“They weren't like us and for that reason deserved to be ruled.”
Edward Saīd
INTRODUCTION
When exploring the effects of colonialism, the commonly avoided topic in contemporary Africa is the role of religions, and ‘in discussing the politics of life across the continent […],’ Alhassan P. Ibrahim in The Republic article titled ‘God of Colonization’ asserts that ‘we cannot ignore religion.’ He adds that as Africans, our unique history of belief has made religion such an integrated part of our lives [.] and for us to even begin to consider how we can decolonize ourselves, we must call into question our very own history.’
Before the 1800s, Africa to the south had practised their indigenous spiritual systems while Christian missionary activities were prospering fairly along the coast only. The turn of events in Europe after the 1807 Slavery Abolition Act would change that. Fast forward to the Berlin Conference of 1884-1885, this was where the map of Africa was knifed into pies like one does to a pizza among Germany, Britain, France, Portugal, Spain, Belgium, etc. These European nations would scramble to establish their colonies in Africa, mostly through the maxim guns and fraudulent treaties. By establishing their colonial banner over the African people, Christianity, European languages and culture would be institutionalized rigorously. Attesting to the success of European colonization is the persistent dominance of Western thoughts in the socio-political arteries of most African countries today, plus the Euro-boundaries of today’s Africa - a crown effort of the Berlin game.
Now, how did Èṣù get caught up in the calculated schemes of European nations and the historical Abrahamic race for soul conversion? This is what this paper attempts to do -untangle Èṣù from the satanic narrative picture ever since Christianity and British colonialism arrived in Yorùbáland, while at the same time, exploring the colonial intention behind such injustice and who Èṣù is.
Ta'Ni Èṣù Gan-an? (Who Is This Èṣù?)
Once upon a time in a pristine African society, life was absurd at its best. Human life was largely devoid of meaning. Few succeeded with difficulties; the majority did not and didn’t know why. Many laboured but in vain. They gathered and watched things scattered for the cycle to begin again. The wise fail and fools prosper. The confusion (rudurudu) was far-reaching. Birds tweeted not like birds. Mouse squeaked in strange tones. Babies were not crying like humans. Dead trunks stood while saplings and trees in their prime fell. The villagers fasted and prayed to the gods. Rituals became a routine at road shrines and labyrinths. Almost everything they tried came to naught. Life was foul as almost everything polukumusu or withered without cause.
But newborns should not be malformed in the marketplace of elders. A few sort after Ọ̀rúnmìlà, the wise one of the land and messenger of Olódùmarè. Akerefinusogbon too was as bothered as the people. Ọ̀rúnmìlà kept dicing on Ifa divination tray; day and night, one supplicant after another. Ifa kept telling them to appeal to their heads. It didn’t mean much to the petitioners. Nothing mortifies an elder like divination that proffers neither sacrifice nor remedy. Ọ̀rúnmìlà was like a doctor without the prescription; even if it is placebo. Restless supplicants offered sacrifices on their own accord. They called Ifa liar; Èṣù-Odara (Devil) thief. Ọ̀rúnmìlà looked to the heavens like the uninitiated.
Ọ̀rúnmìlà summoned courage one day and headed for ajule-orun (heaven) to inquire of Olódùmarè why life was bizarre. Crisscrossing between heaven and earth was possible for Ọ̀rúnmìlà as the primus inter pares among men and gods created by Olódùmarè. He met Èṣù, the messenger of Olódùmarè at the heaven’s gate. Èṣù was surprised to see him. He knew his time was not up, “what are you doing here, the wise one?” Èṣù inquired of Ọ̀rúnmìlà. The latter took a seat and narrated the troubles, travails, and meaninglessness that have literally taken over the earth. He explained his helplessness and how he was being ridiculed as a false messenger of Olódùmarè. Èṣù heard it all and fell sorry for Ọ̀rúnmìlà. He told Ọ̀rúnmìlà that he would allow him to have access to his or her ori (head).
