Gatekeepers and Vengeful Spirits of the Ọ̀wọ̀ Past: Word and Act Made Visible

Abstract

Under the assumption that there is value in retrospectively examining one's earlier research to assess areas of omission or misunderstanding, I write this article some fifty years after my initial research in Ọ̀wọ̀, Nigeria, the capital city of a once powerful, sprawling kingdom on the eastern edge of Yòrùbá territory, bordering on the powerful Edo Benin Kingdom whose capital is a scant 75 miles south.As a neophyte researcher whose training prior to graduate study was in studio, what attracted me to the study of African art was the thoughtfulness with which African artists translated mental images and ideas into material form. I was entranced by sensitive abstraction in much African art as well as by idealized naturalism of the art of Ife.My choice of Ọ̀wọ̀ as a research site was inspired by Ekpo Eyo's recent excavation in Ọ̀wọ̀ in 1969, where he uncovered naturalistic terracotta objects whose idealized features reinforced Ọ̀wọ̀'s claim of origin from ancient Ife (Eyo and Willett 1980). At the same time, other objects suggested contact with Benin to the south. Seeing these ancient forms as evidence of links to different kingdoms, my project was to use art objects as indexes of cultural contact. I set out to Ọ̀wọ̀ to investigate leadership arts, intent on examining beautifully rendered forms that reinforced roles played by the hierarchy of the Olọ́wọ̀ (king), identifying objects that may derive from Yòrùbá prototypes and those that had resulted from contact with Benin.Over the years I have dealt with images of power and authority in Ọ̀wọ̀—chieftaincy garb, ceremonial swords, textiles and dress, and ancestral images that reinforce the authority of living men while honoring ancestors. (Some of the publications that have dealt with these include Poynor 1976, 1978, 1980, 1981, 1984, 1987a, 1987b, 1989, 1995, 2000, 2003, 2011, 2023; Poynor, Cole, and Visoná 2001.)While conducting my research in Ọ̀wọ̀ in 1973, I encountered several types of objects that, from my point of view at that time, did not fit the traditional categories of leadership art. Made of unfired clay, their medium was not as elegant as the more exquisite ivory, brass, and wooden objects Ọ̀wọ̀ is known for. They were called by several names, ṣìgìdì (pronounced shee-ghee-dee) and ìyègbè being the most often used. At that time, I was drawn to the more sophisticated arts used in leadership contexts and I pushed these earthen figures aside in my research agenda, although they did work in the context of governance.1The purposes of the clay figures were various. They functioned as gatekeepers on the one hand, or as violent forces to wreak havoc on enemies on the other. Both, I now realize, were in the service of important dignitaries within the hierarchy of the kingdom.The functions of objects discussed here are by no means limited to the Ọ̀wọ̀ or to the Yòrùbá. The use of images as guards, sentinels, watchdogs, tutelary spirits, doorkeepers or gatekeepers, detectives, lookouts, or as vengeful spirits of retribution, as the clay figures did, were common in many African cultures. More than a mere assortment of materials, they were created to embody spirit forces that worked for those who commissioned them. While some warded off evil forces such as witchcraft or warned those with ill intentions, others meted out punishment. Images fitting into these categories include kungang figures from Bamileke and Bangwa, bateba of the Lobi, anyammuo of the Igbo, and nungu figures of the Chagga. Two of the most researched types are Fon bocio and minkisi of the Kongo.The Fon have used bocio, power figures that combine a diversity of natural and manufactured substances with various “medicines” to create power (Blier 1995, 2004). Blier speaks of them as “… clearly not … object[s] of sublime beauty …” Early visitors to the Fon emphasized bocios’ unattractive features. Fon bocio, Blier suggests, emanate qualities of “tension, anxiety, and danger,” projecting ideas of intrigue and foreboding (Blier 1995: 1). They were created to work in the context of and in conjunction with vodun energies, deities such as Legba, Earth spirits, and the aziza forest sprites. They serve both to protect and to assist in gaining power and change (Blier 1995: 3, 7, 83).Perhaps the most researched objects are minkisi (sg. nkisi) of central Africa, especially those of the Kongo-speaking peoples. Here too, it is not the formal beauty of objects that is of concern to users. Considered “power objects,” their focus is not on appearance or physical form but on efficacious combinations of leaves and medicines and the tasks spirits from the land of the dead within minkisi can perform. MacGaffey refers to minkisi as “residual fragments of operative complexes” and informs us that rituals that activated and made use of minkisi are no longer performed. Even vocabulary used for them is “archaic and obscure” (MacGaffey 