“Power is not eternal. Arrogance is not strength. Pride is a slow poison. You may think you have power today. Maybe you belong to a secret society. Maybe you sit in high places. But remember this—life is a circle.”
In my hometown, there’s a humble little fish we call Eja Ojiji—you might know it as Tilapia. The native Tilapia doesn’t grow too big. There’s an old tale we were told as children: The mother Tilapia once warned her young, “If you want to grow like me, bury your head in the mud. If you truly want to become somebody in life, learn to be humble.”
This simple proverb holds more weight than a thousand sermons.
One day, His Excellency, Senate President Godswill Akpabio, shared with me a profound story—one I will never forget. He said: “In the heart of the forest, when a powerful wind begins to roar with fury, the Palm Tree bows in humility, letting the storm pass. But the Iroko Tree, proud and unmoved, roars back: ‘I shall not bow to this toothless wind! I am the king of this forest, chosen by nature herself!’”
Yet, when the storm has passed, the Iroko lies broken—its mighty branches shattered, its once-proud figure reduced to firewood for the evening meal. Pride always goes before a fall.
Only a madman, they say, stands on a railway track because he’s trying to collect a debt from the train driver. That’s not courage. That’s foolishness wearing pride as perfume.
Many brilliant souls, men who were destined to become presidents, now lie buried beneath the soil we walk on—cut down not by fate, but by their attitude. Their pride destroyed their altitude.
Just last week, while on a flight, I overheard a man discussing a police officer—someone I once knew through an ex-staff. He said the officer was extremely arrogant. Not because he had accomplished anything significant, but simply because he belonged to a secret cult—one his superior was also a member of. That cult affiliation had become his crutch, his crown, and his downfall-in-waiting.
I cleared my throat and told the man beside me a tale my mother once told me—one that has remained with me for decades.
There was a man in our market feared and worshipped like a deity. They called him Borí ikú ko sá—”If you see death, run!” He belonged to a fearsome cult and ruled the market like a tyrant. No trader dared display their goods until he sold his wares. No one questioned him. His word was law.
One day, a customer walked into the market, ignoring the intimidating Borí ikú ko sá, and chose a woman’s goods instead. This angered the cultist. The woman begged, pleaded, and even offered to split her profits with him. But his pride knew no mercy. He rejected every plea, humiliated her, and the customer walked away.
That night, the market women gathered in secret. They were done being ruled by fear. They hatched a plan—to send their sons to the cult’s headquarters in Yemetu Oje and steal the shoes of every member, including the feared man.
The next morning, the cultist arrived in the market fuming. His voice echoed, “My shoes were stolen yesterday, but I fear no man! My friends are the most powerful in society. No one dares challenge me!”
But fate had already cast its vote.
By nightfall, every cult member present at that meeting died under mysterious circumstances. Everyone, except for Borí ikú ko sá. His body began to rot while he was still alive. The stench became unbearable. Even his closest allies abandoned him. He died alone, bloated with pride and surrounded by the foulness of his own decay.
Power is not eternal. Arrogance is not strength. Pride is a slow poison.
You may think you have power today. Maybe you belong to a secret society. Maybe you sit in high places. But remember this—life is a circle. The same people you ridicule on your way up may be the very people holding the keys to your future peace.
A secret cult does not guarantee a noble end…
It’s merely an association of like minds. And like every gathering of men, it is flawed, fragile, and fleeting.
Respect others. Embrace humility. Because when your time comes to sit in quiet reflection at old age, the choices you made will speak louder than the titles you bore.
And mark my words—it has happened before… and it will happen again.
•Mogaji Arisekola writes from Ibadan.
