In Nigeria, English is often positioned as the language of love…and lust. Speaking your native language during sex? That’s still seen by many as razz. But what happens when someone unexpectedly switches to Yorùbá, Igbo, Hausa, or any of our other local languages mid-round? Does it hit harder? Feel more intimate?
For Folaranmi*, it wasn’t just a turn-on. It was a revelation. In this story, he shares how moaning and speaking in Yorùbá during sex helped him connect more deeply — to his partners, to himself, and to a language he was already thinking in. As far as he’s concerned, this is what it looks like to decolonise dirty talk.
This is Folaranmi’s story as told to Marv.
Long before the 1990s, when I was born, “fuck” had already become one of the most spoken words — in bedrooms, outdoors, or anywhere horny people could sneak one in. Loudly screamed or softly moaned, this universal shorthand for sexual pleasure rarely disappoints. I don’t know the etymology of “fuck,” but like millions around the world, I say it too, and have done so since the first day I put on a condom.
I’ve seen countless conversations online about whether people think in their native tongues or in the colonial language. I belong to the former. Odùduwà has my frontal lobe on lock. I process most of my thoughts in Yorùbá but write and speak them in English. Still, until sometime in late 2024, when Yorùbá started to feel most natural to me emotionally, I couldn’t recall a single moment of being complimented or flirted with in a local language. Even so, I consider myself fluent in using it to express desire.
It’s hard to forget how I got into it. It was the first time I had sex with my then-partner, and in the middle of things, she started speaking Yorùbá. It caught me off guard and cracked me up because, even though she’s a Yorùbá babe, she’s not exactly fluent. In a tender, almost concerned tone, she kept muttering, “O ti pa mí” (“You’ve killed me”).
It was my first time hearing Yorùbá in bed, and it was hot as hell. It also made total sense in hindsight. There’s no better language to instinctively voice your deepest feelings than your mother tongue.
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In the moment, everything felt steamy, but I was more focused on making sure she was having the best time. We paused for a bit, talked it through, and found a position that felt even better for both of us. That small shift changed everything. The pleasure deepened, and so did the connection — especially in the way we spoke to each other. I tuned into her rhythm and started responding in Yorùbá too.
“Mi ò pa é,” I said (“I’m not killing you”).
“So, kí lò wá n ṣe?” she asked with a smile (“So, what are you doing then?”).
“Mo n dó e ni,” I replied (“I’m fucking you”).
That was all I could say — over and over again — until the round ended. Her grip got tighter, and all I could feel was warmth down there. It was incredible.
Still, she thought it was uncouth and a bit razz to express herself sexually in Yorùbá. But from that moment on, it became a turn-on for me, and eventually, a regular part of our sex life.
Whenever we did it, I’d ask her questions in Yorùbá and tell her to respond in kind. She never answered directly. Instead, she’d smile, a little shy, and dare me to “fuck it out of her.” That always made things more exciting.
Deep down, though, I knew our time was limited. Japa was calling her, and a long-distance relationship wasn’t really an option. We were only together for three months, but in that time, we tried to make the most of it — a lot of Yorùbá was moaned.
I’m in a new relationship now, having great sex, but the person I’m with isn’t a fan of Yorùbá dirty talk. I’ve only been able to get her to faintly moan it once, and she couldn’t even complete her sentence. Her hesitance is cool with me, anyway. But I really fail to understand why “razz” is associated with Yorùbá when it comes to sex. We speak the language for every other occasion, so why not in bed too?
I once asked some friends what they thought about it, and their responses made it clear: I might be the only person I know who’s into it. But I don’t think I’m weird. If anything, speaking your local language during sex feels like a small way to push back against colonialism and its lingering hold.
To hell with saying “Fuck me” when “Dó mi” is more direct, and just two syllables. I recommend it to anyone willing to try. Your ancestors will rise with pride, and maybe even applaud.
Note:The name of this interview subject has been changed for confidential reasons.
Considering the state of Nigeria, the hospital is the last place you want to end up because you got into an avoidable physical fight. I mean, Davido and Wizkid are prime examples that online gbas gbos is where it’s at right now. So how then do you deliver lethal blows that’ll have your opps begging for mercy? Start with these 25 insults in Yoruba language.
Abi ori nta e?
You’re basically asking if the person has their mental facilities intact.
Elenu gbogboro
Use this if the person is a gossip with a loose mouth.
