Ìṣẹ̀ṣe: Where Culture Meets Faith

The Muslim-style burial accorded to the Awujale of Ijebuland, Oba Sikiru Adetona, has stirred strong reactions, particularly among traditionalists. It reignites long-standing debates about the survival and relevance of indigenous belief systems in a landscape increasingly dominated by Christianity and Islam. Yet, there’s an uncomfortable truth that must be confronted: while these Abrahamic faiths may not be indigenous to Africa, they’ve been embedded in the continent’s cultural and spiritual life for so long that they now operate as part of its “traditional” identity. So, for many, Oba Adetona’s burial—though Islamic—was still, in a sense, a traditional farewell.

Still, it’s understandable that Ìṣẹ̀ṣe adherents feel sidelined. The monarchy has historically served as a crucial platform for the expression and preservation of indigenous beliefs. That space is now being encroached upon by Islam and Christianity—religions that tend to view themselves as singularly true and are rarely tolerant of spiritual pluralism. Over time, these faiths have expanded their influence into domains once dominated by traditional religions, steadily pushing Ìṣẹ̀ṣe to the fringes. Today, it’s rare to find public figures openly identifying with Ìṣẹ̀ṣe. Most Nigerian politicians take oaths of office on the Bible or Qur’an, even if they secretly visit Ogun shrines for personal pledges. This secrecy helps perpetuate misunderstanding and suspicion around traditional belief systems.

A core issue fueling this marginalization is the unresolved question of whether Ìṣẹ̀ṣe should be seen as a religion or merely as culture. In a past interview, Oba Adetona himself seemed to treat Ìṣẹ̀ṣe more as cultural tradition—implying it should adapt with the times—an attitude he likely wouldn’t have applied to his own Islamic faith. The distinction between “culture” and “religion” might seem trivial, but it has real consequences. Religion enjoys constitutional protections in terms of worship and expression. Culture, on the other hand, is often expected to bend and evolve—sometimes to its own detriment.

Even among Ìṣẹ̀ṣe practitioners, opinions are split. Some avoid calling it a religion to retain its fluid, grassroots identity and avoid the rigid structures of organized faiths. Others argue that embracing the label of religion could afford Ìṣẹ̀ṣe the legal and institutional backing it desperately needs. Unfortunately, treating it merely as “culture” has exposed it to exploitation, particularly in sectors like Nollywood. Film portrayals of Ìṣẹ̀ṣe often lack depth or respect—babaláwo characters are reduced to villains or magical fixers, rarely portrayed as moral or spiritual guides.

Religious institutions haven’t helped either. Clerics routinely denounce Ìṣẹ̀ṣe without restraint—something they would never do with competing Abrahamic faiths—precisely because it’s seen as “cultural,” and thus fair game. Meanwhile, Ìṣẹ̀ṣe lacks the organizational and financial muscle to mount effective resistance. Its defenders are often informal, disorganized, and motivated more by opposition to Islam and Christianity than by a deep understanding of their own spiritual heritage.

In the end, the controversy surrounding Oba Adetona’s burial is about more than funeral rites—it exposes the deeper, unresolved tensions over spiritual identity, cultural erasure, and the evolving meaning of tradition in contemporary Nigeria.

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Christians and Muslims often demonize Ìṣẹ̀ṣe as a way to validate and reinforce their own religious beliefs. Wild, unfounded tales are circulated—stories of ritual killings, spiritual manipulation, and grotesque practices allegedly performed by traditional worshippers. These narratives are rarely grounded in evidence; instead, they serve as ideological weapons, crafting a villain that must be perpetually defeated to keep their faiths in a position of moral superiority.

I recall a particularly absurd example: following the death of a prominent Yoruba monarch some years ago, an acquaintance urged people to raise “prayer points” to counter the so-called dark spiritual activities tied to the burial. He claimed people would be buried alive with the king and that the Oba’s body would be consumed. I challenged him to back up his claims with verifiable proof—missing persons reports, eyewitness accounts, anything. I even offered a cash reward for solid evidence. Unsurprisingly, he had none. But rather than reconsider his stance, he insisted the lack of disappearances was proof that their prayers had worked. It was a circular argument rooted more in fear and fiction than fact.

This tendency to cling to colonial-era myths about Ìṣẹ̀ṣe—that it’s static, backward, or savage—is part of a larger psychological project. For many, dismissing Ìṣẹ̀ṣe as primitive helps justify Christianity and Islam as modern, enlightened alternatives. Accepting that Ìṣẹ̀ṣe can evolve, adapt, and exist as a viable ethical and spiritual framework would challenge the perceived monopoly these imported religions have on moral progress.

Each time a Yoruba monarch passes away, these age-old horror stories resurface—claims of ritual cannibalism and sacrificial rites—often spread by those who benefit from their cultural ignorance. Ironically, even some traditional rulers perpetuate these ideas in an effort to resolve the cognitive dissonance of sitting on a throne steeped in ancestral rites while practicing a religion that often disparages those very rites.

It’s particularly striking when monarchs, who accept their crowns based on Ifa divination, go on to publicly discredit the same belief systems that legitimize their rule. They enjoy the reverence, authority, and privileges that come with being seen as custodians of tradition, yet they turn around to undermine the very traditions that uphold their thrones. This ideological inconsistency is baffling.

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Perhaps the most glaring example is the Oluwo of Iwo, Abdulrosheed Akanbi. His public disdain for Ìṣẹ̀ṣe, despite his position as a Yoruba king, is as loud as it is ironic. Draped in royal garments but dismissive of the sacred traditions they represent, he embodies a kind of cultural hypocrisy—a walking contradiction of Yoruba ideals dressed in regal excess but signifying little more than the erosion of the values he is meant to defend.

If the controversy surrounding the Awujale’s burial teaches us anything, it’s the need for thoughtful balance between personal belief and cultural responsibility. While every Oba is entitled to follow the religion of their choice, it becomes problematic when that preference is projected too prominently in public life. A monarch, by virtue of their role, represents not just themselves but the diverse spiritual and cultural tapestry of their people.

Ideally, traditional rulers should embody the core values and moral teachings of all belief systems present within their communities, regardless of their personal convictions. Their position demands a kind of spiritual neutrality—one that respects the pluralism of their domain. When they pass, their burial rites should reflect the inclusive approach they modelled in life, serving as a continuation of the religious and cultural harmony they were expected to uphold.