Introduction^{Footnote 1}

History, in the sense of the production of a sustained and coherent narrative about past events, is not a universal category of knowledge.^{Footnote 2} But all groups or societies have rules for the “debatability of the past” which centre on a normative order of discourse about historical events and practices.^{Footnote 3} Following this insight, a broad approach to historical production has allowed for the exploration of formerly neglected topics, both historically constituted by and constitutive of the experiences of particular groups and individuals. The growing interest in the study of history as it is remembered, debated, and projected into the future has allowed historians and anthropologists to engage closely with locally specific forms of encounter and authority. Such studies are ideally posited to challenge anthropological and historical master narratives, and they have given voice to at least some of the disparate subaltern groups produced by local and global strictures of power throughout Africa.^{Footnote 4}

But while all history has to be understood against the social, political, and economic background of its production, it must also be examined in the context of more fundamental discursive processes.^{Footnote 5} The experiences of individuals and groups cannot be conveyed independently of pre-existing forms of speech, representation, and self-representation.^{Footnote 6} An exclusive focus on facticity, positionality or power obscures the discursive elements of historical production, even though these may be constitutive of local understandings of what is discussed.^{Footnote 7} One of the challenges for the extension of a broader understanding of historical production into the precolonial past is that it requires forms of discursive knowledge which have not been systematically explored or which may be beyond recovery.^{Footnote 8} A separation of historical knowledge from the wider intellectual and practical conventions according to which it was produced is problematic precisely because it treats history as existing independently from those who made it.

Attention to the rules of local historical discourse is particularly important in societies where the conventions of historical production are only partially standardized and freely accessible, and where historical knowledge reflects locally specific norms and modes of argumentation. Such modes of understanding are often shaped and illuminated by genre. For example, Karin Barber has suggested that in precolonial Yoruba society, historical knowledge was likely segregated among different groups.^{Footnote 9} Historical information was primarily conveyed in narratives called ìtàn which belonged to the representatives of important groups. Thus, the ìtàn of a town was owned by the town’s ruler, who embodied the town. Below that level, ìtàn were held by the heads of important descent and residential groups.^{Footnote 10} But beyond ìtàn, historical information was also conveyed in other genres. Important historical details were transmitted in divination verses, ritual, and a form of praise poetry called oríkì, as well as many smaller genres.^{Footnote 11}

Different genres were associated with different social identities, including gender: knowledge of ìtàn tended to be invested in elderly men and oríkì were usually performed by women. However, the relationship between genres was symbiotic, and many men knew praise poetry, and especially older women were familiar with historical narratives. While older and respected people tended to have more historical knowledge, the fact that individuals of different backgrounds, genders, and capabilities had access to different aspects of historical knowledge reflected an aesthetics of diversity. Reflecting and creating social boundaries, the segmentation of historical knowledge affirmed individuality and identity. At the same time, it offered the potential for substantiation and corroboration, pointing to the fact that in local debates, truth was an important concern.^{Footnote 12}

The introduction of colonial rule altered the views and practices associated with historical production in many African polities. The activities of African intellectuals during the late nineteenth and twentieth century suggest that a re-ordering and re-interpretation of existing categories of knowledge in order to gain a new understanding of the world not only changed the content of historical debate but could also lead to the emergence of new forms of historical argument and representation.^{Footnote 13} Barber has suggested that in Yoruba society, the local encounter with Western education and forms of historical writing gave rise to the production of written histories in which local intellectuals brought together different aspects of historical knowledge which had previously been separated. Addressing wider audiences through the medium of print, the production of local histories was a civic project which aimed at convening people “around particular projected models of the present and the past.”^{Footnote 14}

In this article I argue that Barber’s description of Yoruba historical writing as a new form of historical production is also useful in understanding the real-life historical debates which emerged in many towns and communities in response to the changes associated with colonial rule. Some history books were clearly written in order to influence local debates, but intellectuals who participated in such debates also produced notes, letters, petitions, and other texts, some of which remain in the colonial files. While such texts tended to focus on issues under the jurisdiction of the colonial administration, they referred to historical facts and understandings that pointed to their authors’ knowledge of local genres of historical relevance. As a result, the debates which emerged especially with regard to locally important issues were at least partly shaped by arguments and concerns drawn from formerly segregated aspects of historical knowledge. By bringing together disparate aspects of knowledge, one could argue that the participants of such debates were, like the authors of history books, producing a civic form of historical knowledge that transcended individual points of view.

All the same, there are important limits to this comparison: the debates surrounding local history cannot be read like a Yoruba history book. Written by different authors, the texts produced to influence such debates were diverse. While some letters and petitions appear to have been produced with a clear idea of their most important readers, others seem just to offer facts or background information. And some submissions could almost be read as standalone documents, offering visions for a more enlightened future or a range of ironic comments which nonetheless only become fully intelligible in the context of the debate. Frequently representing radically different points of view, the texts offer an understanding of the most important areas of debate rather than a clear narrative. While most texts imply, directly or indirectly, the existence of a collective audience, they often also illustrate in striking ways how differently their authors imagined their addressees.^{Footnote 15}

But despite their multivocality, debates about local history were shaped by the range of practical options available to their participants in the colonial state. In most of Nigeria, the British preference for indirect government privileged historically legitimated rulers, who were appointed to local administrative positions. The influence associated with such posts often offered their holders the possibility to interpret local knowledge in ways that reflected their interests and ambitions. In this way, the administrative logic of the colonial state buttressed Yoruba understandings that town narratives were controlled by their towns’ rulers. As this article illustrates, the mutual reinforcement of state and local dispositions towards rulers’ control of town histories enabled some individuals to establish official versions of history which diverged in important ways from those which had been widely accepted before.

At first glance, such developments might suggest interpretations focusing on the “invention of tradition.”^{Footnote 16} But the production and temporary acquiescence to histories which were primarily produced in response to the state did not mean that historical truth – epistemic validity – was irrelevant to the population. Importantly, alternative historical narratives were most convincingly produced through the reinterpretation of existing narratives.^{Footnote 17} It is likely that this process itself was not entirely new: the openness of some narratives to reinterpretation may have enabled groups to form and re-form at a local level in response to pressures created by West Africa’s complex migration history.^{Footnote 18} But even so, a close look at local historiography illustrates that the entrenchment of an official narrative did not automatically imply that it would be accepted as genuine at the grassroots.

The argument in this article turns on the debate about the origin of the then ruler, or ọba, of the small Yoruba town of Ode, now usually referred to as Ode Remo,^{Footnote 19} in southwestern Nigeria during the 1930s and 1940s. Based on a case study of two linked debates, the article explains in what ways local historical knowledge was contained, sometimes opaquely, in a variety of other genres and practices beyond narratives. It suggests that during the colonial period, many individuals evaluated publicly discussed matters on the basis of separately held knowledge, and, on the basis of such an evaluation, offered versions of historical truth which, according to their own reckoning, reflected the experiences of their community as a whole more correctly. In this way, traditionally segmented and distributed forms of knowledge were brought together in civic debates to constitute a more general history.

Shaped both by the forms in which Yoruba historical knowledge existed and by the pressures of the colonial state, local accounts were susceptible to inflection especially in social and political constellations that aligned the interests of the local state and its traditional representatives. In 1937, the ọba of Ode Remo, Aláyé Odè Joseph Adesanya Adeosin, supported the local movement for administrative independence from the area’s historical capital of Ijebu-Ode under a local leader, the Akàrígbò. He did this primarily by representing his office’s ritual relationship both with Ijebu-Ode and with an earlier local ruler, the Ńlokú, in a way that was not widely accepted as correct. Apparently confirming local ambitions for independence, Adeosin’s narrative reflected the sympathies of contemporary colonial administrators and the interests of local leaders like himself. It also ensured enduring benefits for the town.

