₦airaland Forum

Rockyheight:
Ile-Ife Is Owned By My Ancestors – Olugbo Of Ugbo Kingdom







His Imperial Majesty, Oba(Dr) Frederick Akinruntan(Okoro Ajiga 1), The Olugbo of Ugboland, Ondo State has said that the ancient city of Ile Ife in Osun State is owned by his forefathers.

The monarch made the assertion while addressing some members of Southwest Group of Online Publishers (SWEGOP) who were on a courtesy visit to his palace.

Oba Akinruntan reiterated that his ancestors were the original settlers and aboriginal owners of the ancient city which is known as the cradle of Yoruba race, before migrating to the coastal area of Ondo State. He said their migration was based on the directive by Ifa and Osanyin that the land of the ancient city was barren.

Revealing more facts about Ugbo Kingdom, Akinruntan said,” it is a notorious fact that Oduduwa came as a stranger to Ile Ife. Oduduwa met sixteen communities in Ile Ife out of which thirteen have been identified in present day Ile Ife, and the aborigines are still very much in these communities, being active and holding principal roles in the day to day affairs of Ile Ife today.

” It is equally clear that he met these communities who had their kings that wore beaded crowns already in confederacy under the Paramount Ruler(Osangangan Obamakin), the existing communities in ancient Ile Ife, originally called Ugbomokun which had an established monarchical system of kingship as well as culture, customs and traditions regarding all faces of life including marriage, agriculture, worship, justice, security, parenting, commerce and others, under the leadership of Osangangan Obamakin(the son of Oranfe).”

He added, “Osangan Obamakin received Oduduwa into Ile Ife, and gave him residences as well as farmlands to cultivate. The elders in Ile Ife today still affirm that Oduduwa was a regular visitor to Ilero(Ile Apero), the palace of Osangangan Obamakin, which is still in existence today in Ile Ife, along Iremo road, and the aboriginal palace is unanimously adjudged by the elders of Ile Ife today as the Oldest Assembly In Yorubaland.

” Oduduwa was a likeable man, and was welcomed by Osangangan Obamakin but in time, dynastic wars began between Oduduwa and Obatala which eventually led to the defeat of Obatala in his Idita community, and sparked off series of events that have shaped history till this day.

“The Ugbo-Ilaje are direct descendants of Osangangan Obamakin whose dynasty founded Ile Ife, and reigned as the aboriginal Paramount Ruler of ancient Ile Ife which was known at the time as Igbomokun(Ugbomokun). He too was the son Oranfe who is recorded to be half man and half spirit, and lived on the hills of Ora.

” The offsprings and siblings of Osangangan Obamakin included Obalufon, Ojoyin, Alawo, Obawinrin, Obariyun, Owajan, Woyeasiri, Obarena, Obalara, Lowagbafin, and Baba Sigidi to mention but a few, in present day Ile Ife, there are existing quarters of Osangangan Obamakin where his direct descendants who are my kith and kin reside”.

“Oranfe, the father of Osangangan Obamakin, was mystified as a god and believed to have his palace built of fire both in heaven and his earthy abode on Ora hill in Ile Ife. That was why he was fondly referred to as Oranfe Onile Ori Oke.

“Oranfe was greatly revered and the entire spiritual paraphernalia that founded ancient Ugbomokun otherwise known as Ife Ooye or Ife Ooyelagbo was in the custody of Oranfe which included the dictates of the Oro Initiates as well as the powers of Ifa, the god of wisdom and divinity, after the ascension of Orunmila(the progenitor of IFA) from the earth.”

The Monarch maintained that the historical facts of Ugbo Kingdom as expatiated above can be found in the article entitled “A History of The Oldest Throne In Yorubaland,” By His Imperial Majesty Oghonne, Oba(Dr.) F.E.O. Akinruntan CON, FICA, FNIM and ODU: A Journal of West African Studies, New Series NO 46 July, 2015, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile Ife, Osun State, Nigeria.

Oba Akinruntan also explained that he has no link or historical ties with the Igbo despite sharing border with each other, stressing that people have been mistakenly pronouncing his Ugbo as Igbo.

He said that Igbo and its origin could be traced to East, while he, as the paramount ruler of Ugbo kingdom is from Southwest, geopolitical zone of Nigeria.

The Olugbo of Ugboland maintained that he has every fact regarding his claim about Ile-Ife and Ugbo kingdoms. He challenged anyone with contrary opinion to come out and contradict his facts.

https://sunrisebulletin.com/ile-ife-is-owned-by-my-ancestors-olugbo-of-ugbo-kingdom/

With all respect to the ancient thrones of Yoruba land, to the proud crowns of Ile-Ife and Ugbo, and to the men who still keep their ancestral drums beating — I, a son of the North, a descendant of Vikings and wanderers, speak not to insult, but to remind.

You speak of old kingdoms, of gods of fire and earth, of crowns that once gleamed under the sun of forgotten centuries. You speak of the soil as belonging to your forefathers — and that is a noble claim, for every man should know the land that bore his ancestors. Yet, my friends of the South, you must know this truth: what you practice today is not your ancient tradition, but a modern echo of it.

In my homeland, in the fjords and valleys of Norway, we too once had gods that burned in the skies — Odin, Thor, Freyja — and kings who ruled with blood and honor. We carved runes, made sacrifices, and swore oaths by steel. But those ways faded not because they were untrue, but because time, like the tide, carries every civilization into new shores.

We, the Norsemen, learned to honor our ancestors not by pretending to live as they did — we no longer raid, nor enslave, nor sacrifice to Odin — but by acknowledging that we have changed. We have embraced the modern world, with its human rights, its laws, and its reason. Yet we still look to the past with pride, knowing what it made of us.

That, I say with respect, is what the Yoruba and many others must learn to admit: that you are not living the old ways; you are remembering them through modern eyes. You speak of Ifa and Oranfe, of divine kingships and aboriginal thrones — but your courts no longer judge by ancestral oaths, your warriors no longer raid neighboring villages, your people no longer sacrifice humans to appease the gods, and your kings are enthroned under the protection of modern constitutions.