As the myth goes, Èṣù took Ọ̀rúnmìlà to where human spirits choose their lots (yan ipin) at the nick of coming to the earth. He tucked Ọ̀rúnmìlà in a corner and urged him to listen to humans make choices of life paths before Olódùmarè. Earth-bound creations started filing to decide their own fate. Their sundry requests shocked Ọ̀rúnmìlà to his marrows. On the aggregate, very few choose goodness, success, and life of impacts. Majority volunteered to tag along with others in life. The preponderance of people opted to be spectators. And the Register of Destiny sanctions all choices.The wise one thanked Èṣù for the revelation as they departed. Èṣù said all human beings on earth made choices and had been predestined with certain potential and pathways in life. The divine sanction enforces the will power to actualise potential, as much as their character would enable them over time. No amount of hurry or impatience will change anything for good. He urged Ọ̀rúnmìlà to always factor in predestination or potentiality, choices, and character in divining human course in life. [An allegory in Ifa Literary Corpus, as recounted by Dimeji Ajikobi in Èṣù; Ta Ni i?]
Those who have been conditioned to see Èṣù as Satan would be stunned by the above allegory in Ifa Literary Corpus. How could an “evil-monster” be so concerned about Ọ̀rúnmìlà’s travails, and provide solutions and advice to making humanity better? That is Èṣù portraying one of its representations as Òrìṣà of Beginnings. It is also the Òrìṣà of ‘duality’ (Good/Evil), Crossroads, Travellers, Fertility, and Death. Literary examples are as follows,
Everybody wants good. Nobody wants evil, but, then, it happens.
· Ajumo woke up and prayed to E’dumare. Should he go out to his shop today or not? After an hour of mind debate. He decided to go. In the early night, he returned and met his door burgled. His foodstuff had been stolen. The neighbours narrated the ordeal and reported that Wope and Faga who lived in the room to his left had been shot dead. Èṣù could be said to be present at the time Ajumo was contemplating going out or not. Ajumo’s decision was his not Èṣù’s. In the death of Wope and Faga, Èṣù is there, not the cause of it. In the escape of Ajumo, Èṣù is there too. “Oríì mi ò” shouted Ajumo.
· Sopa had aborted 10 times. “Should I abort again?” Sopa asks herself. “I don’t want this child” Sopa blurted out. Èṣù laughs and looks at her. Èṣù pops in her mind YES/NO in slides.
Yes! Bu..ut, will this not be the last cracker to losing my womb? Ermm… No! Bu..t, do I have the means to take care of the baby? I don’t even know the father. Èṣù laughs and looks at her. Sopa finally settled on Yes. Èṣù disappears.
· Travelling on Lagos-Ibadan expressway to UI from Lagos.
I’m almost reaching Iwo road. Should I take Agbowo route or Ojoo route to UI? Bírere thought to herself. Unknowing to her, a gang war had been planned to take place at Ade-Love Bus/Stop. She chose Agbowo, the fastest route. I’ll be on UI Campus no less than 10 minutes.
Now less than 5 minutes on getting to UI.
On getting to Akifala (the street before Ade-Love Street), she saw people running towards her. Some were closing their shops feverishly, some locking themselves inside their shops, and some running into any openings. She eventually heard gunshots. She parked her car and ran into a blue house on the right flank. Gunshots continued for two hours and stopped. The streets were dead. No corpses. Only bullets were everywhere on the tarred road. She met her car undamaged. She nicknamed her car Ogungbemi.
While she was making the decision to pass that route, Èṣù was there. At the shootout, Èṣù was there too. If she had taken Ojoo route, a traffic jam could have held her up to an extra 30 minutes. Èṣù would be there if she were deciding between going back through Agbowo route or being more patient. Either way, it would be her decision all along.
Keeping the above in mind, Bibi Bakare and Jeremy Weate explain Èṣù’s role in the human crossroads of decision-making
Èṣù challenges us to reflect constantly on our lives and not get too blinded by habit. He is cocky and masterful but against cockiness and mastery. At the first sign of complacency, Èṣù keeps us in check by introducing chaos and confusion […] He is sometimes referred to as the “devil.” This is not because he is spiteful or the devil, as the Christian mistranslation of his characteristics would have us believe. Rather, he wants us to always be alert, and vigilant, and to make active choices by questioning our sense of certainty and unexamined faith in the world.