Tribal marks are a unique Yoruba tradition passed down generations. They’re face tattoos done without the consent of the carriers, often infants. In the past, people would mark their newborns so it’s easy to tell which tribe, family or town they belong to.
But they’re less popular nowadays thanks to civilisation and the Child Rights Act ex-President Olusegun Obasanjo’s government enacted in 2003: “No person shall tattoo or make a skin mark or cause any tattoo or skin mark to be made on a child”. Violations could attract a ₦5,000 fine, jail term of one month, or both.
These are some of the common ones that still exists, and what they mean.
Abaja Olowu
Image source: BBC
Three vertical lines over three horizontal lines. It’s associated with people from the Owu Kingdom.
Gombo
Image source: KnowNigeria
Also known as “Keke”, this Yoruba tribal mark is four to five perpendicular lines and three vertical lines on both cheeks. In some cases, it also features a stroke across the nose. Gombo tribal marks are prominent among people from Oyo and Egba land.
Double Abaja
Image source: BBC
The Abaja marks once distinguished the noble families of Oyo. But these days, they’ve been adopted by many Oyo-oriented groups. Abaja tribal marks come in variations of threes and fours.
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Pele
Image source: TamilahPhotography
Pele is a generic tribal mark in Yorubaland. It varies in size and number of strokes according to tribe. Some pele marks are tiny and barely noticeable, while others are long and prominent on the face.
Single Abaja
Image Source: X/@adetutu_oj
This is a single set variation of the Abaja tribal mark, common among people from Oyo state.
Soju
Image source: Facebook/MichaelTubesCreations
Soju marks are single vertical lines on both sides of the cheek. They’re common among natives of Ondo state.
Jaju
This is another tribal mark common among people from Ondo state. But unlike Soju, the lines are horizontal.
Yagba marks
Image source: Nairaland
This tribal mark style is fairly less common than the others. With three converging lines at both corners of the mouth, it’s common among the Yagbas — Yoruba people from the north.
Seen our Valentine’s Special yet? We brought back three couples we interviewed in 2019 – one now with kids, one now married and the last, still best friends – to share how their relationships have evolved over the previous five years. Watch the second episode below:
If you spend enough time on social media, it wouldn’t take you long to find a video of Nollywood’s Kunle Afod getting his colleagues to mention ten Yoruba proverbs and their meaning. He’s had veterans like Yinka Quadri, Saheed Balogun, Lere Paimo, racking their brains to provide these proverbs — a trade in stock for their type of work.
But if these guys don’t have Yoruba Nigerian proverbs on speed dial, the rest of us are in trouble. We took the trouble to compile a comprehensive list just in case we’re ever put in a similar spot. Grab a notepad, class is in session.
Adie funfun ko mo ara re lagba
Translation: A white chicken does not realise its age.
Meaning: Basically, respect yourself.
Ile oba to jo ewa lo busi
Translation: A king’s palace that gets burnt has only added more beauty
Meaning: Make the best of any situation you find yourself in.
Bami na omo mi o de inu olomo
Translation: A parent who wants you to beat their child doesn’t mean it
Meaning: Don’t go around disciplining other people’s kids.
Iku npa alagemo to yole nrin, kambelete opolo to ngbe are re shonle
Translation: A chameleon that approaches with caution dies, talk more of a toad that slams its body with every step.
Meaning: Tread carefully.
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Ibi ti a ba pe lori, a ki fi tele
Translation: Whatever you name as the head, you don’t tread the floor with it.
Meaning: If it truly matters to you, you’ll hold it dear.
Ile la ti n ko eso re ode
Translation: Charity begins at home.
Meaning: Your good or shitty behaviour is a reflection of your background.
Orisa bi o le gbemi, se mi bi o se bami
Translation: A deity that can’t help your situation should leave you in your present state.
Meaning: Who go help you no go stress you.
Gbogbo oro ni nsoju eke
Translation: A gossip is privy to all matters.
Meaning: Only busy bodies have an opinion on everything.
Omo to kawo soke lo fe ka gbe oun
Translation: It’s the child that lifts its arms that asks to be picked.
Meaning: Don’t be quiet when you have problems that need solving.
Banidele la mmo ise eni
Translation: Going home with a person is how you know his or her ways.
Meaning: You can only see the true version of a person when you visit their home.
Labalaba fi ara e weye, ko le se ise eye
Translation: A butterfly can liken itself to a bird, but it can’t do what a bird can do.
