By Sobona Wasiu
There’s a story they tell in the old quarters of Ìkòròdú, about a man named Ọlọ́pààá. He was not always called that. In his youth, his name was Ọlámidé, “my wealth has come.” But life, as it often does, reshapes a man’s name to fit his character.
When the new king, Ọba Ọlọ́jọ́, was crowned after a long and contentious process, Ọlámidé refused to acknowledge him. Not because the king was weak—in fact, the king had built roads where there were only footpaths and restored the stream that had run dry for a decade. But Ọlámidé had supported another contender, a man from his mother’s village, and his heart had soured like over-fermented ogi.
So Ọlámidé became Ọlọ́pààá—the Hater of Rain.
You see, whenever the king’s messengers announced that the royal farmers had recorded a good harvest, Ọlọ́pààá would scoff. “Harvest for whom? Did you count the grains in my barn? They are lying!”
When the king’s builders completed a new bridge, he would say, “That bridge is too strong. It will attract too many people and cause traffic.”
If a child from the town won a national wrestling contest, others would rejoice, but Ọlọ́pààá would mutter, “The king must have bribed the judges. Nothing good can come from this land as long as he sits on the throne.”
He cloaked his bitterness in what he called “patriotism.” “I love this kingdom too much to watch it be destroyed,” he would say, even as he poured sand into the community’s pot of soup.
What pained the elders most was not his criticism, for even the sun is criticized for being too hot. It was his refusal to allow anything good to exist outside the shadow of his resentment. He called those who celebrated the kingdom’s small victories “slaves” and “blind followers.” Yet, when asked which village his own loyalty lay with, he grew silent. He was against the king, but not for any other leader. He was against the bridge, but offered no path across the river. He was against the light, but carried no lamp.
In the end, Ọlọ́pààá did not burn the king’s palace; he only succeeded in burning down his own home—with the fire of his own rage.
There’s a lesson here for every one of us living in this modern Nigeria:
Criticism is the salt of governance—it preserves accountability. But hatred is poison in the same salt, and it kills not only the leader but the one who carries it.
You are not a patriot because you hate the president. You are a patriot when you love Nigeria enough to acknowledge her flaws and her progress, to condemn what is wrong and celebrate what is right—without being selective in your outrage.
True love for one’s country is not an emotional protest; it is a conscious contribution.
Let the wise hear and understand.
Ìwà rere l’ẹ̀ṣọ́ ẹnìkan.
Good character is the only true adornment.Sobona Wasiu
(Diaspora), writes from Ikorodu
