Edu History TV

Was Reverend Samuel Johnson a hero who saved Yoruba history or a biased historian who shaped it in the wrong direction?
In this video, we go deep into the life, work, and legacy of Rev. Samuel Johnson, the man who wrote "The History of the Yorubas," a book that has defined Yoruba identity for over 100 years.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkWlPl2HUe8

The Man Who Wrote Yoruba History — Was He Right or Wrong? Was Reverend Samuel Johnson a hero who saved Yoruba history or a biased historian who shaped it in the wrong direction? In this video, we go deep into the li...

I want to ask you something honestly.
When you were growing up, what did they tell you about Yoruba power? About Yoruba greatness?
Most of us were taught a version of history that felt good. And I understand why. After everything Africa has been through; the wars, colonization, the erasure; we NEEDED to feel proud of something. We needed to point to something and say "we had empires too.
But here's what nobody told us.
Ile-Ife never commanded an army beyond its borders. It was sacred. It was ancient. It was the mother of Yoruba civilization. But it was never an empire.
Ibadan rose from a war camp, defeated the Fulani at Osogbo, and dominated the whole region for decades. But it never crowned a king. Never built a formal imperial structure. It was power without a throne.
Only ONE Yoruba state ever truly became an empire with cavalry, with tribute, with governors, with subjects from different peoples answering to one center.
That was Oyo.
And when Oyo fell, it didn't just lose territory. It lost the only real chance the Yoruba ever had at unified power. What followed was 16 years of Yoruba people fighting Yoruba people; the Kiriji War until the British walked in and made the decision for everyone.
We made a video about all of this. 31 minutes. No fluff. Just the real history, explained the way it deserves to be told.
Not to make you feel small. But to make you understand exactly how great and how complicated your history really is.

Some of you will agree. Some of you will be angry. Either way, watch it first. 👇
🎥 https://youtu.be/1qkAb4cPYsY?si=xF4I7vqYBFTveVNu
Share this if you think more people need to know the real history.

There Was No Yoruba Empire — Only Oyo Everyone keeps saying "the Yoruba Empire" but which one? Because Ife, Oyo, and Ibadan are NOT the same thing. And only ONE of them actually ruled an empire. ...

What if the Yoruba had united?
Imagine this alternate history:
1877: Instead of marching to war after the Oke-Imesi incident, Latoosa recognizes the looming British threat. He calls for a grand council of all Yoruba Obas—Ibadan, Ekiti, Ijebu, Egba, Oyo, Ife.

He proposes a federation. Each kingdom keeps its Oba and internal autonomy, but they form a defensive alliance. Latoosa, as the strongest military leader, commands a unified Yoruba army—but doesn't interfere in local governance.
It requires compromise. Ibadan withdraws its oppressive district officers. Tribute demands are dropped. Old grievances are set aside.
The Kiriji War never happens.

By the 1880s, a united Yorubaland presents a common front to the British. Instead of scattered kingdoms fighting each other, the British face:
A unified army of 100,000+ seasoned warriors
Fortified cities with walls stretching for kilometers
Control of Lagos port and trade routes
A single, coordinated leadership

When the British try to impose "protection," they're met with organized resistance—not chaos.
Two possible outcomes:
Option 1: Stalemate and negotiated independence
Early British military expeditions face fierce, coordinated resistance. The cost of conquest becomes too high. Britain settles for a protectorate arrangement where Yorubaland keeps internal self-government but Britain handles external affairs. Like Ethiopia after Adwa. Like Siam in Asia.
Option 2: A Yoruba nation is born
The British, realizing they can't easily conquer a united Yorubaland, recognize it as an independent state. By the 1900s, a sovereign Yoruba nation emerges—with Lagos as its capital, Yoruba as the official language, and traditional institutions blended with modern governance.

Nigeria as we know it never forms. Or if it does, it's a loose federation where Yorubaland enters as a powerful, autonomous unit—not a conquered territory.
This isn't fantasy. Ethiopia did it. Siam did it. The Yoruba had the strength.
We just didn't have the unity.
Watch the full "what if" analysis here: https://youtu.be/Y1_i5bw6bHE?si=mbiTXKnqNn0d42B3

In 1892, the British proved what superior firepower could do.
A British force of approximately 500 men—equipped with modern rifles and Maxim machine guns—faced off against around 15,000 Ijebu warriors armed with muskets, spears, and traditional weapons.
The battle lasted one day.
The Ijebu were slaughtered.