Meaning: No go dey do pass yourself. Know your limits.
A ki gbe sara koja a mosalasi
Translation: One does not carry alms beyond the mosque.
Our working theory is that Yoruba men get inspiration for their sweet-talking abilities from their daddies’ social circles.
These men have the most-hilarious nicknames for their friends, and the monikers add a certain spice to the bromance. Your Yoruba daddy definitely has a friend or two that goes by these names.
Ojii (pronounced or-ji)
This is the comedian of the group. He knows how to crack everyone up and is always the life of the party.
Isalu
Is your daddy even Yoruba enough if he doesn’t have an Isalu in his friend group? Isalu is the custodian of history in the circle.
The law
He needs no introduction. He’s the one friend that shows up late to every function because he’s too busy settling court cases. He’s also always available to give free legal counsel.
Oloye
This is the one friend that has a connection to the royal family but isn’t quite certain of his ascension to the throne. He wears his beads and bracelets to every function.
Doki
Usually the family doctor, Doki knows the medical history of everyone. He also gets special treatment at family functions because he’s often watching his weight or what he consumes.
Wadee (pronounced way-de)
He’s the street-smart guy in the group. He often makes comments like “This your child is not sharp”, but no one takes offence because he always comes through when there’s trouble.
Alagba
He’s the Christian spiritual father of the group. Only makes appearances at important functions like weddings, naming ceremonies and round-figure birthdays.
Yalufa
He’s the Muslim spiritual father of the group. He shows up at every function but never takes a drop of alcohol.
Alhaji
Alhaji is a businessman who doubles as a polygamist. He’s often the butt of jokes like “Ah, Alhaji, is that a bottle of stout I see in your front?” The other guys tease him because he’s been on Holy Pilgrimage but doesn’t adhere to the Islamic laws of avoiding alcohol.
Colonel
He’s the retired military official that doesn’t take nonsense; not from his friends, definitely not from their children.
Anyone who has a Yoruba mother or Yoruba mother-in-law will know we are capping with this list.
1. A box filled with geles she has forgotten about.
This box is usually filled with geles from 200 years ago. You’ll probably find the gele they tied at your naming ceremony in that box. No one really knows why they can’t give out those geles or throw them away.
2. Souvenirs from parties she attended 200 years ago.
Since Yoruba mums attend parties every weekend and sometimes 2 parties per day, they tend to forget about all the souvenirs they received and just dump them in random places. If you look through your Yoruba mums stuff, you’ll find a souvenir from 1985.
3. Souvenirs from parties she threw 200 years ago.
The same way Yoruba mums like attending parties is the same way they like throwing them. A lot of souvenirs from the party are forgotten about and left in the house. The lucky leftover souvenirs are sometimes repacked and shared at the next party. There will surely be the next party.
4. Pots from before you were born.
No one really knows what the sentiment is, but Yoruba mums can pass out if they let go of those pots. They’ll keep buying new pots, but still, refuse to let go of the 50year old pot they’ve had forever.
5. A box filled with Iro and Buba she no longer wears.
This is very similar to the box of geles, atleast Iro and Buba can be restyled, but Yoruba mums usually don’t restyle their Iro and Bubas. They probably want to give the Aso-Oke in the box to their great-grandchildren.
6. Jewellry hidden in the most confusing places known to man.
You’ll randomly go through Yoruba mums stuff and see jewellery in it. No one knows if it’s the paranoia that makes them hide stuff in the most confusing places ever, or they just like to do it.
7. Abo Ajase or ceramics plates and teacups that she inherited from her own grandmother.
There are high chances you’ll also inherit that same set of plates, depending on how much your mother loves you. The abo ajase has probably been part of your family since Shehu Shagiri was president.
8. Coal iron.
The fact that you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean she doesn’t own one. Except you don’t live in Nigeria.
9. A set of fancy plates that she never brings out unless there’s a special occasion.
No matter how rich your Yoruba mum is, she’ll always have those fancy plates that only come out of hiding when there’s a special occasion. You have probably tried to convince her to stop behaving like that, don’t worry, she’s never going to listen.
10. Eyepencil.
Black eye pencil producers are still in business because of Yoruba mothers. That’s all we are going to say.
11. This tray
If you look hard enough, you’ll find it somewhere.
Interview With… is a Zikoko weekly series that explores the weird and interesting lives of inanimate objects and non-human entities.
