Kola Túbọ̀sún on what it means to be Yoruba
There are few people in the world who have done more to preserve and promote the Yoruba language than Kola Túbọ̀sún. So when I started to think about interviewing Yoruba intellectuals on what it means to be Yoruba today, his name was top on my list.
I first interviewed Túbọ̀sún in 2015, when he was fundraising for Yorubaname.com, a project that has now documented the etymology of more than 10,000 Yoruba names.
Since then he has won the Premio Ostana prize for writing in the mother tongue, consulted for Google to create a ‘Nigerian accent’, and completed a Chevening research fellowship at the British Library.
Our conversation took place over email and spanned a couple of weeks. The transcript below was edited for organisation and clarity.
Solomon Elusoji: The main question I have is what your thoughts are on what it means to be Yoruba? I ask the question in the context of the so-called ‘tribal wars’ on social media platforms, particularly X, and especially as it pertains to the question of citizenship in a state like Lagos. If you asked me, I’d say to be Yoruba, one simply needs to speak (and understand the language) and be a tax-paying resident in a political community dominated by Yoruba-speakers. But I’m not quite convinced language is everything, even if it is fundamental to identity.
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: I wrote this new essay about the current language wahala regarding “Owambe”. Please read and some answers may be evident there. But to respond specifically, what does it mean to be Yorùbá, I think I also broached that in this my 2017 essay, where I compared what “being Yoruba” today means compared to say 13th century if I lived in Ifẹ̀.
What I see on social media these days just brings so much to worry about, where being Yorùbá has become weaponised with the political matter of the day. It reminds me of what’s happening with Judaism as well, and the actions of the State of Israel. While there are many Jews (ethnic or religious) who don’t care for the Netanyahu government, and many who aren’t even citizens of the State of Israel, there are many more who choose to conflate it as a way to ensure compliance, some more fervently because of their belief that they’re one and the same, and any separation will lead to their extinction. I reject this view, either for antisemitism and for the Yorùbá identity in the world today. There are people who are Yorùbá only by name, some also by language, and some with religion. Not all of them live in Nigeria and not all of them care for a political identity within the Nigerian state that is militant and exclusionary. I think leaving space for the nuance that allows for the many versions to exist is a better option, and what I accept.
Many who are familiar with my work as the founder of YorubaName.com and a strong advocate for language survival are often surprised when I tell them that I don’t typically share the jingoistic element of today’s “culture” warriors who define themselves against others in gratuitous militancy. I’m a linguist, a profession I’ll defend with everything I’ve got. But one of the things that the field of enquiry has empowered me with is a humility to understand the limitation of language to foist a way of life on other people. It is a tool that has significant power to build a better society if well handled.
Solomon Elusoji: In this essay, which I find incredibly fascinating, you acknowledge that the Yoruba have a home country. How significant do you think this space – to be specific, I’m referring to the six states in Southwest Nigeria – is to Yoruba identity? Does it matter that these spaces are inhabited by Yoruba-performing people? I ask the question because you mentioned not being militant about Yoruba nationality. I assume you mean you do not support violence – physical or verbal – against other nationalities in defence of your own identity. But, in your conception of Yoruba nationality, is there a home country to protect with nonviolence?
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: Now, this is a good question. A few days ago, I began reading a book, the autobiography of Muraina Oyelami, a famous artist. He was born in the town of Ìrágbìjí in Ọ̀ṣun State, but his ancestors -- he said -- were from a place called Ìrẹsà. Now, Ìrẹsà no longer exists, because it was destroyed in one of the old 17th and 18th century Yorùbá wars. Apparently it was such an important city at the time it exists, so much so that some Yorùbá people exist around the world today who continue to recite their ancient Arẹ̀sà oríkì, which they’ve retained through the dispersal of the ancient city. This is a common story. The Ìkòyí panegyric, for instance, is also one of the most famous oríkì in Yorùbá, and yet the town of Ìkòyí no longer exists today as it used to. Same with Ìjàyè, etc. All the people dispersed from these ancient communities have kept the national identities their ancestors carried, even though they now belong to different “modern” states. There are many Arẹ̀sà, Ìkòyí, or Ìjàyè people in each of the six southwestern states. You see the point? While the ancient classifications/communities no longer exist, they have been subsumed into the modern ones. If you go to Cuba and Brazil today, there are Yorùbá communities who do not even have the advantage of memory that the people from Arẹ̀sà, Ìkòyí, or Ìjàyè people have, and they continue to be Yorùbá -- and I haven’t even mentioned those who are not even black, but claim the Yorùbá identity, as I mentioned in that other essay. So, to answer you, how important is that “home space” in Southwestern Nigeria to my identity as a Yorùbá? Very important, but again it’s both a spiritual and physical thing. There’s a way I feel when I return to Àkóbọ̀ in Ibadan where I was born. But my ancestors came from Ìrè Èkìtì in the late 1800s, so my relationship with Ibadan is different from my father’s and from his own father’s, etc. No one can take that away from me, whether I choose to live in London, Edwardsville, or New York. It’s a memory and identity I carry with me. Our family’s oríkì is Mògún Onírè, which traces a direct connection to Ìrè Èkìtì, a place I’ve never been, and to Ògún, the deity of our lineage, with whom I have little in common. I don’t assume that I will feel the same way in Ìrè Èkìtì as I feel when I’m in Ìbàdàn, which embodies much of my childhood memory and formation, and the only place I’ve claimed as mine, where I’ve never felt like a stranger. So, I don’t know if I’ve answered your question. There will, I assume, always be new ways of being Yorùbá as there have been through the years, through the movements of the different groups through wars, migrations, intermingling, and conquest. I’m happy to engage with it in this milieu I am fortunate to witness, and contribute to it in ways that hopefully enrich the experience for others. But that’s all I can do. There are so many others who engage with it more directly than I: the kingship system of Ibadan, for instance, continues to be an envy of the country in its republican orderliness. So, while there’s an inevitability to evolution that seems to always escape every human attempt at bottling, there’s also an ongoing physical engagement and assertiveness I find fulfilling in artistic and spiritual ways.
