Whether you look at the rigid,
multi-step ascension of Greek apotheosis or the deeply relational
structure of Yoruba cosmology, the universe has a very specific way of handling
mortals who mistake a growth spurt for godhood. In classical mythology, you
don’t just stumble into becoming a god. You don't wake up one morning, look at
Zeus, and say, "Your time is up, old man." There is a grueling,
multi-step pipeline. You need exceptional heroic merit, an elemental purging of
your mortality which can literally involve being forged through fire, a cosmic
background check by a council of elders, and finally, a literal alteration of
your DNA via ambrosia to turn your blood into golden ichor. Apotheosis
is not a casual promotion, it involves extraordinary deeds, suffering,
transformation, and finally acceptance into a divine order that is bigger than
the individual. The mortal does not seize godhood like an NURTW Faction seizes
a motor park; it is bestowed like Nigerian Political Parties give Nomination
Certificates to morally bankrupt financiers.
In Yoruba cosmology, the barrier
to entry is just as steep, if not steeper. The Òrìṣàs (the divine
entities guiding our world) are not just powerful beings. they are cosmic
forces, personified ancestors, and manifestations of Olódùmarè (the
Supreme Creator). To even be mentioned in the same breath as them requires an
astronomical level of Ìwà Pẹ̀lẹ́ (balanced, good character) and Orí/Àyànmọ
(Destiny/Predestination) that has been nurtured through immense sacrifice.
Yet, in our modern world, we achieve a little success and immediately think we’ve skipped the line. One business win, one viral song, one social media moment, and suddenly people start speaking like they have conquered history. Consider the young fintech founder in Yaba, Lagos, who secures a modest seed round of funding. Suddenly, they are on social media subtly shading the veteran industrialists who built the nation's physical banking infrastructure. They believe the old guard is "out of touch" and that they are the new deity of finance out to disrupt the archaic model. If they do not use the word “disruption” every hour, their oversized ego will probably burst out of their branded hoodies. A rising artist blows up with one “Single” and begins calling himself “a Living Legend”. A newly successful child starts talking to elders like respect is a subscription they forgot to renew. That is not evolution, that is perdition disguised as growth.
This is phase one of the delusion: mistaking the prerequisite (doing something impressive) for the final transformation (knowing how to sustain a universe). Every ounce of talent, drive, or influence you possess is what has been placed in you, it is called “Àṣẹ”, the divine energy to make things happen, the mandate to bring forth inventions. But here is the catch: it is never fully yours, it is only leased to you. It requires the right behaviour to become one with you and allow you to deploy it to rearrange a part of the universe. If you treat the masters who paved the way as peers to be conquered, you aren't demonstrating ambition, you are committing the ultimate sin - hubris.
Yoruba cosmology is too wise to celebrate that kind of folly. The universe is not random; it is structured. There is Olódùmarè, the ultimate source. There are the Òrìṣà, sacred powers who reflect divine order. There are the Ancestors, who remain morally present. And there are Humans/Mortals, who are expected to walk carefully, respectfully, and with character.
When you declare a rivalry with
your idols, you reject this flow. You are claiming that your mandate is
entirely self-generated. When you look at your professional or spiritual idols
and decide they are now your "rivals," you are effectively trying to uproot
the tree while enjoying its shade. The moment a mortal thinks they are
independent of the lineage that birthed their opportunity, the universe begins
to dial back the power supply.
Why does the universe react so
harshly to this kind of arrogance? Because it threatens Àyànmọ (predestination)
and cosmic order. In classical mythology, when Asclepius became so good at
medicine that he started raising the dead, he thought he was rivaling the gods.
Zeus didn't throw him a celebratory gala; he hit him with a thunderbolt. Why?
Because disrupting the boundary between mortal and immortal breaks the system. In
Yoruba spiritual philosophy, the world operates on an intricate balance between
the physical realm (Ayé) and the spiritual realm (Ọ̀run). Everyone has their
place in the grand tapestry. The moment you decide to tamper with the balance,
you dislodge the order; when you decide to turn a mentor into a rival, you
introduce chaos into your own ecosystem.