British machine guns mowed down wave after wave of Ijebu fighters. Traditional courage, numerical superiority, and knowledge of the terrain meant nothing against industrial-age weaponry.
The Ijebu War of 1892 was a turning point. It wasn't just a military defeat—it was a psychological one.

Every Yoruba kingdom watched. They saw what the British could do. They saw that traditional armies, no matter how brave or large, couldn't stand against Maxim guns and breech-loading rifles.
The message was clear: armed resistance was futile.
This is why so many Yoruba leaders, exhausted by the Kiriji War and now terrified of British military power, began to accept British "protection" rather than fight.

But here's the tragedy: if the Yoruba had united before the British arrived, the calculation would have been different.
A unified Yoruba force of 100,000+ warriors, fighting defensively in fortified cities with knowledge of the terrain, could have made British conquest extraordinarily costly—perhaps costly enough to force negotiation instead of subjugation.
Ethiopia proved it was possible. In 1896, Ethiopian forces defeated Italy at the Battle of Adwa, preserving their independence.

The Yoruba had the numbers. They had the cities. They had the resources.
They just didn't have unity.
See the full analysis here: https://youtu.be/MLWI_v4LnAk?si=Y4p3hjqfcXn-wHif

1878. The Battle of Ikirun. A moment that turned a local conflict into total war.

It's remembered by one word: Jalumi—"the rush into the river."
Here's what happened.

In the early stages of the Kiriji War, the Ekiti-Parapo coalition and Ilorin forces launched a massive attack on Ibadan's armies at Ikirun. For a brief moment, it looked like Ibadan's power would be shattered.

They were caught in a brutal trap—attacked from multiple sides by the coalition, the Ilorin Fulani from the north, and local rebels in between. Confusion reigned.
But Ibadan rallied. They counterattacked with devastating force and turned the tide.

The coalition forces, now in full retreat, fled northward toward Ilorin, hoping to regroup and escape.
But at Inisa, they met betrayal.
The Offa people—long resentful of Ilorin's dominance—destroyed the bridge, cutting off the escape route.
The fleeing soldiers were trapped. Behind them, Ibadan's army was closing in. Ahead of them, the river.
In panic and desperation, thousands rushed into the water, hoping to swim across or find another way to safety.
Many drowned.

That's how the battle earned its haunting name: Jalumi—the rush into the river.
From that moment on, there was no turning back. The war was no longer about a local dispute or Ibadan's authority. It became an all-out, no-return civil war—Yoruba against Yoruba, with no end in sight.

Jalumi marked the point of no return. And the Yoruba would bleed for sixteen more years before finding peace.
Watch the full video here
https://youtu.be/MLWI_v4LnAk?si=j8V4ecOuOmiSNcmg

Adapted from The History of the Yorubas from the Earliest time to the Begining of British Protectorate by Samuel Johnson

Latoosa held the title of Aare Ona Kakanfo, the highest military rank in Yorubaland. The title translates to Field Marshal or Generalissimo, the supreme commander of Yoruba forces. It dated back to the days of the mighty Oyo Empire, when the Aare Ona Kakanfo led armies that could crush rival kingdoms and expand Oyo's territory across the region.

By the late 19th century, the Oyo Empire had collapsed. But the title survived.
In 1871, Obadoke Latoosa became the 12th Aare Ona Kakanfo of Yorubaland. He ruled Ibadan, the largest and most powerful Yoruba city-state, and commanded the biggest army in the region.

Latoosa was a brilliant tactician, a charismatic leader, and a fearsome warrior. He had risen from humble beginnings—a farmer and hunter from a small village—to become the most powerful military figure in Yorubaland.
Under his command, Ibadan's forces had defeated the kingdom of Ijaiye, checked the Fulani of Ilorin, and extended Ibadan's influence over vast territories including Ijesa, Ekiti, Ife, and Igbomina.

But Latoosa's strength was also his weakness.
His military dominance made other Yoruba kingdoms fear and resent him. Instead of seeing him as a potential unifier, they saw him as a threat. His harsh treatment of conquered towns—stationing district officers to collect tribute and enforce Ibadan's authority—sparked rebellion.