When you hear of H-Factor, your mind automatically goes to a particular Nigerian tribe and its people. Today, we decided to sit and speak with H and have them explain why they are so powerful and unavoidable.
This is Interview With H-Factor.
Zikoko: Can we meet you?
H-Factor: Oh there’s not so much to know about me. I’m just an ordinary letter H that Yoruba people have given a lot of power.
Um, could you please explain?
I am usually summoned when certain words are pronounced as if they had ‘h‘ in them. This would have been a nice thing oh, but the problem is that ‘h’ is now removed from the words that begin with ‘h’. Which is why, Can her hair earn her an A will become Can er hair hearn her han A?
I won’t even lie, Yoruba people are the ones who fall victim the most.
Is there a reason for this?
I think its because there’s no “H” in the Yoruba language so they try to compensate one way or the other.
I see…
But again, many of them try to form phonee, and because I know their background, I intentionally appear to disgrace them. Imagine Mufutau from Abeokuta trying to sound like he is an American stranded in Nigeria. Mufutau that went to Kobomoje Nursery and Primary School? I cannot stand for that kind of deception, please. Immediately such kind of a person opens their mouth to form any kind of suprisupri English like this, I manifest. Yam and egg becomes Yam and hegg. I hate her becomes I ate her.
Be who you ha, Mufutau. Be proud of your eritage.
I didn’t even know I had h-factor till it disgraced itself one day. Spent the whole time being shocked. It has become a regular occurrence since then 😂
There are no buts. You play sneaky games, you win sneaky prizes. I see a lot of you people trying to imitate foreigners. How come you ignore their own factors? French people have R-factor, but you will open Duolingo and be doing Garçon, garçon. Why did you not laugh at them?
You that grew up in Omole, you want to sound whiter than the whites. Oya nau, go ahead let me be watching you.
So what you’re saying is that…
Dear Yorubas, accept your H-Factor in peace and be proud of it. Haccept it.
You people should embrace whatever factor you have, please. Haccept it. Don’t attempt to sound whiter than white. Otherwise I will keep on appearing and disgracing you.
Ah…
It’s not as if I’m wicked oh, but Yoruba people got what they wished for. They are the ones who shout “Ha” on every single thing and each time they do that, I enter their life bit by bit until the day of reckoning.
What is the day of reckoning?
That is when I appear in flesh and blood. The day of reckoning manifests in different ways for different people. For some people, it is when they become drunk that I tumble out of their mouth. “One bottle of Eineken!”
For some others, it is when they are trying to impress their crush. I can even make them spoil their own names. “I, my name is Hadeola.” And just like that, true love is gone from them.
And you don’t think this is wicked?
No. Hide me too much and I’ll jump out to destroy everything you have worked for.
That’s all.
Check back every Friday by 9AM for new Interview With episodes. To read previous stories, click here.
Love Lifeis a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
Audio: My Father Does Not Want Me To Marry A Yoruba Man
Tunji*, 32, and Ezinne*, 28, knew they wanted to get married a week after they met. Now, they are engaged, but Ezinne’s father refuses to give his blessing to a Yoruba man. For today’s Love Life, they discuss how their faith has helped them through it.
What’s your first memory of meeting your partner?
Ezinne: It was a Saturday in June 2020. I was heading to work, and I sat at the back of the bus.Before I got down, he tried to strike up a conversation. It was a very hot day, so I was wondering how anyone could still have the energy to be toasting someone.
Anyway, we spoke for a bit, and he asked for my number. It’s not like he wowed me or anything, but I gave it to him. I honestly didn’t think it would lead anywhere.
Tunji: I will never forget meeting Ezinne for the first time. Some might call it coincidence or chance, but I know it was God’s divine orchestration. I was meant to go for an early meeting that day, but I ended up delaying it. We wouldn’t have met if I didn’t.
I can’t even call what we had love at first sight. It was more than that. After we exchanged numbers, we spoke non-stop; our connection was undeniable. We knew exactly where the relationship was going within a week.
Omo. Ezinne, was it this intense for you too?
Ezinne: At first, no. I wasn’t really looking for anything serious at the time; I just wanted to focus on God. After just a week of talking, however, I knew I wanted us to be together forever.
I’ve spoken to guys for months without it going anywhere, but in a few days, Tunji proved to be everything I’d been looking for. We also bonded over our Christian values, so it was very easy to go from there.
