jurisdiction issue diametrically opposed rulings on identical matters, the resulting judicial chaos is self-evident and Babelian.
While observers expressed concern over these conflicting directives, a Minister of the Federal Republic casually asserted that nothing would happen even if the ADC were excluded from the ballot. That statement echoes the rhetoric of Chief Remi Fani-Kayode, notoriously known as “Fani-Power” during the First Republic.
As Deputy Premier and Deputy Leader of the NNDP ahead of the October 11, 1965 Western Region elections, Fani-Kayode famously declared that even if citizens refused to vote for his party, it would still retain power. As recorded in Billy Dudley’s An Introduction to Nigerian Government and Politics (1982) and Bola Ige’s People, Politics and Politicians of Nigeria (1940–1979), Fani-Kayode, whom Ige labeled “the most fascist of them all,” boasted that “invisible bodies” would supply the necessary votes. After the compromised election, he declared: “A ti f’òjé b’olóòsà l’ówó, ó ku baba ẹni tí ó bóo!” meaning, “The bronze ring has been securely fitted to the High Priest’s finger; let anyone who dares attempt to remove it!”. The tone of modern political rhetoric from Minister Festus Keyamo remains strikingly similar.
Consider Justice Lifu’s controversial ruling alongside the revelations of retired Supreme Court Justice Uwani Musa Abba-Aji during her 70th-birthday valedictory session in Abuja last week. She disclosed that she was under EFCC investigation prior to her elevation to the apex court and noted that the United States had imposed a travel ban on a seven-member Supreme Court panel – which included herself, Chief Justice Kudirat Kekere-Ekun and former Chief Justice Ibrahim Tanko Muhammad, following the highly contested January 2020 judgment in the Imo State gubernatorial dispute between Hope Uzodimma and Emeka Ihedioha. When you see Uzodinma manifest the traits, for seven years of being in the saddle in Imo, of a home that is at peace as long as the illegitimate child within it is yet to attain the age of majority, you will see the cancerous, spiritual implications of handing over democratic power to an impostor.
These developments reflect a widespread perception, both locally and internationally, that the principles of Ìtìjúand “Àà tìí gbó̩?” have been functionally abandoned within critical state institutions. By the US slamming bans on the Justices, it tells you that the United States, too, like the narratives that are traded on the streets of Nigeria, believes that in Nigeria’s judiciary, the twin of Ìtìjú and “Àà tìí gbó̩?” are dead.
Just as the US believed that Nigeria’s Supreme Court Justices were everything but above board like Caesar’s wife, Nigerians also believe that in that Friday judgment, the voice was indeed Justice Lifu’s, but the hands were Aso Rock’s. Since the commencement of the 2027 elections, Aso Rock has demonstrated inexplicable dread for a free and fair elections. It has deployed frightening subterfuges that demonstrated its frown at electoral competition.
So when that ADC judgment came, Nigerians merely threw into the equation the Yoruba proverbial philosophy of “Àjéké lánàá, omo kú l’ónìí” – the witch owl bird cried/chirped yesterday and the child died today. To them, it is not non sequitur, nor is it devoid of logic. It reflects the people’s philosophy of indisputable cause and effect, also called the omen-and-proof. To them, some events, though circumstantial, not random coincidences, are however explicit warning or premonition of an impending tragedy. When political maneuvers align seamlessly with judicial outcomes, citizens view them not as coincidences, but as deliberate actions.
Governments and leaders in Nigeria repeatedly engage in actions devoid of Ìtìjú and “Àà tìí gbó̩?” because, as Toyin Falola argues in The Power of African Cultures (2022), contemporary African crises stem from a fundamental disconnect between modern state mechanics and the indigenous moral codes of pre-colonial societies. Submitting his thoughts on African cultural epistemologies, Falola emphasizes that the crisis of contemporary African governance is not merely structural or financial; it is an ethical rupture, a historical abandonment of indigenous codes that once rendered human dignity non-negotiable. As Wole Soyinka famously said that “the man dies in all who keep silent in the face of tyranny,” it may not be wrong to conclude that equitable governance collapses when moral accountability vanishes.
This collapse of moral restraint becomes obvious when contrasting democratic practices across jurisdictions. Where mature political systems rely on institutional self-correction and public accountability to address breaches of convention, Nigerian electoral politics remains largely unburdened by such restraint. Cash and patronage are openly distributed at polling units, and compromised officials announce results despite documented irregularities. Contemporary political actors show little concern for this ongoing moral regression.
Here, there is a death of what Yoruba again call Àbùkù – translated to mean any of the words, stigma, disgrace, insult, embarrassment – and the triumph of impunity.
The Ghanaian philosopher Kwame Gyekye summarized this ethical imperative in his works on African communitarianism and political ethics: “A person is not merely a physical entity, but a moral agent whose actions must reflect an awareness of shared humanity. When a leader loses the capacity for moral self-restraint, they forfeit the philosophical right to lead.”
The Baatonu (Bariba) people, who share centuries of political, military, and cultural history with the Yoruba, historically maintained an uncompromising ethical code regarding personal honour. In her 1984 study, “Between Death and Shame: Dimensions of Pain in Bariba Culture” (published in Social Science & Medicine), anthropologist Carolyn Sargent documented an environment where personal integrity took precedence over survival. This worldview, she wrote, is expressed in the Bariba maxim: “Sekuru ka go go buram bo,” meaning, between death and shame, death possesses the greater beauty.
Though modernity is fast eroding this gallantry among the Bariba, Sargent wrote: “For a Bariba to display pain would indicate a lack of courage. Cowardice, in Bariba tradition, is the essence of shame (sekura) and rather than live in shame, a true Bariba would kill himself… The Bariba realize that life consists of many ordeals. The tests of life for a man are war, the burdens of his friends and relatives. and protecting the honor of his family.” When his honour evaporates, the Bariba takes his own life. It tells you how precious honour is to the Bariba.
For Nigeria’s leadership and citizenry alike, honour currently remains in abeyance. Yet, we must recognize that a society incapable of asking “Àà tìí gbó̩?”is a society moving toward structural decay. Formal laws, statutory constitutions and electoral amendments are necessary tools, but they are insufficient on their own. Without an underlying moral architecture that compels individuals to self-regulate, out of a commitment to personal integrity and a healthy fear of public disgrace, institutional rules will be continuously bypassed.
The ultimate imperative is the restoration of collective honour. In chants, songs and family praise names called oríkì, Lagosians mouth collective honour but seldom put it into practice. In traditional songs, they say, if Lagosians’ ancestral home, located at the back of Igbeti, which is the core, homeland foundation of Lagos, is not put to shame, Lagos, (Èkó) the metropolis, can never be disgraced. It is rendered as, “Bí ojú kò bá ti èyìn Ìgbètì, ojú kò le ti Èkó.”
This principle demands that a shared sense of honour must anchor both the leaders and the led. It forms the essential core of our common humanity. Only when that foundation is kept firm and untarnished can Nigeria stand upright without shame.
•Published by the Sunday Tribune.
