When Leaders Invoke Fire, Nations Remember the Ashes

By Olumide Bajulaiye

There are moments in public discourse that should make us pause—not because they are loud, but because they echo something dark, something dangerous, something we had hoped was buried in the past. The recent reference to “Operation Wetie” by Seyi Makinde is one of those moments.

This is not just about a phrase. It is about memory. It is about pain. It is about a chapter in our history that should never be reopened carelessly.

“Operation Wetie” is not folklore. It is not political slang. It is a symbol of a time when humanity gave way to rage—when neighbors turned against neighbors, when anger was expressed in flames, and when violence became a language of its own. The phrase, rooted in Yoruba, evokes the act of dousing and burning. But what it truly represents is far more horrifying: homes reduced to ashes, livelihoods destroyed overnight, and lives—innocent lives—cut short in the most brutal ways.

Those who lived through that era do not need reminders. They carry the scars in silence. They remember the fear that crept in with the night, the uncertainty of survival, the helplessness of watching everything they knew crumble. It was a time when the value of human life was diminished, when chaos replaced order, and when loss became too vast to measure.

Such a period is better imagined than experienced. And even imagination struggles to capture its full horror.

Yet today, many young people know little or nothing about this history. Not because it is unimportant, but because it has faded from everyday conversation. That ignorance makes references like this even more dangerous. When history is not understood, it can be misused. When pain is not remembered, it can be repeated.

It is worth reflecting that Seyi Makinde himself did not witness that dark chapter firsthand. He was born after the flames had died down. Others, like Ayodele Fayose, who were alive during that time, may at least recall fragments of the fear and unrest. But whether one experienced it or not, the responsibility remains the same: to treat such history with the caution and reverence it deserves.

Because words are not harmless.

Words can heal, but they can also wound. Words can unite, but they can also divide. And in a fragile society, words can ignite emotions that spiral beyond control. History has shown us that violence rarely begins with action—it begins with language. It begins with ideas planted, repeated, and normalized.

That is why this moment matters.

Nigeria stands at a point where unity is not optional—it is essential. Development is not possible without peace. Progress cannot grow where fear exists. We cannot afford to flirt with the ghosts of our past, not even in anger, not even in passing.

The Yoruba people, like all Nigerians, have endured enough. We have seen what division can do. We have learned—at great cost—that violence leaves nothing behind but regret. We should not, and must not, allow ourselves to be drawn back into that darkness.

This is not about silencing political expression. It is about elevating it. Leadership demands restraint, wisdom, and an awareness that every word spoken in public carries consequences far beyond the moment.

We must choose our words as carefully as we choose our actions.

Let the memory of Operation Wetie remain what it should be: a warning, not a weapon. A lesson, not a slogan. A reminder of how far we have come—and how much we stand to lose if we forget.

Because once fire is invoked, it does not always stay in words.