In addition, Èṣù is the enforcer of Elédùmarè's will. Èṣù distributes blessings and punishment to individuals, according to their standing with Elédùmarè. Appeasement to other Òrìṣà is incomplete and remains invalid without Èṣù’s portion.
It must be stated that Christianity pins sin causation on Satan whom it identifies as polar opposite to God. So, while according to biblical in-betweens, Satan rivals God, Èṣù is a messenger of Olódùmarè, more like a law enforcement agent; thus, in the indigenous Yoruba spiritual system, Èṣù is no rival to Olódùmarè. Olódùmarè who appointed Èṣù as messenger must have known both good and evil, and must have created them. Here is where Yorùbá cosmology situates Èṣù as a custodian who must ensure a perfect cordial working and balance of good and evil in all creation. In essence, Èṣù is a representation of that undeniable constant duality (good, evil) in our lives and our decisions.
The two prominent Abrahamic religions differ by their attributing only good to God, while Satan is termed the inherent evil. If the latter were so, I ask, who put the tree of knowledge of good and evil in the Garden of Eden? Also, where did the talking serpent come from? Yorùbá spiritual system acknowledges that we are inherently human and that we humans have the will to do both good and evil. Either way, we choose, we must face the result of our decisions.
Moreover, the Yorùbá spiritual system does not agree in any way with a Christian principle that goes "No matter your sins, they are forgiven.” Yorùbá spirituality offers transgressors no ‘cover’ to supposedly shake off their guilt and shame; thus, leaving them exposed to the wrath of Èṣù – in this case, Èṣù is the dispenser of Justice. Don’t we need such wrath in Nigeria where justice is weeping in the coffin? Besides, it is mandatory to do good, and that is the main reason Yorùbá moral philosophy hammers on ‘ìwà’ (character).
A person is labelled proud or snobbish. Apart from experiences and encounters that could have shaped such an outlook, is that the entirety of that person’s personality? Or after a robber is done robbing, will he/she return home and murder his/her family? Wouldn’t that negate the purpose of robbing? For whom was the robber robbing anyway, if not for pleasure and family comfort? Owing to human character dynamics, both the so-called snobbish person and the robber are capable of loving, caring, and giving, probably even more. If humans can be this complex, how about a deity who stands not on one side of the cosmic twin poles but between them i.e. between good and evil, success and failure, happiness and sorrow, life and death, fertility and barrenness, etc.?
The ‘Satanized’ Èṣù
Èṣù that Christianized-Yorùbás have been conditioned to see as a translation equivalent for Satan, as discussed above, is different in all circumspect. It appears that the missionaries needed a devil equivalent in African traditional religions to push the gospel further, and conversion faster. It was for this reason bible translation to indigenous languages became a necessity.
I opened a Yorùbá bible (published in 2012) to Matthew 4; the narrative of the Temptation. Thankfully, the chapter heading goes thus "Sàtánì dán Jésù wò", yet, Èṣù was still used extensively in the body of the chapter. At that instance, I decided not to waste my time checking other books of the bible.
A look into copies of the bible published before and immediately after the year 2000 reveals that the same chapter heading for the same narrative read “Èṣù dán Jésù wò.” Indeed, one can perceive the deliberateness to keep Èṣù in that Satan narrative picture. If there was no deliberateness to do such a thing, then why did the chapter heading correction in the 2012-published bible not extend to all the verses and chapters from Genesis to Revelation? The reason for the deliberateness is simple. To replace Èṣù with the linguistically correct word, -Sàtánì- is to untie the colonial rope around the neck of Yorùbá indigenous spiritual systems. Also, to do that is to clear the fog of disdain that has been hovering around indigenous Yorùbá spirituality ever since Christianity arrived, and which might culminate in renaissance.
