“Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irunmole” remains one of the greatest literary legacies of the Yoruba nation. Penned by Daniel Olorunfẹmi Fágúnwà in 1938, the classic novel introduced the world to the philosophical depth, spiritual imagination, and literary sophistication of Yoruba civilization.
Translated loosely as The Brave Hunter in the Forest of Demons, the story captured the fears, mysteries, dangers, and triumphs hidden within a dreaded forest inhabited by strange creatures and darker powers.
Yet, nearly a century later, fiction appears to be surrendering to reality.
What was once written as folklore now mirrors a frightening national tragedy.
The Old Oyo National Park, originally envisioned as a sanctuary of tourism, ecology, culture, and economic prosperity, is gradually transforming into a modern Igbo Irunmole — not a forest of imaginary demons, but a dangerous territory increasingly occupied by criminal networks, kidnappers, violent elements, and the consequences of state neglect.
Nigeria happened to Oyo Park.
A national treasure has been abandoned long enough for evil to find accommodation within it.
The Yoruba warned us long ago: “Ọjọ́ tí a bá rí ibi tí a ò bá sọ̀rọ̀ rẹ̀, ibi náà á wọlé.” Evil does not merely arrive; it settles where vigilance dies. Nigeria has not only seen evil; we are gradually domesticating it. The demons are no longer at the gates. They now dwell in the forest.
The tragedy of Old Oyo National Park is not merely environmental. It is civilizational.
Spread across approximately 2,512 square kilometres, the park is larger than some sovereign nations and territories around the world. It is larger than countries like Luxembourg in usable ecological spread and rivals several internationally protected conservation zones that generate billions in tourism revenue annually. Nations blessed with similar ecological assets have transformed them into engines of national wealth, employment, international prestige, and scientific research.
Consider the Kruger National Park in South Africa, which contributes immensely to tourism and conservation economics. Consider the Serengeti National Park in Tanzania, now a global ecological brand attracting tourists from every continent. Consider the Yellowstone National Park in the United States, preserved not merely as land, but as heritage, memory, and economic capital.
Yet Nigeria sits upon one of the richest historical and ecological inheritances in Africa and watches it decay into insecurity.
Hidden within the forests of Old Oyo Park are the sacred relics of Ọ̀yọ́-Ilé, the ancient capital of the old Oyo Empire — one of the greatest political and military civilizations ever produced by Black Africa. Buried in that forest is not merely archaeology, but identity. Not merely ruins, but the memory of governance, diplomacy, commerce, military sophistication, and Yoruba greatness.
That forest should be a global heritage destination.
Instead, fear is replacing tourism.
Silence is replacing development.
Criminality is replacing conservation.
The implications are dangerous for the South-West and for Nigeria as a whole. A forest left ungoverned eventually becomes governed by forces hostile to civilization. Sambisa became a lesson the nation learnt too late in the North-East. Must the South-West wait for another monster to mature before action is taken?
Security experts have repeatedly warned that ungoverned forests eventually become operational headquarters for non-state actors. Vast territories with weak surveillance naturally attract kidnappers, arms traffickers, terrorists, and organized criminal syndicates. When government abandons territory, criminals do not.
This is why the future of Old Oyo Park must become an urgent national conversation.
The answer, however, is not panic but strategy.
First, the Federal Government must immediately declare Old Oyo National Park a national security and economic priority zone. Security architecture around the park must move beyond conventional policing into integrated forest surveillance involving technology, drones, forest guards, community intelligence, and coordinated military presence where necessary.
Second, tourism development must become deliberate policy, not ceremonial rhetoric. Roads leading to the park require urgent rehabilitation. Eco-tourism infrastructure, museums, research centres, resorts, and cultural preservation projects should be introduced through public-private partnerships.
Third, the historical relics of Ọ̀yọ́-Ilé must receive international heritage attention. Nigeria should aggressively pursue expanded global recognition for the site through institutions like UNESCO. A civilization that forgets how to preserve its history gradually loses the moral authority to shape its future.
Fourth, host communities must become stakeholders in the protection of the park. Poverty around strategic national assets often creates fertile recruitment grounds for criminal enterprises. Economic empowerment, local employment, and community policing structures are therefore essential.
Finally, leadership must confront this issue with courage rather than propaganda.
The question before President Bola Ahmed Tinubu is larger than politics. It is a test of statesmanship. Will he become the brave hunter willing to confront the demons gathering within the forest, or will the South-West enter the 2027 political season overshadowed by fear, insecurity, and the consequences of neglect?
History rarely remembers leaders for the speeches they made. It remembers them for the dangers they confronted and the civilizations they preserved.
Old Oyo Park stands today between memory and menace, between heritage and horror, between tourism and terror.
The forest is watching.
The nation must decide whether demons will continue to rule it, or whether the brave hunters still exist.