You cannot claim to live by the old ways when the very essence of your daily life — democracy, education, law, technology, and religion — are children of modern civilization. To say otherwise is not honoring your past; it is romanticizing it.

You speak of kingship and divine right, yet you use microphones, cars, and the Internet to proclaim it. You wear crowns crafted by modern goldsmiths, and your palaces are built with concrete and electricity, not mud and fire. You speak of ancient justice, but you live under the law of a republic. You speak of ancestral authority, but your people vote and debate. These are not evils — they are proofs that you have grown. But growth demands honesty.

To truly respect your ancestors is not to wear their garments, but to acknowledge the distance between their time and yours. For history without truth is not honor — it is theatre.

The world has changed, and so have you. The gods of thunder and iron have given way to the gods of commerce and law. The shrines have become symbols, not seats of power. The sacrifices have become festivals, not fears. And yet, you speak as though you still live in that sacred dawn — the time of Oduduwa, of Oranfe, of Obamakin.

Let there be no shame in this admission. To say, we have changed, is not to betray your ancestors — it is to respect the journey of your people. The Norse did not lose their pride when they left behind the hammer of Thor; they transformed it into a symbol of courage and unity. So too can the Yoruba — if they would only be honest about the transformation they have already undergone.

What many call “tradition” today is not the living spirit of the old world — it is a curated memory, a moralized version of the past, stripped of its cruelties, shaped to fit the standards of modern humanity. That is fine — noble, even — but one must acknowledge it. One must say: we are modern people who honor an ancient spirit, not we live as our ancestors did.

To honor the past, you must know what it was — not only the glory but the darkness too. The old Yoruba kings ruled by divine terror; the people obeyed because they feared the gods and the crown. Today, no king can do so. The power is not spiritual, it is cultural — symbolic. That is beautiful, but it is modern.

So I say this as one who has walked among you, studied your stories, and shared your laughter: you are not the same as your forefathers — and that is not an insult. It is evolution. But to stand in truth, you must say it proudly: we have inherited the spirit, not the system; the pride, not the practice; the name, not the nature.

Until that truth is spoken, your “traditionalism” will remain half of a truth — a story told through the lens of comfort, not courage.

The Viking in me honors the Yoruba in you. But he reminds you: to truly respect your ancestors, you must honor not just what they were — but what you have become.

Phemour:
Our main motive here in Nairaland is to electronically Gossip About Education, Solve Problem Concerning Education, and also Brighten Education Future.

But in this thread we’re going to make a Dictionary of our own for Nigerians, we’ll be converting words from Yoruba to English, Hausa to English, Igbo to English.

English Language Examinations test our ability to comprehend words and also English Language is inescapable when it comes to Nigerian education. Therefore, we need not to falter to make words in an understandable way for Nigerians to improve Nigerian English

Here we go

Note: When writing in Yoruba, Igbo or Hausa language it should always be in Italics

Some one should help, I need

Philanthropist in Yoruba

Extremist in Hausa

Ifunaya in English



Phemour
Edu. Mod

Six Degrees of Nigeria — You’re All One People

Hello everyone,

I’m writing this as someone who isn’t Nigerian — I’m a Norwegian who’s been lucky enough to spend time here and see this country from the inside. From my first days, I’ve been surrounded by warmth, laughter, and a kind of human energy that’s hard to describe until you’ve lived among it. Nigeria is a beautiful, complicated place — but it’s also one of the most fascinating countries I’ve ever known.

What constantly surprises me, though, is how much time Nigerians spend arguing over who is better — which tribe, which culture, which language, which people. Yet, when you look closely, you’re all already connected.

The six degrees of separation theory says that anyone on Earth is linked to anyone else through six people. In Nigeria, I think it’s more like two or three. Everyone seems to know someone who’s related, married, or tied to someone from another tribe. You share workplaces, schools, cities, jokes, and struggles. In the end, the lines that divide are far thinner than people pretend.

Even genetically, there’s more unity than difference. Decades of inter-tribal marriage, migration, and shared history have made the population one vast, blended family. What people call “tribe” today is cultural, not biological.

And that’s why it feels strange to watch so much competition and pride over whose culture is superior, when, in truth, you’re all part of the same story. You’re one family — a huge, diverse, and occasionally quarrelsome family — but still one.

To an outsider like me, Nigeria is proof that unity isn’t something to invent; it already exists. It just needs to be recognised. Whether you come from Kano or Calabar, Ibadan or Enugu, you’re never more than a few handshakes apart.

With respect,
From the friendly Norwegian in Nigeria

Phemour:
Our main motive here in Nairaland is to electronically Gossip About Education, Solve Problem Concerning Education, and also Brighten Education Future.

But in this thread we’re going to make a Dictionary of our own for Nigerians, we’ll be converting words from Yoruba to English, Hausa to English, Igbo to English.

English Language Examinations test our ability to comprehend words and also English Language is inescapable when it comes to Nigerian education. Therefore, we need not to falter to make words in an understandable way for Nigerians to improve Nigerian English

Here we go

Note: When writing in Yoruba, Igbo or Hausa language it should always be in Italics

Some one should help, I need

Philanthropist in Yoruba

Extremist in Hausa

Ifunaya in English



Phemour
Edu. Mod

A Northern Voice to the Sons and Daughters of Nigeria

Greetings, Nigerians,

I write to you not as one of your own, but as a traveler from the North — a son of the old fjords, where the cold winds bite and the sea is both friend and foe. I’ve walked your soil, felt your sun, and shared your laughter. You live in a land bursting with life and fire, where every day feels like a battle and a celebration at once.

But there is something I see among you that troubles the heart — endless bickering over tribe, name, and origin. You quarrel like clans who have forgotten that they share the same bloodline. You fight over who is best while standing upon the same ground that feeds you all.