When the Kiriji War erupted in 1877, it wasn't Yoruba against outsiders. It was Yoruba against Yoruba—with Latoosa's Ibadan on one side and nearly everyone else on the other.

Latoosa never lost a major battle. But he never united the Yoruba either.
And that failure cost Yorubaland its independence.
Watch the full analysis here: https://youtu.be/MLWI_v4LnAk?si=uzRfmLSnOjq_H23_

The Kiriji War didn't just last a few months. It didn't last a few years.
It lasted sixteen years. From 1877 to 1893, Yoruba fought Yoruba in one of the longest and most destructive civil wars in West African history.

The war began when an Ibadan district officer abused a woman in the Ekiti town of Oke-Imesi. Her husband, Prince Fabunmi, killed the officer in revenge. Latoosa, the ruler of Ibadan, declared war to punish what he saw as an insult to Ibadan's authority.

But he gravely underestimated the fury he had unleashed.
The Ekiti, Ijesha, Ijebu, Egba, Ife, and even the Ilorin Emirate formed a grand coalition—the Ekiti-Parapo—united by one goal: stop Ibadan's domination.
What began as a local dispute exploded into total war.

For sixteen years, the fighting raged. Battles were fought in the forests of Ekiti, on the plains near Ilorin, and along the supply routes to the coast. Cannons boomed. Villages burned. Farmlands turned to wasteland.
Neither side could achieve decisive victory.

Ibadan's armies were never defeated on the battlefield, but they couldn't crush the coalition. The Ekiti-Parapo couldn't break Ibadan's defenses, but they refused to surrender.

It was a brutal, exhausting stalemate.
By the early 1890s, both sides were desperate for peace. The economy was in ruins. People were starving. Leaders were dying.
And that's when the British stepped in.
They brokered a treaty in 1886 and formalized the end of hostilities in 1893. But the "peace" came with strings attached: British oversight, British mediation, British control.

Within a decade, all of Yorubaland was a British protectorate.
The Kiriji War ended not with victory, but with colonial subjugation.
See the full story here: https://youtu.be/MLWI_v4LnAk?si=uzRfmLSnOjq_H23_

Sixteen years of war. Brother against brother. Town against town.
And while Yoruba fought Yoruba, the British waited on the coast.
The Kiriji War, which raged from 1877 to 1893, was one of the most devastating conflicts in Yoruba history. It pitted the military powerhouse of Ibadan against a grand coalition called the Ekiti-Parapo, an alliance of Ekiti, Ijesha, Ijebu, Egba, Ife, and even Ilorin forces.

For sixteen brutal years, Yoruba warriors clashed in the forests and hills of what is now southwestern Nigeria. Towns were burned. Farmlands were destroyed. Thousands died. Entire communities were displaced.
And neither side could win. It was a stalemate. Ibadan was never defeated on the battlefield, but it couldn't crush the coalition either. The Ekiti-Parapo couldn't break Ibadan's defenses, but they refused to surrender.

Meanwhile, the British watched from Lagos.
They didn't need to invade. They just needed to wait.
By 1893, both sides were exhausted. The people were starving. The economy was shattered. Leaders on both sides were desperate for peace.
And that's when the British stepped in—not as conquerors, but as "mediators."
They brokered a peace treaty that ended the war. But it came with a price: British oversight. British influence. British control.

By 1900, all of Yorubaland was under British colonial rule.
Not because the British were stronger. But because the Yoruba were divided.
That's the real tragedy. The Yoruba had the numbers, the warriors, the fortified cities, and the resources to resist colonization. They just couldn't unite.
Divided, we fell.
See the full story here: https://youtu.be/MLWI_v4LnAk?si=7rJaC2a-OMZ6BIo_

These two swords changed everything for Yasuke.
In feudal Japan, carrying two swords; a katana (long sword) and a wakizashi (short sword) wasn't just about self-defense. It was the law. It was status. It was identity.
Only samurai were allowed to carry two swords. It was called daisho, and it marked you as part of the warrior elite.