Musing the effect Christianity had on Yorùbá spirituality on a panel discussion organized by Nexus Institute in the Netherlands, Wole Soyinka said
When the Christian came, determined to spread the gospel…they looked around, they could not find, they needed the devil…they could not find the equivalent of the devil, of Satan. So they took one of the Yorùbá deities, Èṣù, who happens to be a trickster, very complex… I call Èṣù a master dialectician, and because it is unpredictable it can upset the best laid out plans… And they took Èṣù and decided that it is the devil. And they distorted the entire ethical structure that was based on the Yoruba pantheon, the various deities, the various departments or existence, phenomena, conduct, relationship on which a whole functioning ethical structure had been built... [Transcript culled from Nexus Institute YouTube channel]
Language and Identity
As explicitly discussed above, by religious colonization, Èṣù became Satan's equivalent; Ifá became Satan’s gym store. How about Olódùmarè? It was seen as good enough to qualify for a mention in the Book. Basically, the satanization of Èṣù is behind the (subtle) hatred/fear Christianized-Yorùbás have towards Ifá and generally the Yorùbá spiritual systems.
The hybrid nature of modern Yorùbá identity doesn't exclude the rest of Africans all over the world. Some Yorùbás write and speak English fluently, but, their mother tongue they relish with scritch-scratch vocabulary, supplemented with English mix – permit me to call them Language Jockeys instead of DJ. At least, the LJs still take pride in it. But to some, speaking the native tongue is barbaric. Wearing native attires is ti aye atijo (of ancient times). This is where it gets more interesting. The drop-out shoemaker in that corner of the street will try to impress you with his stunted knowledge of the colonial tongue, differentiating himself in style from those who can’t speak it at all, jollying in his glorious stars to at least be at the bottom of the elite rank, at least away from the “uncivilized” creatures who are his regular customers.
Some efforts have been exacted to reclaim some aspects of tradition. Deborah changed her name to Móremí; Joseph substituted his with Akinde and Obafemi; Godspower swapped his with Sangojimi. These Yorùbá names identify the bearers first of all as Yorùbá, -African- while the English names identify one as Anglo-Christian.
The use of “Oluwa” and “Olorun” in Yoruba names is tied to the rising popularity of Christianity among Yorùbás in the second half of the 20th century. In this era, hacking of family names began: The family of Oosagbemi became the family of Jesugbemi, the family of Ogunjimi became the family of Olorunjimi, the family of Èṣùgbayi became the family of Jesugbayi and so on, thereby in a way greying their deep-rooted lineages. The missing letters in some Yoruba names cannot go unmentioned either. ‘I’ in Ifa names went missing, ‘O’ in Oso names disappeared, ‘E’ in Èṣù names faded i.e. Ifawole became Fawole; Osowemimo became Sowemimo; Èṣùbomi became Subomi, etc. All was a deliberate effort to identify with the “newfound” religion; hence, peeling off the morphemes was an act of stepping up to Christendom – in effect, the traditional names lost a significant portion of their meaning.
In the same vein, to get by jobs in the cities is equally demanding for someone from the rural areas. No box represents this job seeker’s indigenous spirituality in the religion section of the application form. Her name, Èṣùgbami, exposes her as Èṣù worshipper. What should she do? She either borrows a Christian or Muslim name, or performs a quick surgery on it by ‘E’ omission or Jesu/Oluwa/Olorun substitution. The job requirement even states that she must have some mastery in the English language. Disappointingly, the village where she is moving from barely taught her English with the English language. She then chooses to learn, and the price to pay is to forego much of her original tongue and identity. Having been Europeanized, she then begins to read European meanings into indigenous traditions she previously understood and reverred. Her mind could be said to have been re-engineered against her original self. The fact that she had no choice but to pick which of the European knowledge and spiritual system to accept and which to throw to the backwaters stresses the critical intent of colonization in any form. Lack of choice was also portrayed in most African societies not given a chance to consent to European colonization, not even a backseat at the infamous Berlin Conference. Language and identity formations are, therefore, inseparable.
Urban areas and colonial structures (now known as government institutions) are visible custodians of English language and Western culture in light of the formidable presence of indigenous languages in Nigeria. Which, therefore, should take the first place? Which should be regarded original tongue? Which carries career/business opportunities? Which of them should be shed? Which, should be consolidated? These questions are gradually answered as Africans come in contact with globalization. In the end, identity-switching becomes an asset and therein lays the trappings of identity crises. To appreciate the hybridized nature of modern Yorùbá, it is important to review the following poem which captures it well.