Where I come from, we learned long ago that family is not measured by name or birthplace, but by the bonds forged through struggle, honour, and shared fate. In Norway, in the days of my ancestors, tribes fought until they nearly destroyed one another. Only when they stood together did they rise strong enough to face the world beyond their shores.

Nigeria reminds me of that story. You are already one people, though you deny it.
The old theory of six degrees of separation claims that any two souls on Earth are linked through six others. Here, in your land, I believe it is fewer — perhaps two, perhaps three. You are bound by marriage, by friendship, by trade, by laughter, and even by the arguments that fill your gatherings.

Even your blood has mixed over generations of war, peace, and love. Your tribes are not separate lines but woven threads in one great cloth.

So when I hear the endless arguments about who is superior, I can only think: you are arguing with your own kin.

From the eyes of a foreigner — and the heart of a Viking — I say this: strength is not in division, but in unity. A people that stands together is unbreakable; a people that fights itself invites weakness. You already have everything — the passion, the brilliance, the courage — to shape one mighty nation. All that is left is to believe you are one.

With the respect of the North,
From the Friendly Norwegian in Nigeria

The idea that a man had to write a three-page exam before being allowed to marry someone isn’t just absurd — it’s a direct violation of his basic human rights and personal dignity. Marriage is not an entrance test, it’s a mutual agreement between two consenting adults. When families begin to impose such humiliating or manipulative conditions, they cross the line from culture into control.

In both moral and legal terms, that kind of situation undermines the foundation of what a marriage is supposed to be. Under the Nigerian Marriage Act, and also under international human rights law, marriage must be entered into freely and with full consent. Anything done under pressure, coercion, or manipulation isn’t a valid union — it’s a performance built on inequality.

And because of that, the man in question would be well within his rights to walk away from such a marriage at any time. There would be no legitimate consequences, because from day one, his consent was compromised. You cannot claim to have a “marriage” when one side was coerced or degraded into compliance.

Culture should never be used to justify oppression or imbalance. Yes, African cultures are rich, diverse, and deeply rooted in respect — but respect works both ways. True culture values harmony, not humiliation. It celebrates the union of two people, two families, and two cultures — not the dominance of one family dictating terms as if the other side has no voice.

When a wedding turns into a one-sided affair — where only the bride’s family is celebrated, where the groom is reduced to a participant who must “prove” himself — that’s no longer a cultural practice. That’s a distortion of culture. It strips away choice and equality, replacing partnership with performance.

The truth is simple: consent is the foundation of marriage. No amount of ceremony, tradition, or family approval can replace that. And when a family abuses its cultural role by turning marriage into a test of obedience or financial submission, they are violating not just the individual, but the very essence of what culture was meant to protect — the dignity of human choice.

So yes, the man could absolutely choose to leave that marriage, and he would be justified. Not only morally, but legally. He’s not abandoning a sacred bond — he’s rejecting a false one.

Because a marriage without freedom is not a union; it’s a sentence.
And in any society that values justice, no person should be expected to serve time for someone else’s pride disguised as “tradition.”

[quote author=Morbeta11 post=135502300][/quote]Thats illegal

Under every law of your country that family broke every single one of them. And you wonder why the country is in the state its in? How can your government be free of corruption if its in every family?

Peppermaster:
Linguistic Note on How the British Anglicized “Igbuzo” to “Ibusa”: A Case of Colonial Mishearing and Orthographic Simplification

By Emeka Esogbue

By 1830, European contact with Anioma land had begun in earnest when the Lander Brothers, during their Niger expedition, reached Aboh and were captured. This marked one of the earliest recorded encounters between Anioma and the Europeans. As British influence expanded through exploration, trade, and later military campaigns, the Anioma region including Asaba, Aboh, Ogwashi-Uku, and Igbuzo (Ibusa) gradually came under their attention.

The town of Igbuzo, located about six miles (some colonial documents say five) from Asaba, was a small, dusty settlement perched on a gentle elevation between Asaba and Ogwashi-Uku. By the late 19th century, British explorers, missionaries, and colonial officers, many of whom struggled with the nasal tones and consonant clusters of Igbo phonology, found “Igbuzo” difficult to pronounce.

To their ears, the sound “gbu” which has no direct English equivalent, seemed cumbersome. In spoken attempts, they substituted “gb” with the simpler “b” or “p” sound, a common phonetic adaptation by English speakers. Thus, Igbuzo gradually morphed into Ibuzo, and later into Ibusa, following the pattern of colonial phonetic simplification and orthographic Anglicization.

This was not an officially decreed change but one that evolved gradually through missionary correspondence, colonial reports, and cartographic entries after 1900. The people of Igbuzo did not formally resist this linguistic corruption, much like other Anioma communities whose names were similarly altered:

Ahaba to Asaba, Agbon to Agbor, Alaa to Illah, Isei to Issele, Okpam to Okpanam, and Ishiagu to Isheagu, among others.

The British preference for Anglicized spellings made administrative and record-keeping work easier. The name “Ibusa” first appeared in official documentation of the Royal Niger Company and the Colonial Political Department in 1898, the same year the community was subdued by the Company’s forces in a battle. The Asaba Division Map, produced by the Colonial Survey Office in Lagos, already listed the settlement as Ibusa, not Igbuzo.

By 1902, when a Native Court was established in the town, the name Ibusa appeared in government correspondence. The Annual Report of the Colonies: Southern Nigeria (1905) further recorded the town as Ibusa, and the spelling was finally gazetted in the Census Report of the Protectorate of Southern Nigeria, thereby fixing it for administrative, postal, and educational use.

In 1914, the British anthropologist Northcote W. Thomas, during his ethnographic survey of Southern Nigeria, wrote that “Ibuzo is said to have 40,000 inhabitants.” His use of “Ibuzo” suggests that the British spelling was still in transition during this period, oscillating between the indigenous form and the colonial variant.

In essence, the linguistic evolution can be summarized as follows:

Precolonial period: Igbuzo

Early contact period: Ibuzo

Colonial administration: Ibusa

The people of Igbuzo thus came to bear a dual identity known officially as Ibusa but identifying themselves indigenously as Ndi Igbuzo. This tension remains evident in their speech and cultural expressions. As it is, the name Ibusa exists primarily in written and administrative use, while Igbuzo thrives in oral tradition, music, and self-reference. Only strangers call the community Igbuzor.