1993: 33).MacGaffey's assertion that minkisi are no longer made and the vocabulary used in their context is archaic and thus obscure is not unlike the situation with clay figures in Ọ̀wọ̀. They too are things of the past. Neither minkisi nor ṣìgìdìlìyègbè are relevant to contemporary individuals in the locations where they were once essential. Blier's comment that bocio are not objects of sublime beauty also pertains to the discussion of the figures in question.The figures are not entirely absent from the scene in Ọ̀wọ̀. Many ìyègbè were in place in 1973 and are still visible today. But even when objects are left in place, they can be separated from the context in which they were created and from the function for which they were created.In 1973, rapid change was already evident. While some traditional priests remained, it was apparent that many of the beliefs had for decades been giving way to conversion to Christianity and Islam. Many people I encountered were skeptical of Ọ̀wọ̀ objects used in the context of ancestral religion, while recent discussions with Ọ̀wọ̀ citizens suggest that, although many arts are still vital to leadership in the kingdom, ṣìgìdì and ìyègbè are not among them.Ṣìgìdì and ìyègbè were things that were veiled in secrecy. Their purposes, although alluded to by many, were understood by few. As Polly Nooter reminds us, “In African epistemology and art, secrecy operates in complex, subtle ways, being a key strategy in much secular and ritual experience, including traditional forms of education and the arts” (Nooter 1993: 55). Thus it seems to have been in Ọ̀wọ̀.2 While the secrets of manufacture and specific intent of objects were not known by ordinary citizens in 1973, their general intent was recognized. By 2018 the objects themselves were not recognized.Clay figures, often seen near the entrances of the homes of power to serve as gatekeepers or hidden away to serve as harmful agents were indeed created in secret. They were intended to serve either positive or negative functions in Ọ̀wọ̀ as well as among the Yòrùbá in general. Those seated at entrances served as gatekeepers or watchdogs, protecting inhabitants and property. Others were intended to embody curses, associated with the concept of “nightmares” sent to visit enemies, smothering them in their sleep. The former were clearly visible and understood as protective devices. The latter were secreted away in the homes of those who commissioned them.3 Today, ideas behind their use are associated with the religion of the past, and there is a forgetfulness about why they are present in places like the verandas of the Olọ́wọ̀'s palace.The Olọ́wọ̀ is still the head of Ọ̀wọ̀ kingdom, which consists of the city of Ọ̀wọ̀ and nine “satellite” communities, each with its own ọba (ruler). Once, Ọ̀wọ̀ had been powerful, its control stretching into Akoko to the north and close to the Kingdom of Benin to the south. Ọ̀wọ̀'s organization was much like that of other Yòrùbá kingdoms and that of Benin. Although the power of the ọba does not extend to great distances now, as it did at its height, the influence of those in control continues. Long ago that power was assisted by and protected by the knowledge of those who knew “the secrets.”Although the power structure continues, recent discussions suggest many things associated with secrets of power are no longer recognized by the majority of citizens. Of course, all were not privy to the secrets of power in the past, but they could “read the signs” and understand that mystical power was at work. “Vigilant things” were recognized by viewers as having power in spite of the viewer not being privy to all their “secrets.”4When I began photographing objects in the Ọ̀wọ̀ Museum to get some idea of the forms I might encounter, I came across an earthen sculpture very much in the style I associated with Ọ̀wọ̀ wood and ivory carving (Fig. 1). About 38 cm high, 23 cm wide, and 27 cm deep, its round face was topped by a somewhat conical hairdo with a scalloped hairline. The well-defined brow and the cheeks created concave orbits filled with large, bulging eyes with well-defined lids. The small nose fit snugly between the eyes, its triangular shape completed by the upper lip. The philtrum was similar to so many I had seen on wooden and ivory faces. The lower lip was parallel to the upper, and the upper and lower lips did not join at the corners. The squat, well-rounded body sat on a small platform, its legs bent over the edge to allow the missing feet to rest on the surface on which it was placed. Missing hands had rested on the knees. Its back was not as well defined, and it was obvious it was intended to be seen frontally. It was identified as an orighole, although this is the only mention of this term I ran across at that time.I encountered two other types of earthen images—high-relief figures set in architectural settings (Fig. 2) and free-standing forms hidden away in homes of powerful individuals (Fig. 