ON GODS AND GOD - Awósùsì O. Abraham When we were young, we know The rhythm to Ogun, the god of Iron, The wild sound of Sango, the god of Thunder The songs of Obaluaye, the one that plagues with sickness. But, we were damned. So was it said by those who came with cross and oil. So, we change the tune, Reciting the Nicene Creed While kneeling on dusty pews; taking sacrament on our heathen palms. On some days, we still whistle the tone of Egungun, the dead who live in the sky Wiggling to the lyrics of Osun panegyrics. Perhaps, we have given unto Caesar Caesar’s. We are Janus, two face gods. We are Ogun, yet, we are Jesus. [First published in Merak Magazine, Enigma IV]
Literary Review
The above poem is no lamentation, but rather, a reflection and recognition of the carryover of traditional art and culture into the “newfound” religion. Singing “My Hope is Built on Nothing Else...” and at the same time, moving to the beats of traditional processions.
Lines 1-4 re-enacted the times of originality, the times we were witnesses to the wonders of the Gods. As a result of being groomed by the elders, and doubling as daughters and sons of the land, we recognize the moves of the Gods, we knew which was “…the rhythm to Ògún /the wild sound of Ṣàngó/the songs of Ọbalúayé…”
Line 5 is a flashback to how the tragedy began. From the 1800s onwards, Christian missionaries began infiltrating the hinterland of sub-Saharan Africa; they arrived increasingly as their colonial countrymen guaranteed security by setting up colonial governments. By Christian principles, the locals were damned to hell. And to make Christian of them, their traditional Gods were labelled antennas of Satan; most cultural practices were tagged diabolical. And fortunately for the missionaries, some indigenes, who would further the gospel outreach, converted. However, it was possibly out of a need to belong to the new feel, the “newfound” religion, which came with opportunities open in the colonial administration. Nonetheless, the remainder of the indigenes and the converted few continued to thrive on the same native land of theirs. And be that as it may, they were torn between the dilemma of what to hold onto in Yorùbá spiritual systems and the new inspiration of the cross; thus, the beginning of identity crises.
Having been converted to Christianity on the same native land that heralded their original totality, were the lineages and panegyrics of the natives washed clean, as white as snow too? We say we are Christians, and by extension, Muslims, let us minus our land, our native land, and let’s see what becomes of us. We suck the harvest of the native soil. Our shelter is made up of the resources of the native land. Who is to be revered the most for all of these? The One (Elédùmarè, Chukwu, Osanogbua, etc.) our ancestors have known from time immemorial or the one European missions introduced.
“...cross and oil” came to supplant the Gods and the soil. With gladdened hearts, we accepted the cross and oil despite our ancestors being alive in our DNA. In our endeavours to run away from them by choosing to ultimately “change the tune” (more like pretend they never existed), they echo from our destinations. Besides changing the tune, we started “reciting the Nicene Creed”, something we knew next to nothing about when all we had ever known as originally ours were the Gods of our ancestors through whom we approached Elédùmarè [Supreme Being].
It is interesting to note that some Yorùbás are into traditional worship/consultations, yet, use Christianity as a cover, and vice versa. We may call such a set of people hypocrites. However, frankly, it's not their fault, as the two religions are both real to them. “Confusion” (for lack of a better word) is the state they are in. Even those who ditch one for the other completely, recognize the existence of both. To deny the existence of one is to deny that of the other.
God is supposedly one. The G/gods are supposedly one too, despite their multiplicity. With the hymns we sing and the ewì (poems) - we recite in the Yorùbá language, Yorùbás adapted to the "newfound" religion. It was only a matter of time before traditions slandering ensued. Èṣù is a special case in the infamous slandering. Being one of the Yorùbá pantheon, the most important, and, the essence of them all, Èṣù was equated to Satan, Lucifer, the Devil.
A prominent name, Bishop Samuel Ajayi Crowther who has been mentioned tirelessly in my ears throughout primary and secondary education turned out to be the missionary (a Yorùbá) behind such an erroneous translation. The intellectual opposition to that error would later force out a reluctant replacement - Sàtánì (the most appropriate Yoruba translation of Satan).