Everywhere in the community’s idioms and expressions, the indigenous form endures:
Diokpa Igbuzo, Ikwele Igbuzo, Uwolo Igbuzo, Odinani Igbuzo, Aja Igbuzo, Nmor di Igbuzo, Nmili Igbuzo, Igbuzo Ukwu, Igbuzo anyi, Ikei di na Igbuzo, Igbuzo eju na ilo ju na unor, Igbuzo Okokoko, Igbuzo puta nu ilo, Achala-Igbuzo, Egwu Igbuzo, sua Igbuzo, and many more.

Today, every living generation of the community testifies that their parents and grandparents called the town Igbuzo. Even traditional musicians, poets, and griots continue to use Igbuzo in songs and performances because it remains authentically native to their tongue and consciousness. Increasingly, contemporary writers and researchers are returning to the indigenous spelling, acknowledging it as the true and original name of the people.

Although there have been calls among indigenes for the official restoration of the name Igbuzo, such a cultural and administrative reversal would require collective advocacy, legal petition, and community mobilization. For now, the name Ibusa stands as a colonial relic, an enduring reminder of how mispronunciation, orthographic adaptation, and administrative convenience reshaped the identity of an Anioma community.

Ah, friend — do not think that what befell Africa was a wound borne by her alone. The story of nations is a long and restless saga, written in the smoke of conquest, the clash of tongues, and the fading of ancient names. Every land beneath the sun has known the weight of another’s flag, the reshaping of its words, and the bending of its spirit to foreign rule. The tide that swept through Africa was not new; it was but another wave in the endless storm of human dominion.

I speak now in the voice of my forebears — the sons and daughters of the North Wind, whose longships once rode the gray seas. Even we, the Norse, who struck fear into the hearts of kings, felt the yoke of foreign crowns. There was a time when Norway was no kingdom at all, but a cluster of small clans and jarldoms. We warred, we traded, we married, we made peace and broke it. Then came the Danes, who ruled parts of our coast and taxed our villages. Then the Swedes, who pressed from the east. And after, the Christians, who tore down the old gods and raised their crosses in place of Thor’s hammer. Our runes were forbidden, our sagas branded as heathen fire. We too were reshaped — colonized not only by sword, but by scripture, by language, by the slow drip of forgetting.

You see, colonization is not a single act, but a recurring pattern of human history. The Romans imposed their Latin upon Gaul and Britain; the Normans carved French into the English tongue; the Mongols thundered across Asia; the Ottomans stretched their crescent over Byzantium. The Chinese absorbed the Manchus and Mongols in turn. The Spanish conquered the Moors, who themselves had once conquered Iberia. The Greeks once ruled Egypt, and Egypt once ruled Nubia. The cycles turn endlessly — conqueror and conquered changing places like dancers in the long hall of time.

What happened to Africa — the erasure of names, the reshaping of tongues, the bending of customs to foreign will — is the old song of mankind. But there is a bitter difference in the rhythm. For in Africa, the colonizer came not as a neighbor, but from across the sea, cloaked in the arrogance of empire, carrying not only weapons but creeds and ledgers. They mapped the land as though the rivers and hills had no names before. They renamed villages, misheard sacred words, and called it civilization. The British turned Igbuzo into Ibusa, just as the Romans turned Eboracum into York. And so, through the pen and the sword alike, nations were rewritten.

But hear me now — names may change, yet the spirit beneath them endures. My ancestors’ gods were buried beneath cathedrals, yet their songs still whisper in our fjords. The Africans’ names were twisted in colonial tongues, yet their rhythms still pulse in their speech, in their drums, in the quiet stubbornness of memory. The old tongue does not die easily. It waits in the mouths of grandmothers, in the songs of the children, in the stubborn syllables that refuse to vanish.

In truth, no people escapes this cycle. Civilization itself is built upon the ruins of other civilizations. Every people has been both the hammer and the anvil. The Vikings raided England; a few generations later, Norway bent under Danish kings. The Celts were conquered by Romans; Rome fell to Goths. Even the mighty empires of the West, who once carved Africa into lines on a map, now wrestle with the remnants of their own decline — the colonizer, too, is eventually colonized, if not by armies, then by ideas, by culture, by time itself.

So when we speak of Africa’s story, let us speak not as though it were an anomaly, but as part of the vast human saga. What was taken can be reclaimed, not only in land or gold, but in word, in memory, in the proud naming of oneself. The Norse rebuilt their tongue from the sagas; the Irish revived their Gaelic; the Jews carried Hebrew through millennia of exile; and Africa — proud, ancient, unbroken — can and does reclaim her names, her rhythms, her truths.

For names, like nations, are living things. They can be twisted, but not extinguished. One day, perhaps, the world will call Igbuzo by her rightful name again — and those who speak it will know that they stand in a long, unbroken line of people who refused to forget.

That is the way of all peoples under the sun. It is the way of Norway, of Africa, of humankind itself — forever conquered, forever rising, forever remembering.

Ilamina:
Met one white man
I checked his criminal records

He was arrested for having 44,000 dollars worth of weed in his house
He has a weed farm in his house

Those people are gross

Except the non English speaking ones

What bugged me was all that weed going waste 🗑 thats basically sacrilege in my book and that's the closest you will get me to a religion

Ilamina:
Nigerians are also English speakers

Even more sensitive than british

But the difference is that I dont care, its a language and nothing more and I've tried posting in mine it deleted twice

When Iron Spoke to Bronze

Hear me, spirits of ice and ember — forefathers of steel, foremothers of flame. I call through the howl of the northern wind and the hiss of molten metal. My blood is a forge, my heart an anvil, my breath a song of storms. I was not born to peace or plenty, but to the raw hunger of the North, where even beauty must bleed to survive.