Imagine a young Afrobeat artist
today who hits one billion streams. Intoxicated by the numbers, they stop
paying homage to the veterans - the ones who carried massive cassettes and
vinyls across international borders when music had to physically travel to
radio stations to be heard. They stop bowing for the OGs in the
industry. They think they are now the sun around which the culture revolves. What
they fail to realize is that the music industry, much like Yoruba cosmology, is
governed by a council of elders – the Labels, the Execs, the Promoters, the Media,
the Influencers, and even the Fans. You might have the hot track today, but
when the dry season of your career inevitably arrives, it is the structural
roots built by those "idols" that keep the ground from collapsing
beneath you. Without their institutional backing, you are just an unprotected
mortal standing in a cosmic thunderstorm.
The final step of the classical
progression to godhood is the consumption of divine sustenance, granted only
after the pantheon agrees you belong there. It is an act of reception, not arrogation.
You cannot steal ambrosia; it must be handed to you. True ascension - becoming
a master in your own right - is granted through humility and the blessing of
those who came before you. This is the symbolic “getting the blessing of the
elders”. It is the ultimate insurance policy for success. When a master looks
at your progress, smiles, and places a hand on your head to say, "Oya, come
forward, come and dine with the elders", your transition from a student to
a peer is legalized. Without that blessing, you are merely a usurper. And
history, both mythological and modern, is unkind to usurpers.
Ambition is a beautiful thing, it
is a must-have. The Orisha Sango did not become the god of thunder by
sitting on his hands, he was a fierce, ambitious king. But his power was deeply
tied to his role, his people, and his divine mandate. He understood power, but
he also understood the consequences of its abuse. In this worldview, power is
never just power. Power is always tied to responsibility, balance, and destiny.
That is why the idea of ìwà pẹ̀lẹ́ - gentle, good character - matters so much.
Talent without character is noise. Influence without humility is instability.
Success without respect is a setup for disgrace. A person may have àṣẹ, the
force to make things happen, but that force is not a license for arrogance. It
is a trust. It flows through relationship, not isolation. You do not become
greater by cutting yourself off from the roots that fed you. You become greater
by learning how to carry those roots with honor.
If you are fortunate enough to
find yourself sitting across the table from the people you used to look up to,
don't view it as an invitation to a duel. You haven’t outgrown them; you have
simply grown up to the level where you can finally understand the true depth
of their experience and appreciate the scale of what they have achieved. Keep
your ambition sharp but keep your ìwà pẹ̀lẹ́ sharper. Take the elevator
up, but when you get to the top floor, remember who laid the concrete for the
foundation. Even though you might believe you have outgrown your idols and you
have consequently become rivals with them, you have not really risen above them,
you have simply announced that you no longer understand what made your rise
possible.
In Nigerian life, this is easy to
see. The apprentice who forgets the master. The younger sibling who suddenly
acts like family advice is outdated because Instagram gave them a new “list of
things to do away with in 2026”. The politician who once begged for backing and
now speaks as though loyalty was a one-way transaction. The artiste who
benefits from a genre, then disrespects the pioneers who kept the sound alive
when nobody was streaming anything. The irony is that these people often think
they are proving strength. In reality, they are advertising insecurity. Arrogance
has a familiar script. First, it borrows from the past. Then it succeeds. Then
it pretends the past was unnecessary. That is when it starts calling everyone
else a rival and a hater. But rivalry born from arrogance is usually a
performance, not a destiny. It is the sound of someone who has mistaken
applause for authority. And in both myth and moral tradition, that is a
dangerous confusion. Greek myth punishes this kind of overreach with dramatic
consequences because cosmic boundaries matter. Yoruba wisdom handles it with
another kind of seriousness: if you refuse to recognize order, order will
eventually remind you. Maybe through shame. Maybe through loss. Maybe through
the quiet humiliation of needing the very people you once dismissed.
The universe has a way of
correcting people who become too full of themselves.
This is a cautionary tale about
why you should keep your feet firmly on the ground, even when your head is in
the clouds. In the grand design of the universe, the moment you decide your
idol is your rival, you stop climbing, and the universe prepares your descent.
And that, people, is how hubris
writes its own obituary.