Where exactly did you guys go from there?
Ezinne: After that first week, the next move was telling my pastor about him. We had previously prayed about me meeting my spouse; I just didn’t know it was going to happen so soon.
It wasn’t even about meeting our parents for us, it was about meeting the spiritual authorities in each other’s lives. Then we started praying together. We’ve been doing that every night since July, except when we have a fight.
Tunji: After we met each other’s pastors, we went to meet our parents. This all happened within a month of meeting each other. It was an eventful couple of weeks, but we knew we wanted the relationship to go all the way.
How did your parents react?
Ezinne: Meeting his parents was awesome. They were so nice, I wished they were mine. Meeting my dad, on the other hand, was horrible. Tunji would never say that because he loves my parents, but my dad was awful to him.
He came alone for the normal “I saw a flower in your garden” visit, and my dad began to lecture this 32-year-old man that marriage is not for kids. Then when he found out Tunji is a teacher, he asked how he would be able to feed me and afford school fees.
My dad insulted his life and destiny. He seemed offended that Tunji would even come to indicate any kind of interest. It was hell, but Tunji was cool throughout all of this. He just promised to come to see my dad again.
Tunji: I really didn’t think his initial reaction was out of the ordinary. It’s something any father could do to protect his daughter. At some point, I thought the questions were becoming a little too personal for the first visit, but I still didn’t feel bad about it.
I figured he wanted to know if I was ambitious enough to take care of his daughter.
Ezinne: LMAO. Do you see? My fiancé is too nice about all of this. He is as cool as a cucumber. He’s the peace in the storm, while I am fire and brimstone. I think that’s why we fit together so well.
Wait. Your “fiancé”? You guys are engaged?
Ezinne: LMAO. Yeah. We never actually dated. There was no “Will you be my girlfriend?” moment. It was more like, “I want to plan my life with you.” If you ask him, he’ll probably say he proposed to me since July, less than a month after we met.
There was no ring at first. He didn’t see the need. He had made his intentions clear, so he didn’t think there was a point to all that extra fanfare. On my end, I had also started behaving like I was engaged.
Then for my birthday, about three months later, he planned an official proposal with my very close friend. He went on his knees, pulled out a ring and asked me to marry him. I honestly didn’t know I needed a ring until I got one.
Wow. Did your family think things were moving too fast?
Ezinne: To be honest, my father has given every reason under the sun as to why Tunji isn’t the right man for me. He was still using, “You just met this guy,” even after seven months of constant visits, but the real reason is clear: he isn’t Igbo.
Tunji: My family didn’t think it was too early. At the time, our plan was to get married between February and March of 2021, about nine months after we met, and they were in full support of that.
Ezinne, when did you find out what your dad’s real issue was?
Ezinne: If I remember my dad’s story correctly,he started out in one tiny room with no money. So, he was broke in the beginning — broker than my fiancé — but my mum still gave him a chance. That’s how I began suspecting money wasn’t the real issue.
Then one day, he called me to say he is just trying to protect me. He said Yoruba people don’t like us, and he isn’t going to be responsible for what happens to me if I marry one of them. That’s when everything became clear.
Damn. So, what about the plan to get married around March 2021?
Ezinne: LMAO. Plan? In fact, Tunji and I just came out of a very big fight because of this date. I was really looking forward to getting married in March — I had even started sewing my dress — but it’s not happening.
The last time Tunji went to see my dad, he ran to the bathroom. He didn’t come back out.
Tunji: I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve gone to see Ezinne’s father. I remember he was really upset the second time I brought up marriage, so I gave him a bit of space.
The most receptive he’s ever been was when I went with my brother. He wasn’t feeling well that day, but he was quite accommodating. That made me optimistic that he was finally coming around.
Wait. Ezinne, why did you and Tunji fight over the date?
Ezinne: I hate remembering the fight because it’s not like we’ve settled it; I just had to move on. Tunji had promised me that even if my parents didn’t consent, we would go ahead and get married in March.
So, I brought it up at the start of January, and he said we would still have to wait until my parents agreed. I was like, “If you love me, you should be ready to go to court and marry me without our parents.” I mean, we are both over 18.
He said he can’t kidnap me from my dad, and I was just there like, “KIDNAP ME, SIR!”
Tunji: I really believe we will get their consent in due time. I have faith that we will. I don’t want it to get to that point where we get married without their approval, but Ezinne and I will make that decision if the need arises. I just don’t think it will.