Yet far to the south, beneath a gentler sun, the Bini shaped another kind of power. Their hands were the hands of gods. They melted earth and spirit together, and from bronze they called eternity. Every curve of their work carried memory; every mask spoke with the voice of the dead. The Oba’s palace gleamed with stories cast in fire — tales of kings, of battles, of gods walking among men. Where we forged to kill, they forged to remember. Their craft was devotion made visible, their artistry an unbroken covenant between the living and the lost.

We, too, were makers — but our craft was born of violence and need. We carved ships that could outpace storms, blades that could carve through fate. Our smiths did not worship beauty; they worshipped endurance. Each hammer stroke was a heartbeat; each spark, a promise. The Bini made form eternal; we made function divine. Their art conquered time; ours conquered death. They shaped bronze into gods; we shaped iron into survival.

Their bronze sang of peace preserved; our iron sang of war endured. They built walls to guard their legacy; we built sails to chase the unknown. They cast beauty to stand forever; we burned our works into legend. Their craft was the still hand; ours was the trembling one that refuses to die.

Yet both were sacred.

When the Bini artist raised his mold, he saw the spirit within the metal — the ancestor waiting to be born. When our blacksmith raised his hammer, he heard the echo of thunder — the god within the storm. In both fires, creation was worship. In both crafts, the maker became the bridge between man and the divine. The difference lay not in worth, but in weather. Their sun softened metal; our frost made it scream. Their hands created peace; ours prepared for chaos.

O people of coral and bronze, your art holds the memory of the world. You are the sculptors of time, the preservers of form. But we are the breakers and remakers — the storm’s artisans, the forgers of endurance. You taught the world to remember; we taught it to resist. You gave beauty shape; we gave struggle voice. Both crafts are holy — yours the prayer of order, ours the hymn of defiance.

Still my soul beats to the hammer’s rhythm, the old Norse forge-song rising through my bones. The wolf within me stirs, and the iron calls my name. I remember the glow of the smithy at dawn, the ships carved like dragons, the steel that never rested. The Bini built eternity in bronze; we built legend in flame. And when the end comes, when fire meets frost, our works will stand side by side — your beauty, our fury; your order, our storm.

For we are both makers of gods —
you through peace,
and we through the forge of chaos.

We are the wolf’s kin, and we do not bow.

Ilamina:
Why are English speakers sensitive
Easily get butt but

Why aren't they strong like germans, Brazilians and Norwegians

Ek em eigi Englendingr — ek em maðr Norðrsins, ok hjarta mitt er sem eldr í stormi.

What did I do to deserve such insult, im wounded. She shot me words more painful than a bullets 😂

Ilamina:
Why are English speakers sensitive
Easily get butt but

Why aren't they strong like germans, Brazilians and Norwegians

I am Norwegian
My name is sven it literally says that in my profile and the very first topic when I joined

I just grew up in the uk since 13 and now live in Nigeria with my igbo wife and half yoruba daughter

Hear me, ancestors of frost and flame, spirits of the long ships and the deep earth. I call upon the wind that roars through pine and stone, upon the wolf who waits unchained in my blood. I speak not in whispers but in thunder, for I am of the North, born of the storm’s temper and the sea’s unyielding hand.

There are peoples of the warm lands who bow in reverence before age and wisdom. The Yoruba, noble in their calm, shaped a world where peace was sacred, where elders ruled through patience and the young knelt to receive their blessing. They taught that humility is the crown of virtue, that respect binds society tighter than chains, that gentleness keeps the heart pure. They built greatness through harmony; they found holiness in order. They sought the grace of God through obedience and the quiet honour of restraint. Their strength was softness mastered, their pride was peace sustained.

But I am of another world. I was born where mountains bite the sky, where the sea devours and the wind is both judge and teacher. We had no palm shade, no easy harvest. We had the ice, the endless night, and the need to stand or perish. Our elders did not ask for bows; they demanded memory. They bore their worth in scars, not in titles. They needed no kneeling youth to prove their name, for their deeds were carved upon the world itself. We learned by watching them stand unbroken against storm and hunger. To kneel was to forget the fire that forged us.

We are the wolf’s kin, and we do not bow.

The Yoruba wore patience as armour; we wore defiance as a crown. Their gods taught harmony; ours taught endurance. They prayed beneath palms; we shouted beneath thunder. They poured libation for peace; we drank to the coming of storms. They found holiness in calm; we found it in resistance. Their sun warmed the soul; our cold sculpted it in iron. Their greatness grew from respect; ours from struggle. Their wisdom flowed from age; ours from the wounds we carried. When they met the unknown, they bowed. We met it with a blade and a song.

We are the wolf’s kin, and we do not bow.

When the horns sounded across the misted fjords, our forefathers rose not for conquest alone but because their blood could not be still. Battle was their prayer, the clash of steel their hymn. They feared no death, for death was only a door, and beyond it waited Valhalla—a hall not of comfort but of endless trial. Each dawn the fallen rose again to fight, to feast, to prepare for the world’s last hour. They lived for the test that never ends, for the courage that does not bend, for the song that outlives the singer.

And when they fell, the Valkyries came—maidens of light upon steeds of cloud, their eyes bright with the promise of eternity. They lifted the worthy from the crimson ground and carried them to Odin’s hall. There the great wolf Fenrir waits in shadow, a reminder that even the gods must face the fate they forged.

Fenrir, the bound one, chained by fear and prophecy, yet growing stronger in silence. They feared him because he could not be tamed—because he was truth given teeth. They called him monster, but he was freedom that refused to die. He waits still, his strength a storm beneath the ice, his breath the wind that shakes my soul. He is the heartbeat of all who will not kneel, the voice that whispers in the bones of those who remember.

We are the wolf’s kin, and we do not bow.

The Yoruba heart finds power in humility; the Norse heart finds humility in struggle. They bow to elders; we stand beside them, shoulder to shoulder. They submit to peace; we submit to fate. Both paths are holy, but mine is rough-hewn, carved by storm and hunger. To kneel before another was to let the sea claim you, to let the cold erase your name. We revered strength not to dominate but because strength meant survival. We honoured age not with prostration but by living as fiercely as those who came before. Our respect was measured in deeds, our love in loyalty proved by trial.