3). The relief type was called ìyègbè, the free-standing one ṣìgìdì.Although these figures intrigued me, they were not my research focus; they did not seem to relate to the arts of leadership and ancestral veneration. After looking over information in my notes and seeking references elsewhere, I realize in hindsight they played a key role in leadership.Art created for use in traditional leadership in Nigeria served to maintain the status quo. It still does, but not to the degree it did in the past. Most art is intended to bolster the authority of powerful individuals through benign means. Ritual dress, weaponry, and sculpture— all are positive in intention, call attention to power, assist in the obtaining of power, or are instrumental in maintaining power for those for whom it is made. They act for the good of the community and especially for the welfare of a given religious, political or kinship unit. In an analysis of Yòrùbá religion, S.A. Adewale states thatAmong the Yòrùbá, ṣìgìdì are said to be made by babalawos (religious specialists). According to the scant literature that documents this type of object, they are created for either benevolent or malevolent tasks. They were documented as early as 1885 by the French missionary Noel Baudin (1885: 52), and in the 1890s a British observer described ṣìgìdì as a “deified nightmare” (Ellis 1964: 64).Great numbers of ṣìgìdì existed in Yòrùbáland. Geographer J.R.O. Ojo stated, “In traditional days every babalawo worth his name has a sigidi figure” (Ojo 1966: 252). Since every town had numerous babalawos, ṣìgìdì figures would have been innumerable. The numbers of chiefs and individuals of power who had enemies among their fellows would account for even more. Although they may have been used by anyone for whom the babalawo prescribed it, they are most often employed by those with political power. While some were used to protect or maintain power, others were meant to upset the balance of power in favor of their owners.Few records exist of creating ṣìgìdì. In 1885, Baudin stated that,Isaac O. Delano, a Yòrùbá scholar, witnessed the making of ṣìgìdì where the activating “drugs” were mixed in the clay before the object was modeled. It took seven days before the figure was ready (Delano 1937: 100). J. Olumide Lucas, the first Yòrùbá to write on Yòrùbá religion, said the “development” of the ṣìgìdì took place over a period of about a week (Lucas 1948: 172-73).References to “drugs” or medicines are not explicit, although several denoted specific materials—among them blood, hair, and gunpowder. Baudin connected the activation of a spirit within clay figures with blood sacrifice. Religious studies scholar M.Y. Nabofa addresses blood as a “nutrient for mysterious powers, stating that blood is quite common in the practices of those who believe in the efficacy of sorcery, charms, and medicines. It is believed to nourish and make them more potent. As an example, he quotes Dopamu:Hair is mentioned. Yòrùbá language and literature specialist Akintunde Akinyemi quotes Samuel Johnson:Anthropologist George Simpson explained the making of one: “after an incantation, the gunpowder which has been placed on top of the ṣìgìdì's head is ignited and the explosion, perhaps supplemented by an oriṣa's intervention, is supposed to harm the suspect” (1970: 90).5 Once the ṣìgìdì is constructed by the babalawo, its work for the client begins, either as gatekeeper or vicious “nightmare,” depending on why and how it was created and activated.One of the functions of the figures was guarding premises and protecting people and property. Baudin stated that Yòrùbás guarded a place and inspired fear of it so that no one would dare approach through creating what he called a “Chougoudou,” noting that the palace of the king of Porto Novo was under powerful protection of a Chougoudou (Baudin 1885: 52).Ellis specifically referred to such clay images as a type of ṣìgìdì, which served as guardians of enclosed yards and houses. In 1966 geographer G.J. Afolabi Ojo called it a subdeity of medicine, assigning it a protective function. Samuel Johnson and Marc Schiltz emphasized the protective nature. Johnson discussed ṣìgìdì in the Oyo court, where royal messengers took part in rituals that reinforced the supernatural powers of the Alaafin. The emphasis was on the protection of the king through the spiritual wellbeing of his messengers (Schiltz 1978: 55).In the study of Yòrùbá medicine and religion, the concept of ṣìgìdì is most often associated with negative powers, the focus on injuring opponents. Information from the 1890s by A.B. Ellis states:Peter Morton-Williams introduced the concept of ṣìgìdì in discussing the fear of death. In the mid-twentieth century, the Yòrùbá, he claimed, interpreted nightmare as “visitation by a suffocating spirit, sigidi or sugudu, sent by a sorcerer” (Morton-Williams 1960: 36). Although not associated with a figure here, the essence was that a spirit had been sent to do harm.6 