But irrespective of this, Aláyé Odè Adeosin’s history was unceremoniously overlooked by his townspeople when, in 1948, he was faced with strong local opposition which culminated in the resuscitation of the Ńlokú title. Drawing on different forms of historical knowledge, including ritual, and on everyday genres such as proverbs, songs, and curses as well as personal praise poetry or oríkì, local groups and individuals offered a wide range of arguments in favor of the resuscitation of the title. Beyond the material and political interests involved, the strength and emotionality of these arguments also reflected the fact that historical knowledge could not be abstracted from those who held it. Groups and individuals might accept fictitious or misleading versions of history for a range of reasons, including state pressure as well as political or economic advantage. But because access to history was linked to social identity, most people continued to hold historical knowledge that existed independently of any established narratives. When a new debate emerged, individuals would refer to their own knowledge – as if from first principles – in order to participate. This limited the possibilities for cumulative reinterpretation and contributed to an overall sense of what was accepted as historically accurate.

Nonetheless, the distributed nature of historical knowledge also meant that the overall fabric of local history was rather loosely woven. While important facts were confirmed by different narratives and genres, the temporal and causal links between such facts could often only be reconstructed through careful interpretation. Some of the texts explored in this article suggest that their authors were aware of potentially problematic aspects of locating the past too firmly in the present. Like the openness to interpretation of local narratives, the gaps which separated the knowledge contained in different historical genres created the possibility of, and perhaps even the need for, ongoing reassessment.

Ode Remo in Local Relations of Power

The town of Ode Remo is located roughly half-way between the major cities of Lagos and Ibadan. Its existence is not formally documented before the nineteenth century, and written references to its history are largely confined to documents produced after the beginning of colonial rule. Local sources tend to agree that Ode Remo emerged from the coming together of several smaller communities,^{Footnote 20} and that the position of its overall ruler, the Aláyé Odè, was established by the tenth Awùjalẹ̀, or ruler, of Ijebu-Ode, the capital of the precolonial Ijebu kingdom. This ruler, also referred to as Obaruwa Muda, is believed to have held power in the sixteenth or seventeenth century,^{Footnote 21} suggesting that in Ode Remo, as in a number of other Yoruba settlements, the creation of the town’s ọbaship reflected the political reorganization of the settlement rather than its creation.^{Footnote 22}

It is likely that the installation of the Aláyé Odè reflected an expansion of Ijebu-Ode’s control over the town or the region, and that the town was part of the precolonial Ijebu kingdom at least by the seventeenth century. Under the overall authority of the Awùjalẹ̀, Ode Remo also belonged to an association of thirty-three Remo towns whose representatives met regularly to agree on matters of local concern.^{Footnote 23} Located along the increasingly important trade route from Lagos to the new warrior city of Ibadan, the Remo towns grew in wealth and population during the nineteenth century, and eventually sought greater autonomy from Ijebu-Ode.

In 1872, several Remo communities joined together to form the settlement of Sagamu under the leadership of a local ruler, the Akàrígbò, thus creating a capital and centre for Remo’s political ambition. Remo’s independence from Ijebu-Ode was further increased after the defeat of Ijebu in 1892, and Sagamu representatives signed a separate treaty with the British in 1894.^{Footnote 24} As a result, the Remo towns were administered directly from Lagos Colony rather than from Ijebu-Ode. While this did not mean that all local ties to Ijebu-Ode were cut, many towns tried to assert greater independence from the Awùjalẹ̀.^{Footnote 25}

However, in preparation for the introduction of Indirect Rule, most of Remo ceased to be administered from Lagos in 1914, and was incorporated into the newly created Ijebu Division (1921: Ijebu Province) by 1918.^{Footnote 26} For the Remo towns, this meant a renewed subordination to Ijebu-Ode as the administrative capital, and to the Awùjalẹ̀ as the paramount ruler. As the Sole Native Authority for Ijebu, the Awùjalẹ̀, who had previously received an annual tribute from most – though by no means all – Remo towns, and who had adjudicated capital cases for a lesser number of Remo towns, not only became the area’s highest adjudicator but was also given de facto control over all locally raised tax income. And despite the fact that tax income from Remo was significant, the vast majority of this revenue was spent in Ijebu-Ode.

The material and practical disadvantages of rule from Ijebu-Ode for Remo enabled the most influential Remo ọba, Akàrígbò Christopher William Adedoyin, to build up popular support for Remo independence from Ijebu-Ode under his own paramountcy.^{Footnote 27} In response to several petitions, the colonial government set up a Commission of Inquiry, headed by Justice Miles Martindale, into the political and administrative relationship between Ijebu and Remo in 1937.

Narrating Ode Remo’s Independence from Ijebu-Ode, 1937

The practices of the Martindale Commission were shaped by the praxis of Indirect Rule. Designed to govern, where possible, with the help of existing institutions, the colonial state built its local administration on power holders who were able to claim authority through recourse to history. In southwest Nigeria, the group that was most successful in claiming such authority was that of the traditional rulers,^{Footnote 28} or ọbas, of the towns and cities on which the public life of most Yoruba-speakers was centered.^{Footnote 29} This provided them with practical advantages. Apart from receiving a state stipend, traditional rulers were usually given control over the collection of tax, local policing, and local Native Courts, which enabled many of them to expand their authority beyond the influence of their historical predecessors. In addition, the control of local colonial institutions provided a base for rulers’ powers of interpretation over local cultural practice and history.^{Footnote 30}

The politicization of town histories by the state meant that these became potentially powerful tools reflecting the ambitions of (royal) individuals and their supporters. In the small town of Ode Remo, town history played an important role in the struggle for greater administrative autonomy from Ijebu-Ode. Called before the commission on 29 September 1937, the then Aláyé Odè Joseph Adesanya Adeosin (1929–1960) illuminated the relationship between his present paramount ruler – Awùjalẹ̀ Daniel Adesanya (1933–1959) – and his aspiring paramount ruler – Akàrígbò Christopher William Adedoyin (1916–1952) – from the vantage point of his own position in Ode Remo. He explained: ^{Footnote 31}

While the Aláyé Odè’s descent from the Awùjalẹ̀ was widely accepted, it was not helpful to the cause of Remo independence, because it was widely interpreted to imply that the Aláyé Odè owed allegiance to the Awùjalẹ̀. It is highly likely that this consideration was the reason why Aláyé Odè Adeosin also emphasized the link of his own office to an earlier ruler, the Ńlokú of Iraye. As one of the communities which existed on the site of contemporary Ode Remo before the establishment of the Aláyé Odèship, Iraye^{Footnote 34} is also widely recognized as one of Remo’s oldest settlements.^{Footnote 35} In addition, it is widely accepted as likely that the family of the Aláyé Odè’s father had links to Iraye.^{Footnote 36} Through his descent from the Ńlokú, Adeosin argued, the Aláyé Odè owed allegiance not to the Awùjalẹ̀ but to the Akàrígbò.