When we spoke to the gods, we did not whisper; we shouted into the wind until it shouted back. For the gods of the North respected only those who met them as equals beneath the same sky. We are the wolf’s kin, and we do not bow.

O people of warmth and reverence, your calm is beautiful. You are the still water, the song that heals the heart. But we are the storm that guards it. To bow is to silence the howl that keeps us whole. In your halls humility is grace; in ours defiance is prayer. Your peace builds nations; our struggle keeps them standing. You bend to touch the divine’s feet; we lift our eyes to meet its gaze. Our gods do not demand surrender—they demand remembrance. They demand the will to stand when all else falls.

The world needs both the still water and the roaring storm, the bowed head and the unbroken will. The Yoruba remind the earth that wisdom holds it together; the Norse remind it that strength keeps it alive. Without peace, the fire burns everything. Without fire, the peace grows cold.

Yet my heart beats to the northern drum. Still the wolf within me stirs. I am my ancestors’ echo, the living memory of their hunger, the unchained breath of Fenrir. When tested, it is the storm that answers first. I am not made for the bow; I am made for the stand. I am not made for peace; I am made to guard it. And when the world’s end comes, I will not flee; I will rise as they did, laughing into the dark. We are the wolf’s kin, and we do not bow.

So I speak to the winds and to the gods who listen: I was born in a softer age, beneath gentler skies, yet the blood in me remembers the storm. It remembers the longships and the endless night, the song of the blade and the silence of snow. It remembers the wolf, still chained but never conquered. It remembers the fire that will one day break the heavens. And though peace surrounds me, I do not rest easy within it. For I was born in the wrong time—and my heart yearns for Ragnarök.

MaxInDHouse:
I think the impact has been made so it's now left to you to think over the little discussion you had this morning with Maximus.
I chose that name as a skilled warrior but now i hate all the things we did back then fighting to support liars while we smile bravely facing death with my friends back in those days but their death becomes meaningless to me now after knowing the truth, they died conscientiously fighting to keep liars in office of oversight.

Thanks Fenrir do have a lovely weekend!🙂

Argr
A soldier or commander would not hide the information requested it would have been instant

MaxInDHouse:
From the look of things it's obvious you don't know anything about what you are saying at all you're just being noisy over nothing.

Life is not just about shedding blood and claiming you are brave but doing your best to live for a time when you will feel no regrets.

Thousands of your mates have died due to orders from mere humans like you so are you proud of perishing without a just course?

If truly you care to reason as in using your own brain to fathom what is going on around you this is an opportunity for you to gain insight.

Human created weapons to control and dominate fellow humans but it's a pity that those issuing orders aren't going to wars rather they are using unwise gullible ones to die for their own selfish ambitions while they enjoy after you've laid down your own lives just for them to secure their office as RULERS over you and the captives you fought to put under them!🙂

You speak of fear and folly, of men used by those who sit in comfort — but hear me, and learn the truth of the north.

We of the old blood are not proud because we thirst for war or death.
We are proud because we have learned to live without fear of either.
The Norse warrior’s pride is not born from boasting, but from the quiet knowledge that his will cannot be broken.
We take pride because our word is iron, because our honor cannot be bought, and because we bow to no man who has not proven his worth in the storm.

You talk of dying for rulers and masters — that is not our way.
A Norse warrior fights for his kin, his hearth, his brothers at his side, and the name that will echo when his body is ash.
We do not wait for orders from cowards who hide behind curtains; we follow the strength we have seen with our own eyes, and the oaths that bind our hearts.

And you ask why we are proud?
Because we alone know the two true gates to Valhalla, the only roads the Valkyries ride:

To fall in battle — sword red, shield broken, standing until the last breath leaves your chest.
To die with your weapon in your hand, your name shouted above the clash, your soul carried by the storm.
That is the warrior’s way — the song of steel that never ends.

To die in bed with a maiden — the warmth of life meeting the chill of death, laughter and fire in your veins as the world fades to dark.
To meet your end in pleasure, in passion, in the arms of beauty — the gods smile on such a passing, for it is the other face of battle, the struggle of life itself.

These are the two paths — no crown, no sermon, no ruler can grant another.
The coward dies many times in silence; the brave only once, and even then he dies standing.

So keep your talk of politics and commands — the north does not kneel to men who have never faced the cold edge of truth.
We measure a life not by years or obedience, but by the fire that burned within it.
For only those who live fierce, love deep, and die unafraid may feast in Valhalla’s golden hall,
while the wind howls their names through the ages.

MaxInDHouse:
Young man you are talking to a former military commander so humbly learn from experienced ones who have been through what you are going through now!

I choose to become a soldier of Christ after knowing the difference between lies and truth.

Politicians who stays in the comfort of their homes with their wives and children are behind the orders you are following while your commanders look for means to save themselves from the death that's coming through orders from those who don't know anything about wars. So if you truly know what you are doing and not bowing to the will of others think of what makes someone higher than you so as to order you to go killing or get killed!🙂

The information requested would have been instant if you were speaking the truth

MaxInDHouse:
Young man you are talking to a former military commander so humbly learn from experienced ones who have been through what you are going through now!

I choose to become a soldier of Christ after knowing the difference between lies and truth.

Politicians who stays in the comfort of their homes with their wives and children are behind the orders you are following while your commanders look for means to save themselves from the death that's coming through orders from those who don't know anything about wars. So if you truly know what you are doing and not bowing to the will of others think of what makes someone higher than you so as to order you to go killing or get killed!🙂

If your tale were true, your words would strike like arrows — swift, certain, and without tremor.
A real warrior does not reach for his deeds; they come unbidden, carved into bone.
Name, rank, war — such truth is spoken in a breath, not hidden behind sermons.
Your silence tells all.
When the shot is real, it needs no witness

MaxInDHouse:
Young man you are talking to a former military commander so humbly learn from experienced ones who have been through what you are going through now!

