The Owu War: A Poetic History of Fall, Exile, and Rebirth

Introduction: The Owu War reshaped Yorubaland through destruction, migration, and rebirth. This poem explores that history through memory, myth, and cultural reflection.

In the marketplace of Apomu, where the dust of trade settles, A spark was struck among the peppers and the salt. A quarrel over peppers, a dispute of the scale, But beneath the surface, the old gods grew pale. The Olowu’s hand was heavy, his justice was a blade, Against the Ife traders, a fatal move was made. The market ground, once sacred, was soaked in bitter pride, And from that small transgression, the peace of nations died.

From the walls of Ijebu, the muskets caught the sun, From the gates of Ife, the ancient drums were spun. An alliance born of vengeance, a pact of blood and steel, Determined that the Owu pride must finally learn to kneel. The Gbonka and the Balogun, the masters of the fray, Marched toward the city walls in terrible array. "The peppers of Apomu shall be watered now with tears," The war-song of the allies rang in Olowu’s ears.

Owu, the city of the valiant, the home of the brave, Stood upon its hilltop, a fortress or a grave. The walls were high and mighty, the gates were iron-bound, But the hunger of a thousand foes was circling around. Five years the sun rose redly o'er the ramparts of the town, Five years the brave defenders kept the royal banners down. They ate the leather of their shields, the roots beneath the clay, While the Allied camps grew stronger with every passing day.

The breach was not a hammer blow, but the rot of slow decay, When the spirit of the starving gave the final gates away. The walls that stood for centuries crumbled into dust, Broken by the weight of hate and the irony of trust. Owu fell like thunder, a giant on its side, And the fire consumed the palaces where the kings used to reside. The smoke rose up to Olodumare, a pillar in the sky, As the children of the valiant were forced to say goodbye.

The hearth was cold, the roof was gone, the ancestors were stirred, The weeping of the mothers was the only music heard. A nation turned to shadows, a people on the run, Chased by the Ijebu blade and the Ife’s smoking gun. Through the thickets of the forest, through the marshes of the night, The remnants of the Owu people sought a glimmering of light. They carried nothing but their names and the seeds of future days, Leaving the ruins of their glory in a sacrificial blaze.

As Owu burned, the Egba towns felt the tremors of the fall, The wave of war was wide enough to swallow one and all. Itoko, Gbagura—each fell in turn to the Allied fire, As the map of Yorubaland was redrawn in the mire. The refugees were many, the warriors were few, A new path for the displaced was the only thing they knew. They looked toward the rising sun, toward the rock that stood alone, A sanctuary of granite to replace their walls of stone.

Behold the Rock of Olumo! The fortress of the free, A canopy of ancient stone for the soul to find its key. Led by Sodeke, the wise, the pillar of the Egba, The Owu and the Egba found a home beneath the bower. No longer were they fragments, no longer were they prey, Under the rock, they found the strength to hold the world at bay. Abeokuta rose from the earth, a city born of pain, Washed by the tears of Owu and the cleansing summer rain.

The war ended in silence, but the echoes never cease, For the blood of Owu watered the bitter tree of peace. They brought their royal crowns to the city by the rock, A lineage of lions that no enemy could mock. The Olowu sits in majesty, his scepter held with pride, Remembering the ancestors who fought and bled and died. For though the city vanished in the flames of long ago, The spirit of the Owu is a fire that will always glow.

Look back upon the history, the patterns in the loom, How a market-brawl in Apomu spelled an empire’s doom. It tells us of our frailty, it tells us of our might, How easily the day can turn into the darkest night. But it speaks of resurrection, of the power to rebuild, Of how the empty granaries can once again be filled. The Owu War is written on the skin of every drum, A lesson for the ages and the children yet to come.

Hail to the city of Ogbomoso, the brothers in the strife, Hail to the Ajilete, who cherish the valiant life. The story of the Yoruba is a tapestry of gold, Of wars that made us weary and of truths that made us bold. Let the reading now be finished, let the meditation start, Keep the epic of the Owu in the chambers of your heart. For as long as we remember where the first foundations lay, The glory of our fathers shall never fade away.

Author’s Note:
This work is a poetic interpretation inspired by Yoruba history and oral traditions. It is presented as creative literature rather than a formal historical account.