When Oda Nobunaga gave Yasuke a katana and wakizashi, he wasn't just arming him. He was making him samurai. This was extraordinary.
Yasuke had arrived in Japan as an attendant to Jesuit missionaries—a servant, an outsider, a foreigner from a land most Japanese had never even heard of.
But Nobunaga saw something in him. Strength. Discipline. Presence.

And so he gave Yasuke the swords, a residence, a stipend, and a place at his side. In doing so, Nobunaga elevated an African man into one of the most exclusive and respected classes in Japanese society.
For Yasuke, those swords weren't just weapons. They were proof.
Proof that he belonged. Proof that he had earned his place. Proof that even in a land thousands of miles from home, courage and loyalty could transcend borders, language, and skin color.

Today, those swords are lost to history. But their meaning remains.
Yasuke wasn't just a curiosity. He wasn't just a servant. He was a samurai—and the swords he carried proved it.
Watch his full journey here: https://youtu.be/oz8HYWhWwXk?si=kWUBXXnH_5jZDuFl

Yasuke's final battle was at Honnō-ji Temple and he fought to the very end.
June 21, 1582. Oda Nobunaga, one of Japan's most powerful warlords, was resting at Honnō-ji Temple in Kyoto when betrayal struck.

Akechi Mitsuhide, one of Nobunaga's own generals, surrounded the temple with his army in the dead of night. It was a coup. A calculated assassination.
Yasuke, Nobunaga's African samurai and bodyguard, woke to the sound of shouting and the clash of swords. The temple was under attack.

He fought fiercely, defending his lord with unwavering loyalty. But they were vastly outnumbered. The temple was engulfed in smoke and flames.
Nobunaga, seeing the situation was hopeless, retreated to an inner chamber and committed seppuku—ritual suicide—rather than be captured. He died with honor, as a samurai should.

But Yasuke didn't stop fighting.
He rushed to Nijō Castle to defend Nobunaga's heir, Nobutada. There, another desperate battle erupted. Yasuke fought alongside the remaining loyalists until Nobutada, too, took his own life.

Finally, bloodied and exhausted, Yasuke was forced to surrender.
He was brought before Akechi Mitsuhide, the traitor who had orchestrated the attack. Mitsuhide looked at Yasuke with contempt and called him an "animal"—refusing to grant him the honor of ex*****on as he would a true samurai.
Instead, Mitsuhide ordered Yasuke returned to the Jesuits.
It was both an insult and a mercy. Yasuke's life was spared, but his status as a samurai was denied in that final moment.

What happened to Yasuke afterward remains a mystery. Some say he returned to the Jesuits and eventually left Japan. Others believe he stayed and lived quietly.
But one thing is certain: Yasuke fought with honor, courage, and loyalty until the very end.
See the full documentary here: https://youtu.be/oz8HYWhWwXk?si=8vosSsY_I1vTjqWu

When Oda Nobunaga first saw Yasuke, he thought someone had painted him.
It was 1581 in Kyoto, Japan. Word had spread through the city that a giant black man had arrived with the Jesuit missionaries. Crowds gathered, pushing and shoving to catch a glimpse—so many people that the gate of the Jesuit residence collapsed under the pressure.

Nobunaga, one of Japan's most powerful warlords, heard the commotion and summoned Yasuke immediately.
When Yasuke was brought before him, Nobunaga was stunned. He had met Portuguese traders before, but never anyone from Africa. Yasuke stood over 6 feet tall—towering over most Japanese—with skin described as "black as ink."
Nobunaga was convinced it had to be paint or dye.

He ordered servants to scrub Yasuke's skin with water and cloth, watching closely to see if the color would wash off.
It didn't.
When Nobunaga realized this was Yasuke's natural complexion, he broke into a broad grin. He was delighted. Fascinated. Impressed.
And then something extraordinary happened.
Nobunaga didn't send Yasuke away. He didn't treat him as a curiosity or a servant. Instead, he took Yasuke into his service, gave him the two swords of a samurai—a katana and wakizashi—and made him part of the elite warrior class.

An African man, who had arrived in Japan as an attendant to missionaries, became a samurai in the court of one of Japan's greatest warlords.
That's not legend. That's documented history.
Watch Yasuke's full story here: https://youtu.be/oz8HYWhWwXk?si=OzFYaSEYZ2ryMaWQ