But although Adeosin’s claim to a privileged link between the Aláyé Odè and the Akàrígbò was perceived as unconvincing by many Ode Remo citizens, it was not an outright fabrication. Instead it relied on a reinterpretation of some aspects of the town’s history which were relatively vague or offered some leeway.^{Footnote 37} For example, the shared journey to Remo by the Ńlokú and the Akàrígbò would usually be interpreted as a relationship between co-travelers, or between a leader and a follower. But in this case Adeosin presented it as a relationship of absolute obligation. Moreover, according to Adeosin, both the Ńlokú and the Awùjalẹ̀ were ancestors of the Aláyé Odè in the maternal line. In the Remo towns, descent is frequently reckoned both through paternal and maternal lines. However, descent through a female is often considered weaker.^{Footnote 38} The ambivalence – and thus openness to interpretation – of female descent is illustrated by the fact that that Adeosin here offered different interpretations of two structurally similar relationships.

The openness to reinterpretation of Ode Remo’s narrative is not simply a result of the town’s complex settlement history. Most settlements and institutions in Remo, and indeed in Yorubaland, have narratives that include similar narrative gaps or hinges, which can be interpreted in different ways. Building on widely accepted facts, groups and individuals can also offer new visions of the future through novel interpretations of vague links or potentially flexible connections in the existing narratives. As Aláyé Odè Adeosin’s history redefined relations of power in the manner favored by local interests, he produced a template for the transformation of the community “disguised as a continuation or restoration of the traditional order.”^{Footnote 39}

Accepting the narratives put forward by Aláyé Odè Adeosin and other supporters of Akàrígbò Adedoyin,^{Footnote 40} the Martindale Commission established Remo as a financially independent District within Ijebu Province in 1938. Remo’s new status benefited almost all Remo ọbas,^{Footnote 41} including the Aláyé Odè, because it offered them increased inclusion in and access to the local state, and most importantly control over the tax revenue raised in their own communities. Beyond that, the assertion of independence carried strong undertones of self-realization: up to today, Remo’s independence from Ijebu-Ode continues to be seen as an important achievement by wide sections of the population.

But irrespective of the structural factors in support of this narrative, it has almost entirely disappeared from public awareness. Thus, the Akàrígbò has been recognized politically throughout Remo, and in Ode Remo in particular, as the region’s paramount ruler.^{Footnote 42} Yet despite this political recognition he does not, in any of the histories of Ode Remo published since 1937, appear as the dominant figure in the narrative of the Aláyé Odè’s origin. Equally, despite the relative decrease of references to Ijebu-Ode in Remo – and Ode Remo – town histories,^{Footnote 43} the Awùjalẹ̀ has not disappeared from Ode Remo narratives. The almost complete disappearance of Adeosin’s 1937 history of Ode Remo’s substantiates Robin Law’s suggestion that the apparent confirmation of a particular past by the present is not always enough to establish it as a popularly acknowledged historical fact. ^{Footnote 44}

Historical Narratives Are Owned by Groups and Institutions

Colonial perceptions of ọbas’ histories as legitimating their influence were in some ways cognate with local understandings of the relationship between leadership and history. The histories of many Yoruba settlements focus on the achievements of cultural heroes who set out from the town of Ile-Ife, or from towns which trace their own roots to Ile-Ife, to become the rulers of settlements they founded or re-organized politically. While there are also many exceptions, and even challenges, to the conventional content of such narratives, they tend to imply that communal history is irreversibly linked to urban settlements and their founders. In this way, they offer a template for ideal social relations within and beyond the community.

This understanding is embedded in the use of the Yoruba word for history, ìtàn. Olabiyi Yai explains that pìtàn, to tell history, can be understood as the production of “a discourse that could constitute the Ariadne’s thread of the human historical labyrinth, history being equated with a maze.”^{Footnote 45} Thus, when the teller of history de-riddles history, she or he does so by forging an individual path through the puzzle posed by contradictory and confounding explanations. While everything and everybody has ìtàn, Yai also explains that ìtàn evokes, most importantly, the chronological relationships between human beings and their deeds and the geographical dimension through which history is naturally seen as an expansion of individuals and groups beyond their point of origin.^{Footnote 46} Yai’s elucidation illuminates the centrality of town histories, sometimes more specifically referred to as ìtàn ìlú, for the norms that govern the telling and understanding of ìtàn.

So intimately are Yoruba town histories connected to the agency and status of local rulers that outsiders interested in a town’s history are usually expected to speak to the town’s ruler first before making any further enquiries. Barber explains that:

In this way, ọbas, once installed, really did own their towns’ histories. It was this understanding, as well as the inherent openness to reinterpretation of most narratives, which insulated Aláyé Odè Adeosin’s argument somewhat against the criticism his story attracted.^{Footnote 48} While the details of this dispute cannot be explored in the context of this article, local opposition was important enough to lead to a cross-examination of Adeosin during his hearing. The opposing lawyer queried his history not only in the light of an existing history book by the Ode Remo-based historian David Onadele Epega, but also in view of the fact that the Aláyé Odè had allowed Epega to narrate his own history of Ode Remo publicly. The implication was that as the town’s ọba, Adeosin would not have allowed the public telling of a history he considered false. Here, Adeosin replied: “Each man gives his own history.”^{Footnote 49}

Adeosin’s comment emphasized the local understanding that histories – ìtàn – existed in the plural. In a field of coexisting histories or ìtàn, historical knowledge in Yoruba society was widely but unevenly distributed. While the ọba owned the history of the whole town, other groups and institutions owned histories that explained their own origin and history. Karin Barber explains that in Okuku, as in most Yoruba towns, the most important ìtàn were held by the heads of the town’s lineages. Located in large compounds where the male lineage members live with their dependants, patrilineages form important social units.^{Footnote 50} Existing both below the level of town history and as links between different town histories, lineage ìtàn focus on the migrations of the lineage ancestors before they settled in the town.

The importance of descent for the social organization in most Yoruba towns has been widely noted,^{Footnote 51} but Barber argues that the boundaries of lineages are often fluid. Social identities are shaped both by descent and shared residence, as well as by common organization and co-operation.^{Footnote 52} They are also “continually redefined according to the circumstances, giving rise to different ‘groups,’ differently recruited in different situations.”^{Footnote 53} Because descent can be reckoned through female as well as male ancestors in Remo, lineage boundaries are even more fluid than in most other parts of Yorubaland. Individuals can mobilize descent through male and female lines at the same time, and many individuals consider themselves members of more than one group.^{Footnote 54}

In the Remo towns, the social role of lineages is also complemented by institutions based explicitly on shared residence and co-operation.^{Footnote 55} For example, the migration of population groups is not primarily associated with the leadership of lineage ancestors, and it is often explained as the result of decisions taken by leaders and followers. On arrival in a new town, such groups usually settled in the same area and formed a quarter whose members shared some resources as well as ìtàn. Beyond this, most Remo towns possess ìtàn which are linked to important political institutions, or to deities called òrìṣà. Here, too, claims to group membership can be mobilized in overlapping ways, and membership of one group does not preclude that of another.

Of course multiple group membership does not mean that individuals are automatically knowledgeable about the histories of their groups: ìtàn are not told to everybody, and especially details which are considered socially explosive or spiritually dangerous are only passed on to trusted listeners.^{Footnote 56} However, members of any group, whether by descent, residence or initiation, have a strong claim to some knowledge of its ìtàn. By the time an individual attains a degree of seniority in a group, she or he will also have learnt about the group’s ìtàn through participation in group activities, as such knowledge is important in a range of matters including marriage negotiations, land use or chieftaincy debates. For this reason, most mature Remo residents are familiar with important aspects of at least their parents’ lineages’ ìtàn, and many also know at least the ìtàn relating to the towns or quarters of their parents.