Apart from Èṣù, Olódùmarè/Elédùmarè wildly exclaimed in almost all Yorùbá speaking churches and sung in a popular hymn titled “Mimo Mimo Mimo, Olódùmarè”, occupies a strong place in odù Ifá (Ifá Corpus) before Christianity and Islam arrived. And what does Olódùmarè mean? It means Owner of Pot. What pot? Not cooking pot literally. Odù means pot; marè (from osùmàrè) has to do with the hidden bottom of the rainbow arc; hence, Olódùmarè means the owner of a pot that has no bottom i.e. full of mysteries. A short description goes this way. No matter how one stretches one’s hand into the Pot, one will never reach the bottom. Simply put, Odù is limitless and unexplainable. It is fascinating that Yorùbá spirituality would lock its metaphysical view of the universe into such a “simplistic” form and throw the keys of further rationalization into the abyss because since the Pot is bottomless, why bother reaching further? Since it is unexplainable, why bother defining it? All in all, Yorùbás consider Olódùmarè, as Reverend Samuel Johnson points out in History of Yorubas (published in 1921), ‘[…] too exalted to concern himself directly with men and their affairs, hence they admit the existence of many gods as intermediaries, and these they term Orisas.’ It should be equally noted that Yorùbá spirituality ascribed no gender to Olódùmarè. Notwithstanding, Òrìṣà, the messengers of Olódùmarè, took up gendered terms, though creatively, as Temitope Adefarakan explains
[…] some Òrìṣà are thought of in gendered terms (i.e. Oya as female and Sango as male), other Òrìṣà are either gender neutral, or their gender is context-dependent. That is, their gender is dependent on the worshippers themselves and how they imagine the particular Òrìṣà.
Given the above, a pressing question remains. On what basis have the two prominent religions ascertained the gender of the primordial Being, and yet they claim the Supreme is indescribable?
To tiptoe from the truth of the traditional linkages of Olódùmarè, “Ọlọ́run” and “Oluwa” were adopted extensively in the bible. Well, despite the smart adoption, Ọlọ́run has always been one of the praise names of Olódùmarè before Christianity and Islam came. Also, by “given unto Caesar Caesar’s” is that not serving God and Mammon?
The so-called pagan traditions and “heathen” spiritual systems are not pagan afterall if the pagans’ pagan words and their traditional meanings could be smuggled into the bible. What is even more shameful and pitiable is to hear traditionally ignorant Christianized Yorùbás call Ọ̀rúnmìlà Èṣù when he is simply the progenitor of Ifá (wisdom), a messenger of Olódùmarè too.
While we endeavour to run away from them by choosing to ultimately “…change the tune…” they echo from our destinations.
We only “…change the tune…” in terms of English regalia, costumes probably, English as a language of exhortation, pews, chairs in rows and columns, raised altars, etc. Nevertheless, the longing for some connection to tradition remained in the psyche, in instances such as when the same palms and mouths that are supposedly consecrated are the same with which we hum appeasement tones and proudly sing out our oríkìs [panegyrics]. There are even intermittent reverts to native cultural practices in the face of challenges at varying times and degrees.
The last two lines “...We are Janus…we are Ogun, yet, we are Jesus” speak of a double personality. Janus, in Roman mythology, is a two-faced God that denotes transition, doorways, and gates. The insertion of it by the poet is to stress the inevitability of double religious standing even if the majority of us choose to live in denial. The choice is now split- –revive traditional worship in totality in the face of Western culture, and be labelled a backward-thinking people, savages, or, absorb the Euro-Christendom totally, and be mocked European masquerades. This is now the dilemma before conscious Africans – remain two-faced or go ‘on to becoming’. Either way, we remain carriers of identity-critical disorder.
Janus could also mean beginnings and endings. In the context of the poem, which one is beginning? And which, is ending? Traditional religion and its Gods, or Christianity and its God. Whatever your answer is, you are stating the obvious. Both will continue to exist. For some Islamized Yorùbás and Christianized Yorùbás who still deny the pride of place of indigenous spirituality, why do you quickly exclaim ‘Ayé ò’ or ‘Ayé ló ń ṣeé’ whenever “bad” fate befalls someone else; this is a reminder of mysteries of the Gods who do good too.
