Twilight of the gods
And sacred gods became monsters
Sacred gods and deities that had protected and provided for our ancestors awoke one morning and realized they were the enemy. It was a coup that had been taking place gradually and subtly, but I guess they were far too drunk to know it. But then again, when I think about it, Sango, Oya, and Obatala never stood a chance; they would have brought charms, machetes, and powder guns to a pen and pad fight.
I haven’t much sympathy for them, though; their lackadaisical attitude and lack of ambition is what got them dethroned. They lacked the ambition and tact of the white man’s god. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but a lack of curiosity offered it an existence worse than death, and such is the case with the gods of my ancestors. They sat idle in their shrines and hadn’t the imagination to dream of expansion. They stayed too long in their comfort zones and held on too long to practices that were going out of style. They had failed to follow Mother Nature’s only law: Evolution. Whatever fails to evolve and adapt to change dies, but they didn’t die, o how merciful death would have been; what they now suffer is a fate worse than death.
They stole our idols and couldn’t even give our gods the dignity of an honorable death; they needed them alive to achieve their ambitions. They knew the entire identity of a culture and a people were deeply rooted in its religion. Their history, customs, traditions, art forms, ceremonies, morality, and entire way of life were offshoots of their religion. They intended to wipe away our cultural identity as one would a filthy, oily spoon. As you can tell from the language I’m writing this in, they succeeded partially.
To lure a boy away from his parent’s old archaic home is quite an easy feat; however, should news of his parent’s demise reach him, he would inevitably have to return home to grieve. In his grief, he might begin to see his parents in a different light, for in their death, they will no longer be flawless creatures incapable of errors and mistakes but normal people striving to make meaning out of their wretched existence. In his grief, he might say, “my father was cruel and judgmental, but he was only that way because he was trying to push me to be better, to do better.” In his grief, he might say, “my mother was insatiable and demanded unreasonable sacrifices, but she only did so that I might be a stronger and better man.” In his grief, he would romanticize their ideas, memories, and stories. In his grief, he would find new respect for his parent’s old morals and philosophy, for they would no longer be divine or infallible but a man-made attempt at a reasonable and meaningful living.
In all this discovery, he might walk into his parent’s home and rediscover it as if for the first time. Their home would be his home, their identity, his identity, and their ways his way; for now, he will be able to make changes and renovate their essence. In the process of doing this, maybe just maybe, he might find peace there and wouldn’t want to leave again. This precisely is what the white man and his god couldn’t afford to let happen. True immortality rests in the bosom of death.
Curiosity might have killed the cat, but a lack of curiosity offered it an existence worse than death, and such is the case with the gods of my ancestors.
The gods of my ancestors were cast into the shadows and into the forests, not by strangers or foreigners but by their own people. I have no clue how they convinced an entire people that their gods were evil, bloodthirsty, malevolent beings, but they did. It was a move of sheer brilliance on their part. They had my people burning down their own shrines and prosecuting the chief priests. They somehow convinced them that their gods who had brought them rain, bountiful crops, good health, sound mind, wealth, and riches for centuries had somehow turned around to be the architects of all suffering and misfortune.
How is it that Esu Odara, a highly regarded god in the Yoruba pantheon, got stripped of his identity and had his name given to the enemy of the white man’s god, “Satan.” Coincidence? Lol, Coincidence is a luxury of the uninitiated. My ancestors didn’t just turn their backs on their own ancestors; they didn’t just turn their backs on their gods; they didn’t just turn their backs on their cultural identity and way of life; they turned against it. They raised pitchforks, exiled and burnt it all to the ground in favor of the white man’s religion and culture, and their descendants still do the same today.
Sangolana Temilade is looking to change her name to Oluwalana Temilade because apparently, her surname is the cause of her misfortune. Sango is the menace behind her struggles. Didn’t her Great Grand Father take up that name after Sango Olukoso Oba Koso protected and guided him home safe from the battle at Offa? Why then would he now cause harm upon his faithful worshipper’s descendants unprovoked? Sango Olukoso Akata yeri yeri Arabambi Oko Oya, Pele O, Ku Aibinu. The sacred gods of my forefathers have been made into monsters, and contrary to what I said earlier, I genuinely feel pity for them.
My people have a beautiful mask they wear that gives them the illusion of cultural identity; can what we’ve lost ever be regained? I sincerely doubt it. We are culturally more Europeans than Africans. Sad, but that’s the reality of things, and I’ve come to terms with it.
We’re currently in the twilight of the gods, so I believe the gods of my ancestors will die and find peace soon. The white man already killed his god for the most part in his home, but his god still remains alive here; soon, he will be dead here too, and the gods of my ancestors will finally rest.