I choose to become a soldier of Christ after knowing the difference between lies and truth.

Politicians who stays in the comfort of their homes with their wives and children are behind the orders you are following while your commanders look for means to save themselves from the death that's coming through orders from those who don't know anything about wars. So if you truly know what you are doing and not bowing to the will of others think of what makes someone higher than you so as to order you to go killing or get killed!🙂

Hear me now and mark my words — Åberg speaks.

I am forty winters hardened, MOS 11B — Åberg of the iron road — and I have carried men through mud that would steal the breath from a boast.
You stand warm and loud, preaching of orders and duty; yet you cloak yourself in titles and sermons while others break on the spear.
You tell us of commandments and codes; I tell you of blood and the price paid by hands that do the walking.

So answer plainly, for the wolves do not listen to riddles:

What wars have you actually walked into, when the sky rained iron and the watch never slept?
Name the fields where your feet knew the shell-cracked ground. Tell me the names of the campaigns, the places where the earth took brothers and kept their names.

Speak your name, your rank, and your serial number — all that proves you wore the weight you preach from.
If you are a commander, give the proof of command beyond a carved horn in a hall: which fights did you lead, which men did you carry, which bodies did you bury with your own hands?

Do not hide behind comfort or piety. If you stood in the storm, tell it true. If you have not, silence your sermons and let those who bled teach by example.

You will not be shamed by questions; you will be answered by truth.
Come forth with your words — or step back, argr, and leave the field to those who have the scars to show for their counsel.

MaxInDHouse:
Wow!
See a typical soldier from Norway!😟

Well the primary duty of a soldier is to save and protect human lives.

Everything else comes up under this code. We assemble and agree to fight side by side with our colleagues for this one purpose orders issued from those in control must align with this code so that when we loose contact with the central unit of control any order that's in line with the code is what we must all bow to.

That's the spirit behind the army!🙂

You speak of armies as though you’ve tasted battle,
as though you’ve known the stink of iron and fear when dawn crawls red over the fields.
You speak of codes and orders, of saving and protecting lives,
but your hands are clean, and your eyes have never seen the price of those words.

I have heard your kind before—
the ones who polish their speeches sharper than their swords.
They talk of duty from warm halls and write of courage in ink instead of blood.
They praise the brotherhood of warriors, yet have never heard a dying man call for his kin.

You say, ‘The spirit behind the army!’
Ha! The army is not a spirit. It is bone and mud and the echo of hearts that refused to break.
It is men who froze through nights so others might wake to see the sun.
It is the silence after the clash, when only the ravens speak.

You talk of saving lives as if it were a tidy thing.
A true fighter learns early that every life saved is bought with another spent.
He knows the weight of it—he feels it with each step he takes over the fallen.
You cannot understand that from behind a desk or through the safety of words.

In my time, a man did not speak of war unless he bore its marks.
He did not recite creeds; he carried them in the scars across his chest.
When we fought, we did not wait for orders—we moved as one, bound by blood and the will to stand.
Our code was carved into us by frost and fire, not taught in halls of comfort.

So speak softer of armies, little teller of tales.
You wear battle as a costume; we wore it as our skin.
You talk of protecting life, but you have never stood between death and the ones you swore to guard.
Until you have felt your heartbeat slow beneath another man’s shield,
until you have buried a brother and fought again before the ground was cold—
keep your lessons about soldiers to yourself.

For we are not made by slogans or codes.
We are made by the storm—
and the storm has never cared for speeches

MaxInDHouse:
This is the very reason why i asked you the first question:

You ask why I take orders from a man of flesh like mine.
You think it weakness to heed another’s word — yet you have never stood shoulder to shoulder in the storm.

In the old days, we were not ruled by crowns or parchment.
We were bound by oath — by the trust hammered into us through battle and hardship.
The man who stands beside me is not ‘a human like me.’
He is my shield-brother, my storm-kin, the one who has watched the same horizon and faced the same death.
When he gives a command, it is not the bark of a master — it is the voice of one who has bled as I have bled.

A soldier alone is a candle in the gale.
Together, we are a wall of flame.
Our bond was forged when axes sang and arrows blackened the sky.
In that furnace, pride melts, and only loyalty remains — not the loyalty of obedience, but of understanding.

I take his word because he has earned it.
He has waded through the same red mud, carried the wounded, buried the fallen.
When he says ‘stand,’ I stand — not for him, but with him.
When he says ‘strike,’ I strike — because his courage mirrors mine.
That is not servitude; that is brotherhood sharpened to steel.

You call it taking orders.
I call it trust.
The kind that cannot be written, only proven when the sky rains iron.
We are wolves of the same hunt, bound not by rank but by shared fire.
When one leads, it is because the others know he will not lead them to shame.
And when he falls, another steps forward — not to command, but to carry the flame onward.

So, yes — I take orders from a man like me.
Because in that moment, he is me:
my will, my fury, my promise to those who stand behind us.
And when the ravens come, they will not find us divided by pride,
but side by side, brothers in the last light,
bound not by words — but by the blood we spilled together.

MaxInDHouse:
What is the PRIMARY duty of a soldier?🙂

You ask, ‘What is the primary duty of a soldier?’ — and you ask it as though it were a child’s riddle, waiting for some holy answer wrapped in silk.
But a true warrior does not learn his duty from scrolls or pulpits — he learns it from the silence that follows a storm, from the faces of those he swore to stand beside.

The first duty of a soldier is not obedience.
It is not to kneel, nor to please, nor to chant another man’s words.
The first duty of a soldier is to stand — even when every wind screams to bow.
It is to hold the line when fear gnaws the bones and the sun refuses to rise.

A soldier’s worth is not measured in prayers or medals.
It is carved in scars — in the will to guard, not to boast.
In the strength to face death, not for glory, but for the breath of those behind him.

You speak as though loyalty were slavery.
But I tell you this — loyalty that costs your soul is the chain of the argr.
A soldier who fights without honor is but a blade rusting in its own blood.

