The year 1969 remains unforgettable for the people of Ogbomoso. Even after more than fifty years, the elders still recoil when recalling what happened.
For those who were either not yet born or too young to understand the events, the tale has been retold so many times it has almost become folklore.
It’s unlikely that any Ogbomoso descendant hasn’t heard this story. After all, as the saying goes, bí ọmọdé kò ba ba ìtàn, yóò ba àrọ́bá, àrọ́bá sì ni bàbá ìtàn — if a child misses an event, they will grow up hearing its narration, and the narration becomes the origin of the event.
The story you’re about to read is that narration, the parent of the tragic 1969 incident.
At that time, Nigeria’s federal forces were deeply engaged in the civil war against the Biafran troops.
The conflict, which had begun two years earlier, showed no signs of ending. Meanwhile, in the Southwest, a local upheaval of massive scale was also unfolding—a peasant farmers’ revolt.
Though often labeled a riot, it was far more serious and brutal than that.
According to The Politics of Peasant Groups in Western Nigeria, over 80 people died in Ibadan between 1968 and 1969 due to this crisis. Abeokuta lost 36, and both Ijebu and Ogbomoso experienced their own casualties. This was the Ogun Agbekoya uprising.
During the late 1960s, the economy of the Western State was in a deep crisis. The creation of Lagos State had removed the Colony Province from the old Western Region, cutting the state’s revenue.
Combined with the financial strain of the Nigerian civil war, this forced the government to find new revenue sources, not just to fund the war but also to stabilize the regional economy. One strategy was to raise the personal income tax.
Previously, adults paid £3 annually—remember, this was Nigeria in 1969 when the pound was the legal currency. Suddenly, citizens were informed that the tax rate would double to £6 per year. You can imagine the burden this placed on farmers.
They were already struggling owing to labour shortages caused by conscription of young men to the eastern war front and severe weather damage in major cocoa-producing areas such as Ibadan, Ile-Ife, Ekiti, and Ondo between 1968 and 1969. For farmers, this new tax felt like a death sentence.
In Ogbomoso, the new tax wasn’t the only problem. There were growing tensions between the Soun (king) of Ogbomoso and his people.
According to Akinjide Osuntokun and Tunde Oduwobi, the government’s tax announcement was like “pouring petrol on fire.” They imposed a June 30 deadline for payment and declared that from July 1, anyone who defaulted would be blacklisted as a “human parasite” and “saboteur” and treated accordingly. Punishments included public arrest and prosecution.
Tension filled Ogbomoso as the deadline approached. Police presence increased visibly on the streets, signaling government determination to enforce the new tax. Rumors spread quickly that the next morning there would be a meeting with the king.
At dawn, people began assembling at the palace, and by 10 a.m., over a thousand had gathered, including members of the Agbekoya farmers’ group, the Tepamose (Hard Work) Society, and ordinary citizens.
Oba Emmanuel Olajide Olayode appeared, accompanied by a lawyer named Mr. Oyewo, his brothers, and palace attendants. Traditional prayers and libations were performed.
Representatives spoke one after another, focusing primarily on the new tax, which they said was far beyond their means. When the king asked what amount they could afford, they offered £1.10 per year per person. They also complained about the police presence, accusing the Oba of secretly harboring policemen to harass citizens.
The king listened calmly, assured them he understood their hardships, and promised to discuss the tax issue with the governor and other Obas. Regarding the police rumors, he denied any unusual presence and invited them to check the palace to confirm. He promised no one would be arrested or molested until the issues were settled.
Mr. Oyewo explained the legal side and urged patience with the king’s efforts. The meeting ended on a hopeful note with the king giving the crowd £5 as a goodwill gift. Though the problems weren’t resolved, the people felt reassured that they wouldn’t be attacked.
Oba Olayode was also relieved. As the saying goes, Onílùú o fẹ́ ko tú, abánigbé lo ń se e — the owner of the town doesn’t want it to break up, it’s the visitor who causes trouble. He worried the people might turn violent if their demands were ignored. He returned to the palace with his brothers and attendants feeling somewhat hopeful.
But less than two hours later, a terrifying scene erupted. Three trucks packed with armed policemen rolled into town, parading near the palace from the Owode-Osogbo road.
The show of force scared everyone. Streets quickly emptied as men, women, and children fled for safety. Mothers shouted at their kids like a hen calling her chicks away from a hawk. Gunfire exploded along the police route, and panic spread.
Yet the Agbekoya members remained fearless. Unfazed by police or soldiers, trusting their charms and weapons, they felt betrayed by the king. They believed he had lied about the police presence. If not from him, where had the police come from?
Word quickly spread for all members to gather at Jimoh Adisa’s house, the Agbekoya chairman.
The compound filled fast with a very different crowd from the morning meeting. Now, nearly everyone was ready for battle—some with guns, others with machetes or cudgels. One man brandished a sharp spear like a magician.
They’d discarded their usual clothes for traditional warrior attire decorated with cowries, gourds, and blackened feathers. They chanted incantations as if reciting the national anthem, sharing local schnapps and alligator pepper to empower their spells.
When the crowd grew restless, Jimoh Adisa spoke. He declared the king a traitor who must pay the highest price. The mob erupted in cheers, danced wildly, and marched out—heading straight for the Soun’s palace.
Oba Olayode and his brothers heard the noise before they saw the approaching mob. The sound was deafening. The police were nowhere to be seen. The king tried to call for help, but the phone was dead. His brothers urged him to flee.
As the saying goes, àléèmú ó yẹ àgbàlagbà, àgbàlagbà kii se ohun àléèmú — an elder should not be pursued, nor should he allow himself to be pursued. But on that day, the king didn’t wait for urging.
He fled down the palace stairs, followed by his brothers and attendants. The mob had already begun attacking the palace entrance, so the fleeing party turned toward the backyard.
The mob destroyed the palace doors and windows quickly and set the front on fire. Shouting and screaming, they stormed the palace, overturning everything in sight, searching for the king. Where was Oba Olayode? Had he disappeared?
In truth, the king hadn’t vanished. He and his party had taken refuge in a room belonging to a man named Abudu. But the mob soon suspected this and directed their fury there as well. By then, the main palace was engulfed in flames…the rest is history.