Elisha Renne discussed ṣìgìdì as a suffocating spirit that causes nightmares. She was told that a man whose belongings had been stolen “went to the owner of one particularly dangerous spirit, known as sigidi, to avenge his loss” (Renne 1991: 717-18).Stephen S. Farrow lived among the Yòrùbá from 1889 through 1894. In his 1924 divinity thesis on Yòrùbá religion, he called ṣìgìdì a form of witchcraft. In his subsequent book, he called it “an utterly bad form of demonology, or witchcraft, perpetrated ‘through the agency of an evil spirit'“ (Farrow 1926: 126).7 In examining Johnson's discussion of ṣìgìdì, Akinyemi states the Yòrùbá believe when incantations are said over the clay figure, it could be endowed with supernatural power to cause injury to enemies (Akinyemi 2004: 102).Lucas's 1948 account focused on its function for aggression and revenge. Anthropologist and linguist R.C. Abraham says that the incantations and offerings made over the ṣìgìdì would inflict injury to the person it portrays—its victim (Abraham 1958: 19-20).That ṣìgìdì spirits had to do with the destructive side of social relations was intimated by the response of an elderly chief when he told Renne that ṣìgìdì was used against enemies within a social group, not against outsiders such as the Nupe horsemen who had made slave raids during the nineteenth century. “We did not use it against the Bida people [the Nupe]. We only use it against ourselves” (Renne 1991: 717-18).Anthropologist Norma Wolff maintains that ṣìgìdì used in Yòrùbá medicine is the most terrifying of human figures, observing that once embodied in clay, the spirit can move about as avenger, delivering frightening messages, causing illness, beating and killing victims in their sleep, or destroying property as its owner commands (Wolff 2000: 215).Wolff implies that at times merely seeing ṣìgìdì is enough to bring the desired effect. Ṣìgìdì, she maintains, acts on its own volition. She observes that being recognized as an owner of ṣìgìdì adds to the repute of a medical practitioner because it is only a “tough” man that has the capacity to control the spirit. As an owner of power, he was admired for controlling forces of the spirit world, but he was also feared for the reasons behind his use of those powers.Form is secondary to purpose in ṣìgìdì, and simplicity of shape and rudimentary form is emphasized by observers. Generally speaking, ṣìgìdì are often almost shapeless, cones of clay with eyes or mouths of cowries (Fig. 4). An anti-aesthetic seems to be involved in the making of most. In one of the earliest recorded statements concerning ṣìgìdì, Baudin did not speak of a human image but described a “sort of round tomb.” Ellis, Farrow, and Lucas refer to summary treatment of clay. Although Ellis referenced a short, bulky image, he stated most were represented by a thick, blunted cone ornamented with cowries, “no doubt emblematic of the head” (Ellis 1964: 74, 75).Although most are crude, some seem to become more human in form; many seen by early visitors were only rough semblances to the human figure (Figs. 4–5). Verisimilitude is not important. Appearance takes a back seat to action, word, and substance. While some are mere lumps, others differentiate the parts of the body (Figs. 5–7).Recent observers also note the lack of form in ṣìgìdì. Wolff noted that babalawos created their own ṣìgìdì as solid, unfired clay figures, usually amorphous and crudely fashioned with limited delineation of human features (Wolff 2000: 214-15). John Pemberton III wrote me that he had seen a ṣìgìdì while documenting a shrine in Ila Orangun in the early 1970s:Pemberton described another:Images Pemberton shared with me did not fit these descriptions but could easily be described as “roughly constructed.” Figure 8 shows a figure barely perceivable as human, eyes of cowries and animal teeth inserted into the gaping mouth. Stubby limbs project from the formless body. The image in Figure 9 is almost devoid of human form, a basket loaded with earthen materials.In 1973, ìyègbè were visible in a number of Ọ̀wọ̀ homes. Most people I met referred to ìyègbè's protection against witchcraft, wizards, and evil as “olden ways,” but they still recognized the forms, could identify them if not by name at least by function, and seemed to respect the idea of such gatekeepers.Art generally was created to help sustain the stability of the ruler and thus that of the community. Ìyègbè figures were benign protectors. They worked to maintain the status quo. But in their actions, the figures that guarded doorways were almost passive, sitting at entrances, waiting. If evil came, their mere presence and their constituent medicines protected the premises, not unlike the charms that hung over doors. Importantly, ìyègbè was openly visible to the casual visitor.They were prepared with medicines to “protect the stronghold” more effectively and to prevent illegal entry. Sometimes called oriṣa ile, “deity of the house,” they were considered “a type of medicine,” embedded with powerful ingredients, and constructed using incantations and acts as substances were combined and the form modeled.