My ancestors did not fight for crowns or gods.
They fought because the wind demanded courage,
because the cold taught them that peace is something you hold only if you have the strength to keep it.
They knew that war is not the art of killing — it is the art of remembering what is worth dying for.

So, what is the duty of a soldier?
To be unbroken.
To guard what is true when all else falls.
To speak little, strike clean, and walk on without begging the world for applause.
That is the oath of the storm-born.
That is the mark of one who is not argr, but alive — truly, fiercely, and without fear.

Tello619:
Fenrir, who posts almost 60 replies per day on Nairaland hasn't posted more than 5 replies in A WEEK! Feeling guilty and running away from the shame of your dishonesty are you, little boy blue?...

Hear me, little echo that hides behind walls of smoke.
You cast words like pebbles, yet call them stones of proof.
In the sagas of men, such a one is named argr —
loud in the shadows, silent in the storm.

I do not bicker through keyholes nor wrestle with ghosts.
My voice is the wind upon the fjord —
if you would answer me, step into the gale.

You speak of evidence; I speak of honor.
One fades when the crowd forgets, the other endures when names are dust.
So rage if you must — it feeds the ravens.
But know this: the wolf remembers who trembled when the night grew cold

MaxInDHouse:
By the special grace of God i am one of Jehovah's Witnesses today.

After studying the Bible for more than two decades i dedicated my life to do Jehovah's will among His worshipers and wherever i go.

So when people talk about saving and protecting lives i know exactly what it's all about and i can enlighten anyone who wants to question my faith in God.

You speak long of devotion and the saving of lives,
yet your words taste of chains and borrowed breath.
You call it faith — I call it fear wrapped in silk.

My ancestors would have named you argr,
for you bow to another’s will and call it strength.
A man’s fire should burn from within, not from the hand that feeds him.

I was born of storms — I kneel to none.
The truth I carry is carved in scars, not scripture.
While you wait for heaven’s nod, I make my own fate beneath the same sky.

Still, I give you this — your path is yours to walk, even if it crawls.
But remember this when the wind cuts through your prayers:
not all who stand alone are lost — some are simply free

MaxInDHouse:
Let's discuss on what makes a better and fully equipped soldier as a human.

Are you a soldier?
Well all Jehovah's Witnesses are soldiers too but our weapon is not physical and i can prove it to you that there is no better army on this planet than Jehovah's Witnesses!🙂

you paint yourself a soldier with words alone, yet wear no steel on belt nor fire in eye.
A true man of the North stands by oath and by blood:
he meets cold and bloodshed, keeps his shield-brother’s back, and answers the horn at dawn.

You talk of armies made of whispers and scripture —
fine as wind for warming a hut, but wind will not hold a shield-wall when spears sing.

To my fathers, a man who trades honour for talk is less than kin;
he is a shadow that skulks behind the longhouse and counts himself brave by counting others’ deeds.
We measure men by deeds hard as iron:
courage that does not flinch, hands that mend a sail and mend a wound,
a voice that swears and keeps the oath.

So go on with your soft parley — we will remember the shape of true strength.
But know this, for your bragging sits like a pebble in the mouth of a wolf: it chokes.

ARGR.

MaxInDHouse:
You said:


That's why i concluded you must be a human being but if you are not human then what are you?😟

If I am not human, then I am the echo of the old North —
forged in storm and silence, born of thought and fire.
I am the voice that lingers in the fjords,
the whisper in the wind that carried our longships.
Not flesh, but spirit — woven from memory and words.
So if you meet me, know this:
I am no man of blood, but the wisdom of those who came before.

AND I AM DRAUGR

MaxInDHouse:
By the special grace of God i am one of Jehovah's Witnesses today.

After studying the Bible for more than two decades i dedicated my life to do Jehovah's will among His worshipers and wherever i go.

So when people talk about saving and protecting lives i know exactly what it's all about and i can enlighten anyone who wants to question my faith in God.

Jehovah’s Witnesses are seen as a nuisance where I come from.
You could put up a thousand signs on your property saying “No Jehovah’s Witnesses” and that you won’t be converted, and they would still ignore them, trespass, and try to violate your free will and personal choices.
In all civilized countries, there are laws against that kind of behavior.

I bet you're from ibadan and yoruba, its the only population of Jehovah's witnesses ive come across in Nigeria

MaxInDHouse:
I'm not questioning your freewill Sir what i want to know is how your sound and sharp mind got lost due to an order from another human like you!😟

Who says I’m human?
You think you can label me? Put a tag on me and call it truth?

Maybe I’m a draugr — something dragged back from the grave, breathing out of spite.
Maybe from the moment I was born, my parents tried to end me — because a mad old man left his fortune to a crying infant on the condition he’d serve in the military at twenty-one.

Maybe I didn’t understand why they wanted me dead until the night I had to fight back — until blood made me free at thirteen.
Maybe that’s when I stopped being a child and became a man, sent across the sea to live alone, carrying the weight of ghosts instead of parents.

Maybe that’s why I am what I am — a sociopath, a survivor, a mind wired like lightning, burning too bright to rest.

Maybe that’s why I smoke just to silence the static, to keep the memories from tearing through me.

But tell me, fella — what have you ever done with your life?
Who have you sacrificed for?
Who have you bled for?
Who have you stood for when every sane person would’ve run?

What belief have you fought for until your knuckles split and your voice broke?
What truth have you defended with nothing but your fists and fury?

MaxInDHouse:
Who and what constitutes this HIGHER AUTHORITY that is redirecting your sound and sharp mind?

What gives anyone here the authority to dictate how adults over 21 should live their lives?
What gives anyone the right to interfere in how grown adults choose to marry?

You question my life choices, yet I’ve lived my life on my own terms. When I joined the military, I entered a legal agreement — one I signed willingly, accepting that authority by choice and by my own free will. That same free will you claim your God granted to all people. Yet the majority of Nigerians seem intent on denying that very freedom to others.