The Creativity Site

 By Victor Olubiye In the heart of Ile-Ife, the spiritual cradle of the Yoruba people, stands a tall and mysterious monolith that has defied time for centuries. Known locally as Opa Oranmiyan—the Staff of Oranmiyan—this 18-foot granite column is more than a relic. It is a living memory, a cultural compass, and a sacred link to one of the most controversial and legendary figures in Yoruba history: Prince Oranmiyan, the last son of Oduduwa. The tale of Oranmiyan is as layered as the myths of ancient Greece. Oral tradition recalls that he was born of Lakange Anihunka, a slave woman captured during war, but his paternity was shared by two titans—Oduduwa, progenitor of the Yoruba race, and Ogun, the fiery god of iron and war. This unusual origin gave him his name Oranmiyan, which loosely translates as “the child who chose controversy.” Half of his body was said to carry Ogun’s bronze-like complexion, while the other half mirrored Oduduwa’s darker hue. From birth, he was destined to be b...

 By Victor Olubiye On the morning of September 22, 1967, four men were lined up at Enugu and condemned to face the guns of their comrades. Among them was a tall, soft-spoken officer whose life had once symbolized the promise of a modern Nigerian military—Colonel Victor Adebukunola Banjo. Moments later, the sound of rifles tore through the air, ending not just his life but the ambitions of one of the brightest officers of his generation. Banjo’s story is not just the tale of a soldier. It is a window into the turbulence of Nigeria’s 1960s—an era of coups, betrayals, and civil war, when loyalty to tribe or nation could decide between life and death. Born on April 1, 1930, in Ogun State, Banjo grew up in a Nigeria still under colonial rule. In 1953, he joined the Nigerian Army as Warrant Officer 52 and began a journey that would set him apart. He trained at the prestigious Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, in the United Kingdom, where discipline and intellect combined to shape his ca...

 By Victor Olubiye On a humid night in 1862, the home of Bishop Samuel Ajayi Crowther in Lagos was consumed by fire. Flames devoured wood and roof, swallowing clothes, furniture, and keepsakes. But what pained Crowther most was not the loss of possessions—it was the destruction of manuscripts. In a mournful letter to Henry Venn, Secretary of the Church Missionary Society, he lamented that eleven years of collected words, proverbs, and carefully prepared notes for the Yoruba Bible were gone “like a dream.” For many men, such a setback would have been the end. For Crowther, it was only another bend in the long road of intellectual labor. It would take him thirty-four painstaking years—marked by revisions, calamities, and unrelenting determination—to complete the translation of the Bible into Yoruba. Yet, this colossal achievement would not only elevate him as a pioneer African linguist but also shape Yoruba identity and African Christianity for generations. Born in 1809 in Osogun, Oy...