Ìyègbè was modeled on the walls of compounds of dignitaries near doors, often with a built-in seat for persons who ministered to it (Fig. 2). Their worn features and bodies masked by layers of clay or whitewash used to resurface walls evidenced age. Frank Willett provided me photographs he took in the Olọ́wọ̀'s palace in 1958 (Fig. 10) showing three ìyègbè guarding an entrance. Ọjọmọ showed me several situated along a long earthen platform (Fig. 11). Ìyègbès in the home of Oludasa, whose ancestors wielded considerable power and whose home was a model of artistic creative space, suggested age by its beautiful features being softened by years of applications of clay and paint (Figs. 2, 12).Each of these large figures sat on its small rectangular base. Enormous eyes, small noses wedged into triangular areas between eyes and mouths, parallel lips not joined at the corners, and hands-on-knees poses compared favorably to the figure I first encountered (Fig. 1).In his discussion of aale, David Doris emphasizes the importance of objects “seeing and being seen” (Doris 2005: 27). Objects engage viewers in visual dialogue. Just as Doris suggests that aale “have eyes,” ìyègbè have eyes—both spiritual and physical. In most physical manifestations, ìyègbè eyes dominate—large, swollen, immediately noticeable. But not only the physical eyes watch; the spirit within the object watches—even more warily. The purpose of these vigilant beings was protection, keeping evil, witchcraft, sickness, fire, and evil away from the dignitary and his household.The other type of Ọ̀wọ̀ earthen figure, ṣìgìdì, was a secret form and did not sit in full view. Those I was able to see other than those in the museum had been placed in an out-of-the-way place in the palace of the Ọjọmọ.While the ìyègbè was protective, the ṣìgìdì was aggressive and destructive. The clay form was not embedded in architectural settings. It had greater mobility, could be hidden away, brought out to be activated. It did not sit passively and wait for enemies to enter. Instead, it was sent on specific aggressive missions, hunting victims down,Like those made purely for protection, ṣìgìdì were constructed by babalawos, who developed them as spiritual forces through the use of medicines and incantations. Echoing explanations by Ellis and others, my informants said ṣìgìdì were for revenge, activated by sacrifice and sent to intimidate enemies at night.Unlike ìyègbè, ṣìgìdì figures were freestanding. Prior to being shown thirty-six figures by the Ọjọmọ at the end of 1973, I had documented twenty-five in the museum storeroom upon my arrival in Owo.10 Ranging in height from 11.4 cm to 30.5 cm, most measured between 17.8 cm and 22.9 cm high (see Figs. 4–6, 14–15); only three were more than 25.4 cm high (see Figs. 7, 13).Many free-standing figures had facial features not unlike those on ìyègbè—large heads, enormous eyes. Elbows were held to sides, while forearms were parallel to the floor. Hands met on the abdomen, fingers barely touching. Over-developed pectorals, upper arms, and forearms defined a rough rectangle. Unlike the ìyègbè, which were seated, these figures knelt.To discuss ṣìgìdì in Ọ̀wọ̀ context, one must consider the political and social milieu in which these objects acted. Yòrùbá society in the past was often described as ascriptive, a person being born into his position and maintaining that place throughout life. The reality, however, is that the status of individuals is far from static. Embroiled in on-going contests for money, position, and power, if they climb high enough, they seek followers to increase the honor, prestige, and power (see Barber 1951). Among the Ọ̀wọ̀ Yòrùbá, important individuals have contended for standing within a complex, ever-changing hierarchy.Once in Nigeria, my introduction to Ọ̀wọ̀ was not only in the archives in Ibadan and the Department of Antiquities in Lagos, but also through newspapers. The Olọ́wọ̀ship was in dispute. Sir Titus Olateru-Olagbegi II was dethroned and exiled in 1968, five years before my arrival, and Adekola Ogunoye II had been installed. Disputes between factions supporting the ex-Olọ́wọ̀ or the then-current Olọ́wọ̀ were well-known. While working at archives in Ibadan, I read newspaper accounts of protests at the palace, chiefs challenging the legitimacy of installing an ọba while his predecessor still lived. Federal judges warned objecting chiefs to cooperate. Photographs of pro-Olagbegi picketers carrying signs at the Ọ̀wọ̀ palace made front pages of newspapers (Fig. 16).Archival records quickly revealed this was not new. During the colonial period, Ọ̀wọ̀'s history was tormented by succession disputes for numbers of chieftancies as well as for the Olọ́wọ̀ship.My physical entry into Ọ̀wọ̀ led me to understand the ever-changing realities of the Ọ̀wọ̀ power structures. I witnessed on my first day a riot at the palace—a protest by supporters of the exiled Olagbegi II against Olọ́wọ̀ Ogunoye II. That afternoon our imaginations ran rampant as crowds scurried through the streets. We heard shots, shouts, screams from the streets. The death of a young man and the riot were linked to the struggle for power between political factions,I was beginning to piece together the recent history of Ọ̀wọ̀. My preparation had not focused on the current politics of the kingdom but on traditional patterns of Yòrùbá rule and on art forms that reinforced the positions of leaders. I was unaware of current political struggles brought on by a community very active in contemporary political rivalries in the recently independent Nigeria. I was oblivious to the fact that both Olagbegi II and a former friend of his, Michael Ajasin, were primary players in national politics. Realizing these facts, I began to question how a young outsider could attempt to investigate the leadership arts throughout Ọ̀wọ̀'s history if such a hostile environment of factional politics was revealing itself. How was I to know the various players? I questioned the old story of ascriptive societies where one's position is determined before birth by fate. And I began to realize that documenting leadership arts in such a contentious atmosphere might have to be reconsidered.The founding of Ọ̀wọ̀ itself resulted from jockeying for position, losing out, moving on, gaining followers, developing the support from a larger group. According to one Ọ̀wọ̀ origin story, sons of Odudua of Ife were given titles and blessings, but Ojugbelu, the eventual king of Ọ̀wọ̀, was left out, being on a hunting expedition when the inheritance was meted out. Ojugbelu finally received Odudua's blessing but left Ife with a following of twelve chiefs, the Ighares. They moved to the east. As the Alaghare (leader of Ighares), he wandered until he came near the present site of Ọ̀wọ̀. So, Ọ̀wọ̀'s beginning can be interpreted as the result of power struggle.As he established himself and became ruler, Ojugbelu was advised in both political and ritual matters by the Ighares who accompanied him from Ife, having both political and spiritual power in the court. Ojugbelu's son Imade finally settled at the site where Ọ̀wọ̀ is now. As Ọ̀wọ̀ grew, other chiefly titles were created. Many resulted from the same sorts of struggles as losers in succession disputes elsewhere moved in, brought followers, gained favor with Olọ́wọ̀, and were granted Ọ̀wọ̀ titles, often those they had challenged and lost back home.Others gained favor through other means. Some were military geniuses and heroes; some were powerful through their use of medicine; others gained power merely through kinship ties with Olọ́wọ̀. The resulting hierarchical amalgam was never stable, continually changing. Struggles grew between chiefs and between factions of chiefs. Squabbles developed between chiefs and Olọ́wọ̀. Fights for power raged between quarters. Chieftaincies were disputed, changed names, changed hands, were bought, and sold, were created, were declared nonexistent, and were recreated.In 1973, Chief Ashara listed for me 847 chieftaincy titles. Ọ̀wọ̀ chieftaincies are both hereditary and earned. Men have long vied for the attention of Olọ́wọ̀ and have striven for titles he might bestow. Yet, inheriting or earning a title did not fix a man's position. In vying for position, chiefs depended upon the good will of Olọ́wọ̀, on alliances with and support of fellow chiefs, on faithful followers, on encouragement of members of their lineages, and on backing by friends and advocates they might entice to bolster their bid for power.In the past, aid of the supernatural was sought through the goodwill of ancestors and the oriṣas. Other extranatural sources were sought too. It was in this framework that the ìyègbè sat at the door or the gate. But relying entirely on positive factors did not always work. Occasionally, one had to resort to aggressive, malevolent means to maintain position, to climb in the unsteady gathering of individuals with power. Curses were made against enemies, and spirits were called upon to do harm.The use of curse among the Yòrùbá is traditionally considered to be antisocial. A.K. Ajisafe stated,However, in a 1960 study on mental health among the Yòrùbá, Raymond Prince states that curses were frequently used by many people throughout Yòrùbáland (Prince 1960: 67). In his 1988 analysis, Adewale stated that Yòrùbá religion contains mechanisms for maintaining law and order, including rules and regulations, bonds or covenant, taboos, and reward. But he also included curse in the list (Adewale 1988: 103). So, curses are among methods for maintaining balance. My Ọ̀wọ̀ teachers suggested that not only were curses used but expected, and in some instances, considered socially acceptable.Curse could also be brought about through the actions of oriṣa, especially by the messenger