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21 OI
If you ever forget, these words will bring you back home
Cast 21 cowries, prepare sacrifice & sing in harmonious melodious voice
Oríkì Ọmọ Ìrántí
Ọmọ Abẹ́òkúta,
A bọ̀ òrìṣà, a dákẹ́ gbọ́ Ifá.
Ọmọ ará Olúmọ,
Tí ò rìn l'ọ̀nà àìmọ̀.
Afẹ́fẹ́ ò gbà ọgbọn rẹ̀,
Orin rẹ̀ a pé látì tú ọ̀nà.
Ifá le dá gbogbo nǹkan sílẹ̀.
Ifá ò gbagbé.
Project Video - AI Video
The loss of Ìjìnlẹ̀
For centuries, the Yorùbá custodians of ọgbọn (wisdom) and ìmọ̀lè (divine knowledge) encoded their teachings through orin (song), àlàyé (storytelling), and complex systems of ìrántí (ancestral memory). A prophecy warned that their sacred tools—Ifá divination, encrypted àrọ̀ (coded speech), and vibrational technologies beyond modern comprehension—would one day be fractured, misused, and erased. The result would be ìparun: a global collapse, a world buzzing with noise but empty of meaning.
To guard against this fate, a secret order of Babaláwo (diviners) and Ọ̀ṣunlẹ̀rẹ̀ (custodians of poetic speech) sealed their knowledge into ìtàn (ancestral narratives), oríkì (praise poetry), and asán rhythms—encoded patterns of body, voice, and silence. These transmissions lived in the flesh, the breath, the ẹ̀mí (life-force)—not in circuits.
But as the world raced toward speed and convenience, the teachings were abandoned like forgotten shrines. Àsà (culture) dimmed. Èdè (language) was silenced.
Then came 2040.
A neural implant—promising infinite knowledge and perfect recall—spreads like wildfire. Within months, human thought becomes unmoored.
Ìjìnlẹ̀ (depth) is replaced with shallow knowing.
Ìtọ́ni (guidance) gives way to chaos.
Ọlọ́gbọn (the wise) are mocked.
People drift through ayé (the world) untethered, unable to distinguish òtítọ́ (truth) from illusion. Time warps. Lineage dissolves.
The sacred orin no longer resonate.
The mind, no longer a vessel, becomes an echo chamber.
The weave unravels.
Introduction Video
Society asks and Ifá responds
The protagonist, born of a lineage rooted in Abeokuta—land of stone and resistance—feels the storm in their spirit. Raised with fragmented oríkì and àdúrà (prayers) whispered at night, they straddle two worlds: too modern to fully inherit the old ways, too ancient to forget them.
As visions fracture and language stutters, they remember a line passed down in secret:
“Ifá le dá gbogbo nǹkan sílẹ̀.”
(Ifá can restore all things.)
Not just fate. Not just healing. But structure, pattern, and ìtókun (balance).
The divine algorithm beneath ayé and ọ̀run (the seen and unseen worlds).
Though memory is dusty, though the stanzas slip like water through fingers, they begin again.
They sàpọ̀ (gather).
They sàgbéyẹ̀wò (examine).
They gbìyànjú (try). Not with perfection, but with presence.
They return to Abeokuta, drawn by a thread of ancestral sound—an elder’s voice captured before passing, the rhythm of a loom echoing in stone, a name once sung into àdìrẹ cloth.
And now, the àyẹ̀wò ikẹyìn (final test): a ritual performance so potent it could restore the pulse of ìrántí—or confirm that the sacred code has been silenced forever.
The world teeters at the edge of ìbànújẹ (grief), but they remember:
“Ifá ò gbagbé.”
(Ifá does not forget.)
And neither will they.
Speculative Past
To make this possible I started to think about what such a time would be and how the 14th century Portuguese sailors aboard a Caravel boat using a cross staff and Yorùbá settlers in Èkó might have appeared to each other wearing aso oke fabric I then go further to explore particular scenes that could have been possible as the Balalawos of the time used their Ọpọn Ifá on a daily basis for various tasks.
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