Ezinne, do you think your dad is warming up to the idea?
Ezinne: LMAO. That’s the funny thing about all of this. It’s almost like there is demonic activity going on. For Igbo families, there’s something called “knocking on the door” — the Iku Uka — before the introduction, and Tunji already did that with his brother.
My dad seemed very open that day. They even laughed and watched TV together. Everything seemed fine, but for whatever reason, he is back to being difficult. So, no, I don’t think I can say he is warming up to the idea.
Na wa. How has all of this friction affected your relationship?
Ezinne: It’s been tough, and the fact that we are celibate isn’t making it any easier. Whenever I’m in pain and crying about this whole issue, I just want to jump on him and have sex.
Oh? You guys are celibate?
Tunji: Yes.It’s a decision we made together.It’s been tough, but we know it’s necessary for the kind of relationship we are trying to build. Ezinne is a beautiful woman, and I’m very attracted to her, but I know it’s going to be worth the wait.
Ezinne: Before Tunji and I met, I had been celibate for a little over a year, so sex was the last thing on my mind. I had just gotten closer to God, and I was no longer interested in having sex before marriage.
Thankfully, he was on the exact same page as me regarding the whole celibacy thing. It was refreshing that I didn’t have to convince him to wait until marriage. That doesn’t mean it’s not been hard oh.
We used to make out at first, but we started counselling in my church and one of the rules is that we cannot go over to each other’s houses. That has definitely made it easier to stay in check, but it’s still tough.
What are the other rules in counselling?
Ezinne: They are pretty annoying rules to be honest. I mean, how can you tell me not to visit my man? LMAO. Basically, we are not allowed to be alone together. If we want to see, we have to go out on a date.
One time, I asked, “What if we don’t have money to go to a restaurant?” They were like, we should buy Coke and meat pie and sit down. Their major concern is that we avoid anything that could lead to temptation.
We also have to pray together often and listen to our pastors. They are currently praying with us that my dad will soon give consent, so that’s great. To be honest, the only hard rule is the celibacy one.
LMAO. Fair enough. How is this relationship different from your past ones?
Ezinne: It’s different in the best possible way, but I’m thankful for the past ones. All those failed relationships helped me realise what I wanted, so I wasn’t forming hard to get or being childish when Tunji came along.
He is also dependable and very sure of me, so I feel secure. I feel like if someone tells him that my nudes are trending on Twitter right now, he’d just shrug. I never have to question how he feels about me. It’s the best thing.
Tunji: I can’t even compare Ezinne to any of the women from my past, but I can say how I’ve changed. I’ve gotten wiser, and I now know how to appreciate and accommodate a lot more in relationships.
What are your plans for the future?
Ezinne: This question is making me smile because, for the first time in years, I’m excited about the future. I look forward to us having a beautiful family, great jobs, a nice house and premium nacks. Yes. I’m ready to unleash the dragon in the bedroom.
Tunji: LMAO. We hope to build a godly home where friendship, trust and respect are the top priority; where we can raise godly children and be of great support to those around us.
That’s really sweet. What do you love the most about each other?
Tunji: I love so many things about Ezinne, but let me try picking a few. For starters, she’s God-fearing — she has an unmistakable fire for the things of God. She’s also a go-getter. I just love how driven and passionate she is about her desires.
Ezinne: He is the kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. This isn’t even about how good he is to me, it’s about how kind he is to those around him. He cares about helping others.
He is also a hard worker. He is so dedicated to his students, and even though teaching isn’t the job he envisioned for himself, he still gives it his all. That’s why I know I’m marrying the right person. He doesn’t let his frustrations weigh him down.
He is also my biggest cheerleader. Honestly, I don’t know how I got so lucky.
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A Week In The Life is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week.
The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is an Alaga Iyawo. These are women who host Yoruba wedding ceremonies, sing songs of praises, double as MC’s and serve a host of other functions. She talks to us about not liking parties even though her job revolves around them, the challenges she faces in day to day life, and what a perfect retirement looks like for her.
MONDAY:
The first thing on my mind when I wake up today is that I’ve been an Alaga for weddings for close to 22 years. And that feels unreal. It feels like a lifetime ago when I stumbled into this job. Becoming an Alaga for me was by luck/chance because I didn’t go to school to learn neither was I trained; it just happened.