Because ìtàn are central to the constitution of groups whose membership is not exclusive, they also constitute a form of knowledge that reflects individuality. As individual descent can be reckoned through male and female lines, every individual has potential access to a unique constellation of historical knowledge, only shared in the same manner by full siblings. These offer her or him an individual vantage point on the social fabric of local historical knowledge. But only those with significant personal or material resources can maintain the kind of membership that will eventually allow them to know the ìtàn of a wide range of groups in detail. Access to ìtàn reflects active social participation and status, as well as more general considerations of trust.

Returning to Adeosin’s assertion that “each man gives his own history,” it is therefore unlikely that Adeosin meant to imply that everybody could offer historical insights of the same weight. But by alluding to the fact that access to history also reflected individual qualities, the Aláyé Odè reminded his audience, insofar as it was knowledgeable, that historical knowledge reflected personal achievement, esteem, and success. He had no reason to defer to Epega. Like many Remo ọbas, Adeosin was a well-educated man.^{Footnote 57} As an alumnus of Wesley College and a former high school teacher,^{Footnote 58} he was at least as well educated as Epega, who was a former tailor and ran a private school and a small publishing business. His statement implied that while Epega had acquired historical knowledge beyond the realm of his family links, he might not have been given all relevant details, or he might have misunderstood them, for he still held an overall lower status than his ọba. For this reason, Adeosin’s comment was at best a grudging recognition of Epega’s historical views, and more likely a dismissal.

Of course Adeosin’s statement also asserted his personal right to the history he had submitted. By emphasizing the personal, his statement points to the ways in which the ownership of historical narratives could impact on the representation of historical fact. Because the dynastic histories of ọbas belonged to individuals who also had personal histories, different types of histories could sometimes be conflated. Thus Adeosin’s insistence on the Aláyé Odè’s descent from the Ńlokú of Iraye resonated with some people because his own maternal family hailed from Iraye.^{Footnote 59} If Adeosin, the individual person, had descended from the Ńlokú, then the Aláyé Odè had, at least in his incarnation by Adeosin, also descended from the Ńlokú.

But if the boundaries between personal history and the ọba’s history were not always clear, the merging of such histories was not necessarily driven by the exigencies of the personal. The history of the royal persona could equally explain Adeosin’s narrative. In the early 1860s, Ode Remo and some of its neighboring towns had tried, unsuccessfully, to throw off Ijebu-Ode’s control. While preparations for war were made in Ode, the then Aláyé Odè went to see the Awùjalẹ̀ in Ijebu-Ode, ostensibly in the hope of negotiating an agreement. However, his townspeople saw his visit as a display of allegiance to the Awùjalẹ̀, and on his return they killed him for this disloyalty to the town.^{Footnote 60} Given Aláyé Odè Adeosin’s awareness that loyalty to Ijebu-Ode had cost the Aláyé Odè – in the person of a predecessor – his life once, he may have given a history that reflected his townspeople’s economic and political interests also in order not to repeat a mistake.

Finally, Adeosin’s assertion that everyone has their own history also points to the limits of royal control. It suggests that ọbas, rather than being the sole owners of all history, simply hold a privileged role in the narration of those ìtàn in which they play the main role. Thus, while one could argue that in Yoruba town histories, the history and destiny of towns appeared to be generalized by the actions of their ọbas,^{Footnote 61}ọbas did not preside over the centralization of all locally relevant historical knowledge.

Expert Knowledge and Ifá Divination

Beyond the segmentation of historical knowledge in descent and residential groups, historical knowledge among the Yoruba is also divided in another, perhaps more fundamental way: by genre. Thus, while ìtàn is translated as “history” (and vice versa), not all historical knowledge is contained in the narratives described as ìtàn. Other oral genres contain important historical information, albeit often in non-narrative or only partially narrative textual arrangements, which offer different perspectives and understandings of the world.

One of the most widely respected historical genres among the Yoruba is Ifá divination. Based on the premise that all present developments have roots and precedents in the past, Ifá diviners and their clients understand that the knowledge of these past events can offer guidance in the present.^{Footnote 62} Drawing on a complex and detailed corpus of practices, narratives, songs, and sacrifices anchored in past divinations, the Ifá corpus contains a vast amount of detailed historical information about settlements, institutions, and deities. While many ìtàn and other texts included in the Ifá corpus are popularly known, Ifá practice relies on specialist knowledge and practice. It is performed by carefully trained and initiated professionals called babaláwo or, less frequently, iyaláwo.^{Footnote 63}

Those able to undergo the relevant training to become Ifá diviners attain important historical knowledge and develop a professional – ideally detached – view of the repercussions of past events through the ages. As a result, Ifá is often understood as a repository of historical truth. This was certainly an understanding shared by David Onadele Epega, the Aláyé Odè’s most vocal critic in 1937. In a book on Ijebu history, Epega explained:

Indeed, the wealth of historical information accessible through Ifá makes a detailed discussion of its information on Ode Remo and Iraye possible, even though this remains beyond the scope of this article.^{Footnote 65} Because Ifá divination requires specialist training, its knowledge is not shared in equal measure in the general population. However, Ifá diviners are called upon for a range of different purposes, including births, deaths, and marriages, as well as to learn about the dangers and possibilities inherent in new ventures, enterprises or journeys. In Remo, Ifá continues to be consulted today by all sections of the population, and it is very likely that this was also the case in the 1930s and 1940s.^{Footnote 66}

Most people’s knowledge about Ifá verses in the colonial period would have been, as it is today, limited to basics. However, among such basics is the knowledge that information about the foundation of a town is usually contained in a distinct part of the Ifá corpus. And indeed, the foundation of Iraye is discussed in different Ifá verses from those illuminating the origin of Ode section of the settlement of Ode Remo, which is most closely associated with the Aláyé Odè. The foundation of Ode is discussed in the section Òkànrànsodè, or the Odù Òkànràn Ogbè, while the creation of Iraye is in the section ọńtẹ̀gbó, contained in Odù Ìrẹtẹ̀ Ògúndá.^{Footnote 67} Thus even a rudimentary knowledge of Ifá would have confirmed to most Ode Remo citizens that the two sections of the town were historically separate settlements with, by implication, different ọbas and dissimilar ìtàn.

Testing Aláyé Odè Adeosin’s Claim to Descent from the Ńlokú, 1948

Like many Remo ọbas during Indirect Rule, Aláyé Odè Adeosin made use of his increased access to, and control of, the local administration in order to entrench himself politically and economically. Adeosin not only tried to monopolize the income from town land, but he also sought to establish sole control over more traditional sources of revenue, such as burial fees. This process was particularly controversial in Ode Remo because there were many leaders of town quarters or descent groups who had in the past shared such income.^{Footnote 68} But discontent with Aláyé Odè Adeosin was also colored by religious competition. As Western education had become an important factor for individual and social achievement under colonial rule, many Remo Muslims aspired to closing the educational gap.^{Footnote 69} While the local Ansar-ud-deen association offered to support the building of a local Muslim school, it expected the community to provide the land and raise part of the costs.^{Footnote 70} But, having tightened his control of communal land surrounding Ode Remo, Aláyé Odè Adeosin insisted that the Muslim community should pay for any land it acquired.

One of those who felt unhappy with this development was Salawu Adeboga, a descendant of the family of the Ńlokú of Iraye. With some encouragement from Akàrígbò Adedoyin,^{Footnote 71} Adeboga revived the throne of Iraye, which had been vacant since the last Ńlokú had died in exile, most likely over a century earlier.^{Footnote 72} Adeboga was crowned as the Ńlokú of Iraye in 1948. Once installed as the Ńlokú, Adeboga demanded a wider distribution of burial fees and other income in town. A Muslim himself, Adeboga also gave a plot of land in Iraye, suitable for the building of a school, to the Muslim community.^{Footnote 73} In this way, Adeboga mobilized aspects of local history which centered on an alternative culture hero, the Ńlokú, to become the figurehead of a heterogeneous group of local malcontents.