For some, distancing themselves from ancestry seems to be a survival tactic in an “abrahamically” religious Nigeria which continues to scuttle government identification with indigenous “religions.” We can, therefore, see that religion is the pronouncement of culture, in it is preserved the totems or ideals of a people. Historically, when an indigenous religion is subsumed by an alien religion, the former continues to mirror back to indigenous converts whom they used to be, and hence, the converts took it upon themselves a task dubbed “great commission” to convert their so-called pagan brothers and sisters to their “newfound” religion – unknowing to them they were speeding up the process of their very own colonization. So, faced with a formidable presence of Abrahamic religions even as indigenous spiritual practices persist, the “pagan” indigenes and their converted kinsmen/women may remain clouded altogether in confusion, hypocrisy, fortunes, and misfortunes resulting from psyche re-engineering – the ultimate goal of any form of colonization.
A Look at India: Hindus vs. Christianized Hindus
The pattern of cultural distortion and religious invasion followed how European missionaries scouted for indigenous deities to confirm Satan's title upon. They in collaboration with Christianized natives always attempt to find (when translating) indigenous Gods to equate with biblical names such as Satan and God. In India, their disappointment was that every deity had their due followers.
Lakshmi is the Goddess of Fortune, Wealth, Love, Prosperity, Joy, Beauty, and Fertility.
Efforts to tag Lakshmi as Satan would be futile. Why? It’s because it has elite followers, and its representations (Fortune, wealth, Joy, etc.) are what an average Indian desires.
Brahman (the Supreme in Hinduism) - by Christianized Hindus and friends (Europeans) - is made parallel to the biblical God. But, to bypass the direct lifting of Brahman and its traditional connotations into the Hindi bible, Parameshvar (a praise name of Brahman) was adopted as equivalent to God in the Hindi bible. Not surprisingly, having smartly avoided using a Hindu God/Goddess as Satan's equivalent, there was no crisis.
To further explain that Brahman qualities are not the same as those of YHWH/Christian God/Allah is a waste of time, for the obvious fact is that these rather young Abrahamic religions drew much influence from diverse cultures around the Mediterranean Sea.
Kālī is the Hindu Goddess of Time, Doomsday, and Death. From the Goddess’ representations, it is very easy for an ignoramus to tag Kālī as the equivalent of the biblical Satan.
Additionally, Kālī represents feminine power (in the modern sense), authenticity, the inevitability of death, and Nature’s good and evil. Her ferocity is the reason she’s easily misunderstood. Her fearsome-looking image is enough to make a child shiver.
To then tag Kālī as Satan is to tag its followers as such. There would have been crises if Kālī had been adopted as Satan's equivalent in the Hindi bible. To quell future religious crises, शैतान pronounced as “Shaitaan” was adopted as a Hindi parallel pronunciation of Satan. As usual, Christianized Hindus may still go ahead to ascribe -within their religious space- Kālī's image to Shaitaan.
Èṣù is the enforcer of Elédùmarè's will. Èṣù distributes blessings and punishment to individuals, according to their standing with Elédùmarè.
On the Yorùbá side, woe befell Èṣù in the Yorùbá Christian community. It was pinned in the Yorùbá bible as the equivalent of Satan/the Devil. Be that as it may, the ìyanífás/babaláwos, and their followers, including platonic practitioners and the whole spiritual structure of Yorùbá, in the eyes of Christianized Yorùbás, became people and ways of Satan ever since. Ekwensu would face a similar fate in the Nd’igbo community. The arrogance with which the missionaries singularly picked Èṣù as Yorùbá equivalent for Satan isn’t far from the Christian outlooks and other faiths that demean indigenous spiritual systems to elevate themselves.
Bishop Samuel Àjàyí Crowther was the focal cause of the critical error; however, —giving honour to whom honour is due to still— he made Yorùbá writing possible. Noting the timeframe between the Bishop’s pre-conversion and conversion, Temitope Adefarakan observed that ‘while the process of translating the Bible into Yoruba took Crowther approximately forty-one years to complete, it was a mere three years after his abduction and subsequent liberation that the concepts of sin, Satan, and slavery were equated with indigenous Yoruba spirituality.’