In those days, as a youth in church, we used to rally round to help members of the church getting married — planning, declaration, coordination and any other thing. It was during one of these moments my journey started. There was a particular sister we helped out with planning her wedding, and it is wasn’t until the day of the wedding that we knew we were supposed to get an Alaga. The only reason we even knew was because the groom’s family came with theirs. In the midst of all the confusion, all the other sister’s pushed me forward saying: “Sister Bisi, you can do it. You can talk very well.” I mean this was true; I was an interpreter in church, I sang in the choir, and I was also a teacher in the children department, but the fact remained that I had never done something like that before. As if it was ordained by God, I now wore one very fine cloth that day. Grudgingly, I stepped up to represent the bride, and that was the beginning of my journey. It wasn’t perfect and I’m thankful I had help from someone who guided me on what to do and say. I was also lucky that it was a small church event, so we just said opening prayer, praise the Lord, let the bride come in, let the groom come in and we were done.
However, my second time on the job was intentional. After witnessing my performance, one of the sisters in church said she was not going to pay what the professionals were asking for, and I had to be her own Alaga. Her argument was since I had done it for someone else, I could also do hers. I told her I was scared and that event was impromptu but all she told me was to go and prepare. Because I was unmarried at the time, I spent a lot of hours watching videos from my sister’s wedding to learn the mannerisms, songs, routines etc. Thankfully, I pulled it off. After the success of the second wedding, I officially became the church’s Alaga. Couples would come in for marriage counselling and the church would provide options for them to save money, part of which usually involved my services.
That’s how I began full time with no prior training or anything. God just showed me that this is a calling, and ever since then, I’ve been able to train at least over 120 people who are doing well. That alone is enough reason for me to get out of bed every morning.
TUESDAY:
One question people ask me is “What do we do with all the money we collect at weddings?” I try to break it down for them. Firstly, the money is for the family. We share the proceeds into like thirteen envelopes which are then distributed to the family members on the paternal and maternal side. The money is a token to appreciate people who took off time to attend the wedding. It’s not as if the money will change their lives, because some people get as low as ₦200 or ₦500, but it’s for them to say that during so and so wedding, they went home with something.
We also collect specific money like money for unveiling the bride, which goes to the bride. There’s money for reading letter which goes to the person who reads the letter the couple writes to each other. We also have “aeroplane” money for people who bring in the wife to the venue.
I make my own money from being sprayed during the programme. Or after the groomsmen finish prostrating to both families, I ask them to bless me with anything they have. The reason why it seems like some of my colleagues charge a lot of money from the groomsmen and bridesmaid is that they probably collected a cheap amount for their services. Parents usually boast about the calibre of people coming to the wedding to make sure we don’t charge a lot. In cases like that, the Alaga has to make up for the difference in fees. That means that everyone present at that ceremony will pay through their nose. I charge a fixed fee before the wedding, and that’s why I don’t collect money more than once at the venue, and I remit the money for the family to the family.
There’s a class of people called “no bowl show”, where the family instructs us not to collect any money at the venue. In cases like that, we charge them two times the fee.
WEDNESDAY:
Every job has challenges, and my own is not an exception. Sometimes, the other side [bride or groom] might also have their own Alaga, and the person is trying to show off their talents or skills while you’re working on a fixed time, and that can be frustrating. It can cause a lot of issues when both of you are not the same page. You just have to pray to meet someone who is understanding.
Also, Nigerians do not keep to time. Sometimes they know an event won’t start till 2 p.m., but they’ll tell you to come by 8 or 10 a.m. So I end up spending time I could have used on other productive things waiting for the event to start. I went for an event on December 24th that was supposed to start by 8 a.m. In my head, plus Nigerian time, we’d start at 10 a.m. and be done by latest 2 p.m — I’d still have ample time to get home and make Christmas plans for my family. This event didn’t start until some minutes before 1 p.m. When I wanted to introduce the groom, I was told that he was stuck in traffic. Thank God I went along with one of my colleagues that day because after waiting for a few minutes and no show, I just picked up my car and left the venue. My colleague was the one who anchored the rest of the event.
Another issue that is now “normal” is men making advances at me during this work. It’s always annoying when some father of the groom or bride makes advances at me because most times, I get close to the mother of the bride or groom first. Imagine talking to someone for months and planning a wedding with them; there’s a form of friendship that occurs from spending a lot of time together. Then suddenly on the day of the event, her husband is making a move on you. It’s very somehow. I just chalk it up to men’s nature, ignore and face my work. I know my worth, and I know what the men are doing is all noise.