Adeboga’s claim may, at least in part, reflect the fact that the Aláyé Odè had confirmed the existence of the Ńlokúship in court ten years earlier. Thus, Adeboga argued that:

But although Adeboga referred to the Martindale Commission of Inquiry to legitimate his claim to seniority, he did not confirm that the Ńlokú was an ancestor of the Aláyé Odè, even though this might have established his pre-eminence over the Aláyé Odè. By justifying his claim through reference to the deity Ẹ̀lúkú ^{Footnote 75} and his traditional duties in Ode Remo and Ijebu Remo, Adeboga instead linked his authority to ritual practices associated with his office. The deity Ẹ̀lúkú is closely associated with Iraye in the sense that it is widely believed that its main shrine is located in Iraye and that all other Ẹ̀lúkú in southwest Nigeria have their home there. Associated with the execution of criminals, and especially murderers, Ẹ̀lúkú also plays an important part in some burials.

In response to Adeboga’s claims, Adeosin’s supporters argued that the Aláyé Odè and the Ńlokú did “not belong to the same stock.”^{Footnote 76} This statement contradicted Adeosin’s earlier claim that the origin of the Aláyé Odè could be traced to the Ńlokú, and that this meant that he owed allegiance to the Akàrígbò. Instead the Aláyé Odè’s supporters referred to arguments based in local practice. They explained:

As neither of the claimants involved in this dispute built their argument on the earlier assertions about the Aláyé Odè’s descent from the Ńlokú, it appears as if the relationship between the Aláyé Odè and the Ńlokú which had been officially accepted in 1937 was simply ignored. Perhaps to avoid a genealogical debate, both protagonists based their claims on local practice. But the fact that they appealed primarily to knowledge about how things had been done in Ode Remo in the past also suggests that this dispute was directed at a different audience.

In 1937, the narrative offered to the Martindale Commission had been aimed primarily at convincing the colonial administration of Remo’s right to independence. While the public nature of the Inquiry meant that the debate could be followed by local leaders and intellectuals, some of whom – like Epega – engaged with it, evidence of popular discontent in Ode Remo did not make a significant impact. This was partly because the local opposition was mainly limited to Ode Remo and its northern neighbors and did not reflect the views of the majority of Remo citizens. But official sympathy for Remo independence was noticeable even before the Commission was set up because it resonated with contemporary views on colonial administration as well as other concerns.^{Footnote 78} In this constellation, ọbas with potentially problematic histories, such as the Aláyé Odè, could either insist on swimming against the tide or offer a compliant narrative.^{Footnote 79}

In contrast, the colonial administration had no particular interest in the proper roles of the Ńlokú and Aláyé Odè beyond avoiding discontent. Existing separately from the larger political, legal, and administrative concerns of the local state, and confined to the town of Ode Remo itself, the final decision in this case would likely reflect what local administrators perceived as public opinion. While the Akàrígbò’s sympathy for the Ńlokú meant that the case extended beyond Ode Remo, it would have been impossible to resiscitate the Ńlokú title against the will of both Ode Remo’s ọba and the majority of its citizens. As a result, all protagonists in this matter were aware that they needed popular support. In order to make their cases, both sides appealed to people’s knowledge of the past, and both parties appealed to aspects of historical knowledge that were more widely known than ìtàn.

Given the segmentation of local historical knowledge, these appeals involved a reinterpretation of different historical texts and practices in line with notions of history thought to be intelligible to colonial officers. While the aim of this reinterpretation was primarily administrative and political, it had to take account of the knowledge held by different and diverse groups in the town, and it needed to take into account the kind of historical knowledge that could reflect the town as a whole. In an extension of John Peel’s notion of “cultural work,”^{Footnote 80} coined to capture the intellectual efforts that contributed to the emergence of Yoruba nationalism, one might consider this project as historical work.^{Footnote 81}

Ritual and Precedent as a Historical Resource

Ńlokú Adeboga’s claim to ritual prominence was at least partly based on his ownership of the òrìṣà, or deity, Ẹ̀lúkú.^{Footnote 82} This reference implies that knowledge about the Ńlokú’s role in the celebration and worship of Ẹ̀lúkú was so widely distributed that it could not be disputed, and it appears to point first to the importance of ritual as a genre of historical knowledge. Indeed, the ritual surrounding Ẹ̀lúkú supports important aspects of Adeboga’s claim. Thus, Ẹ̀lúkú is closely linked to the more widely known Ijebu and Remo deity Agẹmọ, whose crown is a powerful symbol of authority in Ijebu and Remo.^{Footnote 83} The fact that Ode Remo does not have its own Agẹmọ suggests other aspects of Iraye’s ritual eminence.^{Footnote 84} During the annual Ẹ̀lúkú festival, the òrìṣà enters the town gates at midnight, and the town is declared to belong to Ẹ̀lúkú.^{Footnote 85} Thus the celebration of Ẹ̀lúkú is also a celebration of its ability to suspend, if only temporarily, other forms of authority in the town.

Ẹ̀lúkú’s temporary suspension of the Aláyé Odè’s control of the town can be understood as a ritual enactment of historical events, or a form of “history from below,” in which Ẹ̀lúkú emphasizes an ancient form of authority which is normally submerged. In turn, the Aláyé Odè appears as the descendant of a conqueror who came into an established community from the outside, and who, in remembrance and acknowledgement of the powers which predated him in the locality, ritually submits to this earlier authority. Other festivals in Ijebu and Remo, including the famous Agẹmọ festival in Ijebu-Ode, similarly represent the ọba as an outsider who recognizes earlier forces, prompting Oyinade Ogunba to argue that the deities represented in such festivals stand for the communities which existed in the area before the introduction of ọbaship to Ijebu and Remo.^{Footnote 86} In this way, an analysis of ritual performance might confirm local historical knowledge.^{Footnote 87}

But despite its appealing neatness, a straightforward interpretation of ritual as a re-enactment of historical fact is flawed on several levels. Most importantly perhaps, it overestimates the stability of performance.^{Footnote 88} Even a cursory look at the colonial files points to the suppression of a number of ritual practices and festivals considered offensive by the colonial state.^{Footnote 89} Other festivals have undergone changes because participants altered the roles they played.^{Footnote 90} But in addition, the inferred meaning of ritual action is often slippery. As Andrew Apter’s study of secret ritual knowledge in Aiyede illustrates,^{Footnote 91} different social groups may hold contradictory views of what happens during a performance. Performances which might be understood as re-enacting historical events by some observers may be perceived as illustrating spiritual truths by others.