Before Translations
It will, therefore, be arrogant of me to walk into the Hindu community with a colonial writing kit and an air of Grand Commandant of spiritual towers in a bid to substitute Èṣù with Kālī just because they have Death, Good, and Evil representations in common. That won’t only be an ignorant move, but also, a hateful eye and utter disrespect for indigenous knowledge and spiritual systems. Besides the fact that Èṣù and Kālī come from two unique worldviews, their representing peoples from different continents is reason enough to be humble enough to understand in totality the cultures and their spiritual contexts before translations begin.
Linguists who master their bags well know that translating always reaches a puzzling end where word-terms that carry spiritual and cultural contexts have to be understood clearly. Language experts also know the efficacy of language in identity distortions, constructions, and reconstructions; hence, their steadfastness to be as careful as possible when translating. As a pivotal rule of translation goes, ‘if you find a proper name in a document, be it from a person, company or institution, avoid translating it because it can make the text lose its meaning.’ Satan should have stayed Satan in the Yorùbá bible. However, that would have been shunned because Satan is an English word. Adapting the English word through Yorùbá speech sound should produce Sàtánì thereof. Our bible translator failed in that regard, despite being a Yorùbá man; probably he was determined to raise his kith and kin out of their so-called pagan and uncivilized ways. Surprisingly, the supposedly pagan indigenous Yorùbá spirituality has found its way into Cuba, Haiti, Brazil, etc. existing and promoted strongly there.
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún, a linguist, championed a Google correction of the mistranslation of Èṣù. Sàtánì and Bìlísì have been Google-recognized as proper Yorùbá translations for Satan. In one of his articles titled ‘Èṣù at the BL: Journeys Through Literature and Technology,’ Túbọ̀sún explored the collective amnesia around the use of Èṣù. He notes that
Most who speak the language today do not even know of the time when the association wasn’t always present. To call someone “Ọmọ Èṣù” in Yorùbá́ today only means “child of the devil”. So whether the bell of the evil linkage can be successfully unrung is a question that will remain up in the air.
In understanding the satanization of Èṣù, the role Christian missionaries played and still play cannot be excused. As explained above, the colonial trappings around the representations of Èṣù̀ must be unrung for the sake of intellectual honesty. Leaving this unrung for too long would make Yorùbá́land lose indigenous resolve and a chance to re-assert its art and culture when African renaissance breaks out. Japan, China, and India are Asian examples of how tradition could be woven with Western technology out of sheer will, not blind will.
Reinstating Èṣù̀ to its pride of place in indigenous Yorùbá spirituality by simply replacing it with Sàtánì in the bible will seriously indicate a sheer will to decolonize ourselves. If not done soon, as a colonized people we will continue to see our ancestry through the colonial veils, and for this reason, our existence will remain counterfeit for a long time. Aside from that, in terms of names, who cares what name you bear? But then, shouldn’t we be pan-African at least in name? Ire o.
Further readings
Adefarakan, T. (2008). “At a Crossroads”: Spirituality and The Politics of Exile: The Case of the Yoruba Orisa. Obsidian, 9(1), 31–58. http://www.jstor.org/stable/44489275
Fálọlá, T. (2013). Èṣù: Yorùbá God, Power, and the Imaginative Frontiers. NC: Carolina Academic Press.
Fanon, F. (1952). Black Skin White Mask. NY: Grove Press.
Jacob K. Olúpọ̀nà and Rowland O. Abíọ́dún, eds. Ifá Divination, Knowledge, Power and Performance.
Osofisan, F. (1991). Èṣù and the Vagabond Minstrels. Ibadan: New Horn Press.
https://www.mixcloud.com/classicfm973/the-discourse-with-jimi-disu-professor-sophie-oluwole/
https://www.bbc.com/yoruba/afrika-46848933
https://artmuseum.princeton.edu/collections/objects/41743
https://guardian.ng/opinion/Èṣù -a-metaphor-for-social-justice-and-reform/
https://guardian.ng/opinion/Èṣù -a-metaphor-for-social-justice-and-reform-part-2/
https://ifamatters.wordpress.com/Èṣù /
This essay was first published on the defunct gspecifications.com website in November 2020. It was later revised in October 2021 and emailed as a submission to the yearly Journal organized by the Students’ Historical Society of Nigeria [SHSN] Press, University of Ibadan.
It was revised and published on 14 October 2023.