Where the savannah whispers to the southern trees, And the dust of the North rides the harmattan breeze, A hunter stood where the shadows grow long, With a heart like iron and a spirit like song. He was Ogunlola, the one who does not flee, The architect of walls, the root of the tree.
Oh, Ajilete! City born of a hunter’s aim, Before you had a wall, you had a name. A name carved in the bark of the Ajagbon wood, Where the first five huts in the silence stood. No crown was sought, no scepter held high, Just a man, a bow, and the wide Yoruba sky.
But the winds of the North began to grow cold, And the stories of Fulani horsemen were told. The Great Oyo fell, its pillars in the dust, And the people looked for a blade they could trust. They looked to the hunter, they looked to the hill, To the city that stands when the world is still.
The drums! The Gangan! They speak of the fray, Of the horsemen who came in the heat of the day. But Ogbomoso is a wall that breathes, A forest of spears under emerald leaves. From the heights of the palace to the Isale gate, The Valiant stood firm in the face of their fate.
"None shall pass!" cried the Soun of old, As the story of a thousand battles was told. Not once did the gates of the city give way, Not once did the enemy’s banner stay. For every house was a fortress, every child a shield, Ogbomoso! The only land that would not yield.
They call us the "Ajilete"—those who wake to sit, With wisdom in the eyes and a tongue of wit. But when the trumpet sounds and the dust clouds rise, The fire of the hunter returns to our eyes. The sword of Akintola, the strength of the past, A legacy built on a foundation to last.
Slowly, the blood on the grass turned to ink, And the warriors paused by the river to drink. The spear was traded for the scholar’s pen, As the city birthed a new race of men. On the hills of LAUTECH, the light started to glow, Where the seeds of the future began to grow.
And what of Alagba? The ancient, the wise, With the weight of three centuries in his dark eyes. He crawled through the courts while the empires fell, A history written in the plates of his shell. He saw the first lamp, he saw the first car, He watched the city reach for the furthest star.
The Baptist bells rang with a holy sound, While the Mosque’s minarets rose from the ground. In Ogbomoso, the spirit is a braided rope, Twined with faith, and resilience, and hope. The Bible, the Quran, and the ancient way, All meeting in the marketplace at the end of the day.
But the walls of a city cannot hold a soul Whose heart is a compass, whose world is the whole. To the gold-coast of Ghana, the traders set sail, With a bag of "Oro" and a dream that won't fail. In the markets of Kumasi, in the heat of Accra, The voice of Ogbomoso was heard from afar.
They are the "Jews of the West," the travelers of old, Turning the dust of the road into pillars of gold. But no matter how far the wanderer may roam, The scent of the Amala calls them back home. In London, in Houston, in the snow of the North, The spirit of Ajilete still marches forth.
They build the hospitals, they pave the way, For the children who dream in the city today. A diaspora heart, but a local root, The tree is afar, but the city is the fruit.
The sun dips low behind the Ajagbon’s crest, And the valiant city prepares for its rest. But the rest is a vigil, a quiet power, Waiting for the dawn of a new, golden hour. The new Soun ascends, the trumpets they blow, The river of history continues to flow.
Ogbomoso! You are the fire that won't die, A mountain of earth under a canopy of sky. You are the hunter’s courage, the scholar’s light, The shield in the day and the song in the night. From the first five huts to the global stage, A story of glory on every single page.
So let the Gangan play, let the poets sing, Of the city of the valiant, the home of the King. For as long as the earth and the heavens remain, Ogbomoso shall rise, again and again.
Author’s Note:
This piece was written as a poetic reflection on the cultural and historical foundations of Ogbomoso, drawing from Yoruba oral traditions, historical accounts, and creative interpretation. All interpretations are literary in nature.
The End