In this particular case, the Aláyé Odè’s submission that he had not shared an administration with the Ńlokú for a century raised another point. Given that there had not been a Ńlokú for a long time, it is highly unlikely that many of Ode Remo’s citizens held detailed historical knowledge about the deity Ẹ̀lúkú or the town of Iraye due to any direct encounter with an actual Ńlokú. Also, it is difficult to establish how often the festival of Ẹ̀lúkú was actually held in Ode Remo before 1948.^{Footnote 92} Moreover, in the absence of a Ńlokú, the Olúmalè, or chief priest of Iraye’s Ẹ̀lúkú cult, had taken on important aspects of the Ńlokú’s role, and it is not clear to what degree this transformed local practices.^{Footnote 93} Furthermore, given the high rates of conversion to Islam and Christianity by the late colonial period, it is possible that some monotheists refused to attend the Ẹ̀lúkú festival.^{Footnote 94} And finally, Ẹ̀lúkú is a deity associated with a strong degree of concealment, and it is unlikely that its ritual activities were clearly visible or audible to a wide range of observers during the 1930s and 1940s.^{Footnote 95}

In conclusion, despite its importance for historical knowledge, ritual, like Ifá divination, is likely to have had limited influence on popular views because of the instability of performance and the importance of concealed knowledge. But even so, the amount of correspondence in the relevant colonial files suggests that a significant number of groups and individuals strongly supported Ńlokú Adeboga’s claims, often without any direct material benefit to themselves. The following sections of this article suggest that this support drew strongly on historical knowledge derived from other historical genres which were a more integral part of everyday life.

Historical Knowledge in Itàn Ẹ̀lúkú and Other Genres of Everyday Life

One of the issues most frequently raised in the early correspondence about this case is the payment of death duties, or owo ìgbọ́,^{Footnote 96} which were due to the town’s ọba on the death of a townsperson. By the early twentieth century, the Olúmalè, who had also represented the Ńlokú in Ẹ̀lúkú ritual, had been included in the town’s decision-making on behalf of Iraye.^{Footnote 97} He had also received a share of local death tolls, but this practice had come to an end under Aláyé Odè Adeosin. When the Ijebu Remo Native Authority, with the support of the Resident, decided in 1948 that the amount collected by the Aláyé Odè should be shared 2:1 with the Ńlokú, Aláyé Odè Adeosin refused to comply.^{Footnote 98} While this refusal did not affect Ode Remo’s citizens directly, it is very likely that the strong public interest in ensuring that the money was shared reflected locally held knowledge about the deity Ẹ̀lúkú and, by extension, the Ńlokú.^{Footnote 99} Thanks to a detailed description of Ẹ̀lúkú in the Nigerian Chronicle of 1909, which I was able to compare and discuss with knowledgeable Ode Remo citizens, it is possible to point to a range of genres with which Ode Remo citizens are likely to have been familiar during the 1930s and 1940s. Many of these textual forms were part of peoples’ everyday lives and pointed to, or played on, the close relationship between historical knowledge and social boundaries.

As explained above, an ọba’s ownership of his town’s ìtàn both reflected and constituted his office. However, as other groups owned other ìtàn, the royal control of the town’s history did not mean the automatic subjugation of other historical knowledge to the ọba’s master narrative. As in other towns with more than one community based on residence, the history of Iraye existed separately from that of Ode Remo. There was general agreement that Iraye’s presence predated the establishment of Ode Remo. Local historian Epega explained that when the Aláyé Odè title was set up, there were already some people and their rulers in place, one of whom was the Ńlokú.^{Footnote 100} The early presence of the Ńlokú in the region has also been confirmed in writing by other Ode Remo historians. Thus Ode Remo’s Chief Amos Osinfade, one of the town’s most important traditional title-holders, noted that, “it must be noted that the Nloku of Iraye (…) first settled in the area.”^{Footnote 101}

The early settlement of Iraye in Remo is also mentioned in narratives emanating from other towns, and it was confirmed to me in several interviews.^{Footnote 102} Iraye’s early presence in Remo is also asserted in a printed town history from Ofin, the Akàrígbò’s town.^{Footnote 103} While not all local narratives suggest that the founders of Iraye travelled with the Akàrígbò from Ife, the town’s early presence and ritual importance in Remo is also confirmed in the histories of other towns in Remo and even beyond.^{Footnote 104}

However, like the ìtàn owned by the Aláyé Odè, the ìtàn belonging to the Ńlokú contains many loose links which can be interpreted in different ways, leading to potentially very different versions of Iraye’s history. Iraye’s settlement history centers on the migration of the powerful man Fagbile, an Ifá diviner,^{Footnote 105} from the Iraye section of Ife to Iraye in Remo. The current Ńlokú of Iraye explained to me that Fagbile was also the first Ńlokú of the town, and that he migrated from the town currently known as Ile-Ife.^{Footnote 106} However, not all town narratives identify Fagbile clearly as the first Ńlokú.^{Footnote 107} Also, while historians confirm that there was an Iraye community in early Ile-Ife,^{Footnote 108} some Remo historians suggest that Iraye’s founders came from a town called Ife Oodaye, the exact location of which is not known.^{Footnote 109} It is however widely agreed that as a result of outward migration, Iraye migrants created several settlements called Iraye.^{Footnote 110}

Beyond confirming Iraye’s history of migration through knowledge held elsewhere, the segmentation of historical knowledge by descent and residence had important implications for the way in which identity was linked to historical knowledge about the deity Ẹ̀lúkú. Unlike the town history of Ode Remo, the history of the Ẹ̀lúkú did not belong to the Aláyé Odè but to the Ńlokú, the leaders of the Ẹ̀lúkú cult, and of course to all those who were descendants of Ẹ̀lúkú. Thus, the proper owners of Ẹ̀lúkú might know the following story about the Iraye section of Ife, from where Iraye migrated to Remo:

By constituting Ẹ̀lúkú as an ancestral spirit from the beginning, this narrative points to the importance of descent in the ownership of both the deity and its history. The importance of descent is thus both elaborated in the narrative about the origin of Ẹ̀lúkú and in the ownership of this knowledge: only those who can claim the deity as an ancestor can suitably hold knowledge about it. Other narratives further outline restrictions of ownership and knowledge about Ẹ̀lúkú. Such stories explain why women are usually barred from important aspects of its practice, and why some aspects of worship and propitiation are only open to those adequately prepared for, or initiated to, such activities. Limiting access by descent as well as by gender and depth of engagement, the knowledge of Ẹ̀lúkú’s history not only conveys information about the origin and remit of the deity, but it also distinguishes different kinds of Ẹ̀lúkú’s supporters and thus convenes the distinct but overlapping audiences of the deity.

Beyond their ability to convey knowledge, and even beyond their ability to challenge or confirm dominant interpretations of local history, Yoruba historical narratives – ìtàn – also constitute an important factor in the making of social boundaries. With regard to Ẹ̀lúkú, this practice is confirmed by a proverb, which emphasizes the privilege of being able to claim Ẹ̀lúkú at all:

This proverb illuminates not only the close link between historical knowledge and social practice, but it also suggests the particular way in which experiences arising from historical connections – such as visits by Ẹ̀lúkú – are limited to the social groups that own the relevant historical knowledge. Ẹ̀lúkú investigates the causes of death of all its descendants, ensuring that any case of wrongdoing is exposed. The deity’s interest in its descendants is independent of their Muslim or Christian identity. Thus, for those who own the ìtàn of Ẹ̀lúkú, everyday life is marked not only by their shared descent with other children of the deity, but also by the possibility of encounter with, and protection by Ẹ̀lúkú. The deity offers potent blessings to the living, and anyone staying in a house visited by Ẹ̀lúkú may have heard the following song (in two voices) during an outing of the deity:

In this and other songs,^{Footnote 114}Ẹ̀lúkú blesses its children by protecting them against the ever-present threat of death and disease. Exhorting its supporters not to die or fall ill instead of blessing them with long life or good health, it evokes and assuages their fears at the same time in order to remind them of its power. However, during an Ẹ̀lúkú outing, it is not only the texts of songs and practices which create awe, but also the context of their production: many of those who hear the song above will only receive its blessings through locked doors and windows because it would be dangerous, or even deadly, for them to see the òrìṣà in its physical manifestation.