Solomon Elusoji: You mention “new ways of being Yorùbá” in your last response. There is no doubt in my mind that ‘being Yoruba’ in the 13th century is different from ‘being Yoruba’ today. But what has not changed about ‘being Yoruba’ in the 13th century and ‘being Yoruba’ today? The language’s form, as you precisely argued here, of course is subject to change. But does the language convey something qualitatively different than say, ‘being Jewish’? Or is language – I define language, not simply in a linguistic sense, but as all forms of cultural representation, including physical artefacts – the departure point? So, being Jewish, then, is the same as being Yoruba, and we just get to this ‘state of being’ in different ways and forms?
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: Actually, a good thing you’ve called back to the Jewish question. You do know, of course, that the Modern Hebrew spoken in Israel today isn’t the same at all as the Hebrew spoken in Biblical Israel. This new one is a totally new language created out of Yiddish, Old Hebrew, Russian, Amharic, and so on in the late 19th century, and sounds more like Russian than a Middle Eastern language. Yet, as we can see by its use in the State of Israel and among devout practitioners of Judaism, it has come to carry the weight of both cultural, religious, and national history. I think Yorùbá is already that way for religious Yorùbá folks in Cuba, Brazil and elsewhere who are not even 100% black but identify as 100% Yorùbá. The Lucumí language spoken in Cuba as a liturgical language of Santería sounds more like Spanish than Yorùbá even though you can find identifiable words/sounds, some of which have retained their original meaning and some which have not. So I guess what I’m trying to do is illustrate the instances of being Yorùbá as a spiritual exercise that can exist outside of space and “language” in the strict sense. There are Yorùbá children in Nigeria today who do not speak the language fluently or at all, whereas there are people in Cuba whose knowledge and practice of the religion, even if they only use Lucumí, is as authentic as usual. Both of them are authentically Yorùbá, are they not? Knowledge and practice will differ, just as a Nobel Prizewinner from England or the Supreme Court judge in the US will possess a mastery of English language better than a sixth grader in Alabama, though all can claim the heritage of the language. In some way, language can be the most proper embodiment of culture, but not always. In other ways, it is religion. I’m fascinated by all these different manifestations.
Solomon Elusoji: I’m trying to further articulate your response. If I read you correctly, you mean ‘being Yoruba’ can be different things, and that language in its different forms – speech, writing, or gesture – is what makes being Yoruba distinct, say from being a Jew?
Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún: I’m trying to not speak to what it means to be a Jew, because I’m not one. But I know that I’m Yorùbá because I share the culture/language, mindset, and an identifiable homeland. But I know others who share it even if they don’t have each of these three elements. I don’t practice Yorùbá spirituality, for instance, but there are those who practice it and don’t speak the Yorùbá I speak, nor can translate into it or interpret the language of the talking drum. So yes, “being Yorùbá” can be many things, as long as they are in the service of a recognizable identity or ways of existing in the world. There’s an Igbo man I grew up with around Ìwó Road, called Mr. Clement Urama. All the people in the area call him Baálẹ̀ because you almost can’t tell now that he came originally from Enugu. He speaks Yorùbá like a native speaker and has lived there since 1976 at the age of 21. I wrote about him in the House No. 57 essay I wrote for Saraba in 2017. I speak Yorùbá to him when we meet. I prostrate myself because he’s almost like a father to me. His two children were born in the location and consider themselves both Igbo and Yorùbá, though none of their parents are “native” Yorùbá. He can recite proverbs and is native to most Yorùbá norms. Would I deny such a person the claim to a Yorùbá identity if he would himself not deny it? Certainly not.
But what shows a Yorùbá man different from say a Hausa or Efik person? That’s a deeper question that I am least qualified to stipulate because it draws an outer boundary, which I’m sure exists, but isn’t always visibly tangible. What I can say are the things I see that tells me that this person is Yorùbá: familiarity with (or at least some fealty to) the Yorùbá language and identity, respect for elders, respect for individual difference (in religion, way of existing, and even biology), the Ọmọlúàbí ethos, which involve so much that is intangible but recognizable, and respect for hard work, resilience, and discernment. Many cultures around the world have some of these attributes in different combinations, which explains my earlier point. The most visual attribute is tribal marks and other physiological connections to Southwest Nigeria, but what I’ve been trying to say is limiting ourselves to that also leaves so much out. ✚