THURSDAY:
A good Alaga must have a very good dress sense. They must also smell nice, look nice and have a good voice. They should be able to coordinate themselves. If you can’t control your temper you can’t do this work. Mostly because people will step on your toes intentionally or unintentionally. To succeed in this job, you also need to learn time management — don’t waste people’s time and make sure you finish early enough for the family to entertain their guests. These are the things any exceptional Alaga must know.
I’m always training people. In fact, I’m starting another training in February. Today, I’m counting the number of students who have enrolled for the class, and ten slots have been filled out the twenty I planned for. I’m glad that people are interested in learning about this job. It’s very lucrative to use your voice and talent to make money. All you have to do is transport yourself to the venue and you’re good. I call my tribe the “Exceptional Alagas” because we train them on how to sing, coordinate events and not be greedy. The beauty is that the training happens over WhatsApp, so it accommodates my busy schedule. After the online class, we have an internship period where people shadow professionals for six months to a year. I’m always excited to pass on knowledge to the younger generation.
FRIDAY:
Without my husband, I wouldn’t be anything at all and I’m not even joking. If I didn’t marry him, I don’t see any man who could have married me. Because of how demanding my job is, it’s not easy combining it with family duties. But my husband is so understanding. In fact, he’s unique. In addition to my Alaga work, I also run a jewellery and Aso-Oke store, and my office is quite a distance from my house. What this means is that I leave the house from Monday, and I don’t return home until Saturday. My husband holds down the house until I’m back. It helps that I have grown-up children and always make arrangements before leaving the house, but there’s just something about a man who supports your career no matter what you choose. My husband and I both started our careers as teachers until I decided to pursue this work full time. When I told him, he agreed. And ever since then his okay has been okay. I don’t know how many men can do that for a woman.
SATURDAY:
I have an event today, so I’m up early to prepare. People ask me how I’m always in the mood to perform my duties. Maybe because they think it requires so much energy. I tell them that there’s no dull moment as long as it’s work. The only thing is that I don’t party outside of work. If I’m not with the mic at an event, it’s rare to catch me attending a party. I get fed up and pissed easily at parties. Even when I’m working, once I’m done with my duties, I’m out. I always want to retreat into my shell and go to either my house or the office.
I know I can’t do this job forever and that’s why I’m planning for retirement. All these other businesses [Aso-Oke] are my retirement plan, God willing. When I look back at my life, I see that God has been able to do what us men can’t do through this job. At least I can say that through this job we’ve gotten houses, we’ve gotten cars, we’ve started a business and we’ve trained our children. I want to retire by the time I turn 60, 65. At least by then, my kids will have given me grandchildren. At that point, all I want to do is focus on my family.
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Everyone hears Yoruba and automatically assume the speaker is from Nigeria. You couldn’t be wronger. Most Yoruba people are from Nigeria, but there are estimated to be about 47 million Yoruba people worldwide.
1. Benin Republic
Yup. Our quiet French-speaking neighbors to the West have a large Yoruba population. Of Benin’s 11.5 million people, 1.7 million of them share the Yoruba heritage.
2. Ghana
Yeah. The guys you’re always fighting over jollof. There an estimated 500,000 Yoruba people in Ghana’s 30million-strong population.
3. Sierra Leone
The Oku people, with an estimated population of 25,000, are an ethnic group in Sierra Leone and the Gambia primarily the descendants of educated, liberated Yoruba Muslims from Southwest Nigeria, who were released from slave ships and resettled in Sierra Leone as liberated Africans or came as settlers in the mid-19th century.
4. Togo
The Atakpame people of Togo speak Ife, known by scholars as Ife Togo, which traces it roots to Ile-Ife, Nigeria. The ancestors of the Atakpame people were Yoruba people who fled inter-tribal wars in the 17th Century.
5. Ivory Coast
There are about 120,000 Yoruba speakers in Cote d’Ivoire, despite being 2000 kilometres away.
6. Cuba, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Saint Lucia, Jamaica, Brazil, Grenada, and Trinidad and Tobago
No thanks to the trans-Atlantic slave trade which saw millions of slaves taken from the Western coasts of Nigeria to islands all over the Americas and the carribeans, there’s a thriving Yoruba culture in these countries.