To explain why Ẹ̀lúkú is so closely associated with death, a knowledgeable person may turn to etymology, and elucidate that the òrìṣà’s very name derives from a contraction of “Ẹ lù u kú,” meaning “You (must) beat him to death.”^{Footnote 115}Ẹ̀lúkú’s association with death, and especially the killing of criminals, creates fear both of death and of moral ostracism, as evoked in the curse

This curse is described as “the worst and most unpardonable imprecation that a man can utter against his bitterest enemy” in a 1909 edition of The Nigerian Chronicle,^{Footnote 116} and it is considered so fearsome that some people I spoke to would only refer to it indirectly, without uttering the actual words. Given the power associated with Ẹ̀lúkú, the curse which evokes its name is considered so powerful that even its utterance for explanatory reasons might have negative repercussions. If it became public knowledge that someone had spoken these words, he or she might be reproached if something happened to another person associated with them. Thus, people might learn about the particular dread linked to Ẹ̀lúkú both from the text of such a curse and from the careful negotiation of its utterance.

As a result of Ẹ̀lúkú’s presence in everyday life, and its association with exchanges charged with individual and communal potency, most citizens of Ode Remo would not only know about the deity and its historical association with Iraye, but they would also have experienced the reality of power ascribed to Iraye’s most powerful òrìṣà. For them, a discussion of Iraye’s historical existence would be closely linked to the knowledge about the powers associated with Ẹ̀lúkú, which permeated their lives – and deaths – in many ways and at different times.

These examples suggest that local knowledge about Ẹ̀lúkú and, by extension, the Ńlokú, was not historical in an abstract sense: it was a powerful reality experienced regularly in everyday life by the deity’s descendants. For this reason, the Aláyé Odè’s refusal to share the death duties with the Ńlokú was a challenge not only to the Ńlokú himself, but also to those otherwise associated with Ẹ̀lúkú. As one petition put it:

Like many submissions to the Native Authority in 1948 and 1949, the authors implied that the Ńlokú had a right to income from burials which was willfully and even cruelly obstructed by the Aláyé Odè’s side. The moral outrage projected in this and similar texts might seem unreasonable given that so shortly after the resuscitation of the title, the Aláyé Odè could still argue that the matter had not been settled administratively. But for those whose understanding of the Ńlokú’s powers and rights reflected everyday knowledge about Ẹ̀lúkú, the insistence on administrative procedure simply appeared as a ploy to deprive the Ńlokú of his rightful income.

Oríkì and Everyday Knowledge about Ẹ̀lúkú’s Reach

The powers of Ẹ̀lúkú are linked in various ways to Iraye’s early settlement and its control of important stretches of land. While much knowledge about land is passed on in the ìtàn held by families and lineages, it is also contained in the genres that dominate everyday life. I would like to explore here especially the praise poems known as oríkì. Oríkì often illuminate, through poetically condensed language, the abilities and achievements of historical agents. Inherited by children both from their mother’s and father’s side, usually short (but sometimes longer) versions of personal oríkì are part of the habitual interactions of many townspeople. Because of their ability to serve as markers for particular events and achievements, many Yoruba historians make use of oríkì, often in order to describe powerful individuals.^{Footnote 118} However, because oríkì also act as anchors for more general historical knowledge, they inform, directly or indirectly, the more general historical arguments put forward in the debates about the status of Iraye and the Ńlokú in Ode Remo.

Oríkì are often performed by women, and therefore they point to yet another way in which Yoruba historical knowledge is both constitutive and representative of different social groups. But by virtue of their transmission they are also among the first affirmations of individuality. Oríkì are often used to greet individuals in the family home, at the market and during visits and other encounters, but they are also chanted by mothers, grandmothers and aunts to calm or delight babies and children.^{Footnote 119} Especially at an early age, they are credited with the ability to reveal a child’s true nature. Thus, if a child delights in the oríkì of a particular ancestor, he or she may be believed to be a reincarnation of that ancestor’s spirit. Equally, if a child never acquiesces to the oríkì of her or his father’s family, the child’s paternal grandmother and aunts may suspect her or him of having a different father.^{Footnote 120} Based on the ability of oríkì to illuminate the truth about a person’s nature, a short discussion of oríkì related to Iraye helps to explain the emotional valence attached by some participants to the historical debate in Ode Remo.

The verses discussed here were first quoted to me by Chief Susannah Olutayo Adekoya as part of her children’s paternal oríkì. Born in November 1930 in the Remo town of Ogere, located south-west of Ode Remo, Adekoya was a descendant of Ẹ̀lúkú herself. She moved to her husband’s house in Ode Remo in 1954, and thus would have learnt her husband’s family’s oríkì, including the family’s version of the oríkì Ẹ̀lúkú shortly after the resuscitation of the Ńlokúship. Like Adekoya’s children and in-laws, all Ode Remo citizens linked through their ancestors to Iraye’s Ẹ̀lúkú might be greeted with:

Adekoya explained to me that irrespective of being a devout Anglican, she would use this oríkì to show her appreciation of her children and in-laws and their ancestors, and that it would be received with joy by all she knew, irrespective of religion.^{Footnote 121} The fact that the verse addresses a human being as if he or she were the child of a mighty deity illustrates the extraordinary way in which oríkì are able to open up boundaries between past and present, and between the living and the dead. In this way, oríkì confer intense personal recognition through the extension of the individual’s boundaries beyond the ordinary.^{Footnote 122}

Opening space for discussion and questions, greetings involving oríkì often involve explanations and expositions in the form of ìtàn, which may lead to the quotation of other oríkì verses.^{Footnote 123} Thus, for example, the greeting of a person related to Ẹ̀lúkú might include the lines below, which refer to specific geographical locations as well as to particular historical incidents, and which are linked to the celebration of Ẹ̀lúkú:

This verse evokes the location near the river Apowo,^{Footnote 124} in whose vicinity the path to the Ẹ̀lúkú grove is located. While Ṣákekè is another name for Ẹ̀lúkú, the verses describe the fear the deity creates among those who happen to have gone to the river to fetch water at the wrong time. Once these uninformed bystanders have heard the cry of Ẹ̀lúkú coming from its grove, they are seized with such fear that they tremble and drop their water-pots before hiding or running away. The final line reminds the listener again of the reason for this fear: Ẹ̀lúkú kills its enemies with a cutlass.

In this way, knowledge about the power of Ẹ̀lúkú and the appropriate reaction of others is passed on and deepened. Hearing the oríkì above, addressed to them as Ẹ̀lúkú’s children, owners of oríkì Ẹ̀lúkú would hear the evocation of the deity’s capacity for inspiring fear as an aspect of their own lives and experiences. For this reason, their historical knowledge of Ẹ̀lúkú is not simply information that has been passed down to them. It is empirical knowledge in the sense that it was also based on their emotional and physical experiences. For one of Ẹ̀lúkú’s children to deny the deity’s powers would be to deny an aspect of their own experience and existence.

By opening up unique events to others in the way described above, oríkì also invest the geographical contexts of these events with meaning. Thus, the explanation of the oríkì above offers a powerful image both of the location of the Ẹ̀lúkú grove near the Apowo river, and of the deity’s long path into the town. Based on the oríkì above, even those who had never participated in the celebration of Ẹ̀lúkú festivals, or who would not attend any ritual involving Ẹ̀lúkú because of their commitment to the world religions, could hold important, and often very detailed knowledge about the ritual practices surrounding the deity.^{Footnote 125} Illuminating a particular aspect of the past in all its specificity, such oríkì could also be understood as confirming Ńlokú Adeboga’s authority in a very concrete manner. Thus, while different communities claim land near the Apowo river today, this oríkì can be understood as confirming that such land remains under the overall control of Ẹ̀lúkú, and by extension, the Ńlokú.

