By Adenekan Shogunle,Esq, FSi.
Coronations are not carnivals. They are sacred thresholds where history, faith, and leadership converge. In Yorubaland, a coronation embodies continuity of tradition, a renewal of covenant with the ancestors, and a communal aspiration for divine favour. That is why the coronation of the Olubadan of Ibadan should have been such a spectacle of solemn grandeur, showcasing the best of Yoruba heritage before the rest of Nigeria and the world.
Instead, what rang out was T’ayé Currency’s “Were la fín wo were.” (It takes lunacy to cure lunacy)
The discomfort in the hall was immediate and visible. The President of the Federal Republic shifted uneasily. Traditional rulers exchanged knowing glances. Foreign guests sat bewildered. And His Majesty himself, in quiet restraint, betrayed the weight of inappropriateness. The lyrics, more at home in a beer parlour than in a palace, clashed violently with the gravitas of the crown.
Worse still, the song carried a hidden undercurrent that made it doubly offensive. “Were la fín wo were” is not an innocent refrain. It is a taunt, a boast of triumph over enemies, real or imagined, a lyrical sneer. To lace such a message into the coronation of a king whose ascension came by consensus; a monarch elevated as the very symbol of peace, reconciliation, and accommodation after seasons of trials, was most distasteful, unnecessary, and uncalled for. Coronations are meant to heal, not to provoke.
The question must be asked; who was the event manager, and what was the brief to the musician? The event took long time to plan. The President reportedly skipped going to the United Nations General Assembly to be able to attend. Someone must take responsibility.
Coronations are never casual. In Yoruba culture, every drumbeat, every chant, every song is deliberate. They carry meaning, summon memory, and signal values. To allow a performance dripping with streetwise bravado, laced with veiled insult, at such a sacred rite was not just a lapse of taste, it was an affront to tradition.
The tragedy is sharper when one recalls what might have been. A generation ago, Ibadan could call upon the likes of Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, Kollington Ayinla, or King Sunny Ade. Their mastery of folklore and melody would have raised the palace with oríkì, proverbs, ewì, and chants of reverence. And if Ibadan wished to proclaim its heritage at the highest level, who better than Olanrewaju Adepọju, the world-renowned Ewì exponent, son of Ibadan soil, whose poetry carried ancestral wisdom and prophetic fire? These were men who knew that music at a coronation is not entertainment but a sacred duty to history. Their absence was felt like a void , one that T’ayé Currency’s performance only deepened.
What unfolded was not entertainment but cultural impoverishment. The palace, symbol of continuity and order, was reduced to a stage for swagger. The solemnity of tradition was drowned in noise. A coronation is soft power diplomacy, a theatre of heritage that tells the world who we are. To serve gangster lyrics, and worse, lyrics that hint at division and enmity, as if it was to mock ourselves before our guests. T’ayé Currency s performance must not be allowed to reflect a dearth of talent and looming death of yoruba music and culture. It is not so.
The lesson is urgent and simple: the palace is not a nightclub. Event managers and palace committees must curate performances with cultural intelligence and reverence. Not every popular artiste is fit for a throne room. The coronation of a king is not the place for casual bravado or veiled taunts; it is a stage for poetry, depth, and the music of peace.
If we cannot give our kings the dignity of our music, then we have betrayed not only them, but the heritage we claim to honour.
Shogunle is a lawyer, writer and writes regularly on law, governance and public ethics.
