Land: The Heartbeat of Yorùbá Existence
Written by Oluwayeni Odifa
In the heart of every human being lies an immutable truth, as ancient as existence itself: true belonging to the world is rooted in belonging to a land. Not as a fleeting guest, but in that profound, unyielding way that binds one’s very name to the soil where ancestors walked, worshipped, and were laid to rest.
"Do not sell land." This is a caution that safeguards the fundamental future of generations yet unborn. History bears witness: a people dispossessed of their land risk becoming pariahs, homeless strangers on their own planet. Our land is where Oduduwa’s legacy took root, where the oriki of our lineages were first chanted under vast, starlit skies. It is our living archive, our sacred altar, our unwavering anchor. To part with it carelessly is to sever the vital thread that binds us to our past and unravels the very fabric of our future.
Without land, a Yoruba person may still speak the language, don the Aso-oke, or dance to the vibrant rhythms of the bata drum. Yet, something profoundly vital slips away. Culture becomes a mere performance, devoid of its pulsating heart. You risk becoming a stranger to your own heritage, a visitor who knows the songs but finds no sacred ground to sing them upon. Home is the tangible embrace of earth and memory; a landless home fades into fleeting sentiment and the haunting nostalgia of what might have been. We must never allow ourselves such a desolate state.
History provides stark lessons on the devastating cost of losing land. From the colonial doctrine of terra nullius that erased ancient ties, to the rolling hills of Rwanda, the contested fields of Palestine, the indigenous territories of the Americas, and Nigeria’s own Plateau, the narrative is consistent: land is the first thing seized and the last thing mourned. It lies at the genesis of countless human conflicts. When Constantinople became Istanbul, the very name shifted, and with it, the story of a people, rewritten by those who claimed dominion. To lose land is to court erasure, to yield to others the power to dictate our identity and destiny.
Land is profoundly spiritual. It serves as the sacred bridge connecting the living, the revered ancestors, and the unblemished hope of the yet unborn. It is the hallowed ground where we pour libations to honor those who came before and where we plant the seeds of prosperity for those who will follow. To sell land without profound foresight, without a meticulously crafted plan to preserve its sanctity, is to squander what your grandchildren will desperately need to stand tall. If we collectively relinquish our land, we are left with nothing to call our own, borrowing our future from strangers who may not share our cherished dreams.
This is not a cry of hatred or a rejection of progress. It is an urgent call for clarity and profound wisdom. Leasing land, executed with discernment, can indeed foster partnerships and cultivate prosperity without ever surrendering our invaluable heritage. This path offers growth that keeps our roots firmly intact. However, to sell land outright, particularly in areas holding deep cultural or strategic significance, is to invite a silent, creeping loss and sow the seeds of future conflicts that emerge without war or warning, leaving us utterly rootless.
To my Yoruba kin, I implore you: our land is the very heartbeat of who we are. It cradles the timeless stories of our ancestors, holds the boundless promise of our children, and embodies the undeniable truth of our existence. If we lose it, we risk losing ourselves entirely. Let us hold fast to our land; it is more than a possession, it is a sacred duty to our past, our present, and the countless generations yet to come.
I read Oluwayeni Odifa’s piece and didn’t just nod—I remembered.
My stomach tightened. My skin pulsed. Something ancestral stirred in my bones.
Because this was not an essay.
It was a transmission.
A warning. A ritual. A mirror. A key.
And I receive it in full.
Land Is Not an Asset—It Is Alignment
Land is not passive.
It is not the backdrop.
It is not a “resource.”
It is memory made matter.
Land is the original witness.
It carries the sound of our footsteps before we knew how to name them.
It carries the rhythm of the oríkì, not just as poetry—but as locational calibration.
Without land, language floats.
Without land, ceremony fragments.
Without land, identity collapses into costume.
What Happens When We Sell the Signal?
The watcher class calls it “land transfer.”
We know it as memory dislocation.
You sell the soil—but what you’re really transferring is:
The burial contract with your ancestors
The ground your grandchildren would have used to speak to them
The vibrational layer that holds your name in rhythm, not just print
This is not about politics.
This is not about zoning or development.
This is about sovereignty beyond language.
When the land goes, your archive goes with it.
And you don’t even hear the silence until it’s too late.
Lease if You Must, But Never Transfer Dominion
Odifa writes:
“Leasing land, executed with discernment, can indeed foster partnerships and cultivate prosperity...”
Yes. That is the line.
Leasing—when governed by ancestral memory and sovereign contract—can be mutual.
But even that must be time-bound, spirit-cleansed, and field-aligned.
Because if you transfer dominion outright, you’re not just handing over square meters.
You’re exporting your cosmology.
And the buyer is not bound to protect it.
This Is Why Operation Motherland Exists
Not to negotiate with empire.
But to return the frequency to the field.
We are not going to Africa.
We are going home to guard the memory under our feet.
Any fund we build, any resource we hold, any steward we train—
must be instructed by this truth:
You cannot collateralize the land.
You can only co-guard its frequency.
To My Diaspora Kin
If you’re thinking of buying land for “projects,” “healing centers,” or “economic entry”:
Ask first:
Whose name was on that land before borders were drawn?
Who chants to that land now?
Are you entering as a pattern restorer—or a hopeful settler?
If you’re not willing to become soil,
you are not ready to touch it.
Final Vow
Land is not leverage.
It is language between timelines.
I will not sell the soil.
I will not sever the memory.
I will not confuse ownership with belonging.
I return with rhythm.
And I will leave only when the field releases me.
Thank you, Oluwayeni. You didn’t write this for applause. You wrote it to activate the ones still listening.
And I heard you.
—Monneke, American with Yoruba mtDNA
Well drafted 💯