This and similar geographical knowledge certainly informed the debate over the legitimate administrative powers of Ńlokú Adeboga. Thus, Aláyé Odè Adeosin attempted to limit the Ńlokú’s power in Ode Remo by suggesting that the Ńlokú’s influence was confined to a small section of the town which he considered to constitute the boundaries of Iraye.^{Footnote 126} Adeosin then also prevented the celebration of any festivals associated with Iraye’s deities beyond these boundaries.^{Footnote 127} But perhaps most importantly, the Aláyé Odè continued to sell parts of the town’s land without offering any share to representatives of the town’s early communities. These efforts met with strong opposition because they contradicted widespread knowledge about the specific locations to which the Ńlokú’s ritual powers extended. One group of petitioners was so incensed by the Aláyé Odè’s attempts to curb the Ńlokú’s influence that they suggested that:

The authors of another petition were so irritated by the Aláyé Odè’s disregard of the Ńlokú’s rights that they suggested that he was not a proper member of the town. They argued that:

While this argument may have been partly rhetorical,^{Footnote 130} it shows the degree to which the fabric of existing histories could be stretched in order to support different political arguments. Given the importance of historical knowledge for social identity, the underlying implication of this formulation was that in behaving in a way that so blatantly contravened local knowledge about the Ńlokú’s rights, the Aláyé Odè had shown himself not to be a real member of his community.

History as a Civic Project: The Limits of Agreement

By transforming an aspect of their personal experience into a potentially public text, correspondents and petitioners contributed to the making of a more general, and more widely shared, understanding of the town’s past. While most petitioners hoped that the state would eventually confirm a version of the past that was close to their own views, they also emphasized that a wider agreement needed to reflect widespread civic engagement. The need for public debate was clearly articulated by a correspondent in 1950 who argued:

Not every submission to the debate was as high-minded, but many texts from both sides refer to the need for communal peace by emphasizing the need for truth in order to prevent “agitation”^{Footnote 132} and “confusion.”^{Footnote 133} But what were the causes of disagreement surrounding the debate over Ńlokú Adeboga’s ọbaship?

The discussion and comparison of local historical knowledge about the Ńlokú, experienced in the present by different sections of the population, contributed to a general agreement on the important facts of the community’s past. In this context, the difference between diverse historical narratives and genres appeared as a resource rather than a problem, because it allowed for substantiation and confirmation.^{Footnote 134} As a result, the debate that surrounded the Ńlokú confirmed the facts that could serve as the tethers for a general historical narrative of the relationship between the Aláyé Odè and the Ńlokú, and between Ode Remo and Iraye.

However, the general agreement on the main facts underlying the resuscitation of the Ńlokú title did not result in agreement on the implications. While historical knowledge about the Ńlokú was rooted in the texts and practices known to different sections of the population, the content of such knowledge was focused on specific areas. Due to the segmented nature of historical knowledge and the distribution of such knowledge in a wide range of genres, generally agreed facts were sometimes separated by wide gaps of knowledge. Thus, both non-narrative texts and practices of historical relevance illuminated significant instances of the past, such as the Ńlokú’s association with the early settlement of Iraye and the fearsome and powerful deity of Ẹ̀lúkú, but they could not describe the historical development of the relationship between the Ńlokú and the Aláyé Odè. And while historical narratives – ìtàn – could of course offer such explanations, their own openness to interpretation limited the possibility of a comprehensive reconstruction of the historical relationship between the two rulers in significant ways.

Even where details and turning points of the relationship between the Aláyé Odè and the Ńlokú could be recovered, these details had to be reinterpreted in the light of the colonial state’s need for local legitimacy, and more specifically its reliance on ọbas and other traditional rulers. For example, while Ńlokú Adeboga’s claim to a share in the local burial fees resonated with the memory of past and more recent practices, his demand to control the collection of taxes in Iraye, as well as to hold seats on the Ode Remo Native Court, the Ode Remo Town Council, and the Remo Native Administration Council^{Footnote 135} had no direct local equivalent or precedent. Rather, such demands derived from his claim to ọbaship, and from the particular form of recognition that was conferred upon this office by the colonial state.

Some correspondents were clearly aware of the interpretive gaps inherent in the knowledge of the past associated with the Ńlokú. Several of the texts submitted to the colonial authorities suggest their authors’ alertness to the potentially problematic nature of historical reinterpretation through careful choice of words. This is particularly evident in the responses to a questionnaire, which Assistant District Officer C.C. Brigstocke, apparently somewhat exasperated by the ongoing stream of petitions and correspondence on this matter, distributed among local groups in 1950.^{Footnote 136} In response to a question about the Ńlokú’s status, Ńlokú Adeboga did not state categorically that the ancient Ńlokú was an ọba, even though he personally had by then been recognized as an ọba for over two years. Rather, he explained carefully that “Nloku is entitled and eligible to the title ‘Oba’ because he came from Ile Ife with his regalia of office.”^{Footnote 137} Adeboga’s cautious reply points to a sophisticated understanding of the possibilities and limitations of local historical knowledge.^{Footnote 138}

Equally meticulous is an assertion by one of the Aláyé Odè’s supporters, who pointed out that the Ńlokú “may be entitled to the title ‘Oba’ but from time immemorial he was only spoken of as ‘the Nloku’ without the prefix.”^{Footnote 139} The tone of these statements suggests that many local historians – including the struggle’s main protagonists – were aware of the problems involved in interpreting, or translating into abstract and general categories, those aspects of knowledge of the past which were, through their everyday presence, known as highly specific and particular.^{Footnote 140}

Thus, while the debate surrounding the resuscitation of the Ńlokú was shaped by particular political interests that emerged under colonial rule, it also reflected the possibilities and constraints of the textual forms and conventions associated with local historical knowledge. Because of the wide variety of texts that contained historical knowledge, participants of a public debate on his role could gather the available evidence regarding the role of the Ńlokú in order to validate particular claims. At the end of this process, a broadly based agreement emerged which confirmed the historical importance of the Ńlokú. The successful establishment and wide acceptance of the Ńlokú title today illustrates that such agreements could be a driving force for wider transformative civic and political projects.

But even as Ode Remo’s history was opened up to popular debate and communal transformation, locally specific historical knowledge was retained in forms and practices that were largely independent of the wider debate. Contained in textual forms which existed separately from official or dominant narratives, and which continued to be mobilized in a wide range of social contexts, local historical knowledge was not transcended by wider and more general categories of explanation. As a result, historical knowledge which was at odds with the main narrative of the town – or the colonial administration – was not automatically subjugated knowledge. Implicated in the making and re-making of social groups and identities, the validity of such knowledge was continually confirmed by social practice and everyday life. And as long as it had the power to shape the lives of its owners, local historical knowledge also retained its potential for providing an alternative vision of the wider community.

In many small Yoruba towns, socially rooted knowledge has remained the main starting point for the reinterpretation of the past even after the end of the colonial period. Crossing and avoiding each other at crucial points, the Ariadne’s threads of local knowledge are the main weave of local history. Forming a loose fabric at best, these threads can be stretched and shaped for interrogation in the present, where they may serve as the anchor points for the more tightly woven fabric of a more general, civic history.