African traditional religions are among the most misunderstood belief systems in the world, and within the Yoruba pantheon, no figure has suffered more distortion than Esu.
At Ojuelegba, one of Lagos’ busiest transit points linking the Mainland to the Island, a small white shrine bears the inscription “Ojubo Esu.” It stands quietly amid traffic, churches, billboards, and commerce. In one of the most evangelical Christian societies on earth, its presence is a reminder that indigenous African spirituality is neither extinct nor hidden. It is still lived, still practiced, and still contested.
Yet for many Nigerians, especially those shaped by missionary Christianity, Esu has become shorthand for evil itself. To say “Na devil do am” is to excuse wrongdoing by blaming an external, malevolent force—often unconsciously equated with Esu. This association, however, is not native to Yoruba cosmology. It is the result of history, translation, and power.
A Faith System Misread
The Aborisa religious system that emerged among the Yoruba people is structured around a supreme creative force, Olodumare, and a constellation of primordial beings known as *orisa*. These orisa embody elements of nature, moral forces, and human experience. Guidance flows through divination, ritual, and ancestral communion. Far from chaos, the system is ordered, ethical, and philosophical.
Across the Atlantic, through enslavement and diaspora, Aborisa beliefs took root in Cuba, Brazil, Haiti, and the United States, influencing religions such as Santería, Candomblé, and Vodou. Globally, Yoruba deities have entered popular culture—Osun invoked in Beyoncé’s “Hold Up,” Oya inspiring characters like Storm in X-Men, and Sango becoming the subject of Nigerian animated projects.
Esu, however, remains conspicuously absent from this celebration, despite his central role in Yoruba thought.
Who Esu Really Is
In Yoruba cosmology, Esu is not a force of evil. He is the divine messenger and enforcer of balance—the intermediary between humans, the orisa, and Olodumare. No ritual proceeds without acknowledging him. He governs crossroads, choice, consequence, and moral accountability. Esu does not compel wrongdoing; he reveals intention and ensures that actions meet their outcomes.
This complexity does not fit neatly into a Christian moral binary of good versus evil. And that mismatch is where the trouble began.
The Translation That Changed Everything
In 1821, a young Yoruba boy named Ajayi was kidnapped with his family and placed on a slave ship bound for the Americas. British forces intercepted the vessel, and Ajayi was freed. He later became Samuel Ajayi Crowther—bishop, linguist, and one of the most influential African Christian missionaries of the 19th century.
Crowther played a key role in translating the Bible into Yoruba. When faced with rendering the concept of Satan, the translators chose an existing Yoruba deity: Esu. Jesus became *Jesu Kristi*. Satan became Esu.
That single decision reshaped religious understanding for generations.
Suddenly, a complex cosmological figure was recast as the embodiment of Christian evil. Over time, this translation collapsed two distinct theological systems into one, positioning Yoruba spirituality as something sinister rather than separate. Aborisa practitioners were no longer followers of an ancestral faith; they were framed as devil worshippers.
The debate over Crowther’s intentions continues. Some, like journalist Remi Oyeyemi, argue that the choice was deliberate, a conscious act of misrepresentation rooted in historical resentment. Others insist it was a theological convenience, an attempt to bridge conceptual gaps for new converts. What is clear is that Yoruba cosmology paid the price.
A Conflict of Belief
The consequences have been profound. For many Nigerians, Christianity and ancestral religion are no longer seen as parallel traditions but as enemies. Indigenous belief systems are often dismissed as backward, dangerous, or demonic. This has fueled cultural shame and religious intolerance, cutting many off from their own intellectual and spiritual heritage.
Yet the original Yoruba worldview never described Esu as a fallen angel or rebel cast out of heaven. That narrative belongs to Christian theology, not Aborisa cosmology.
As Bishop Crowther himself once wrote, Esu is an executor of divine will, not its opponent.
Reclaiming Esu
In recent years, a quiet reawakening has begun. Cultural scholars, artists, and Aborisa practitioners are pushing back against centuries of distortion. Online campaigns such as EsuIsNotSatan have gained traction, encouraging Nigerians, especially younger generations, to revisit Yoruba spirituality on its own terms.
Digital platforms have allowed practitioners to speak openly, explain rituals, and challenge caricatures that once went unopposed. Rather than asking for validation from Christianity, they are asserting intellectual and spiritual sovereignty.
Whether this shift will lead to widespread re-education remains uncertain. What is certain is that Esu’s story exposes a larger truth: how colonialism, translation, and religion can reshape identities, turning guardians into villains and philosophy into heresy.
At the crossroads, Esu’s domain, the question now facing Nigeria is one of choice. Continue inheriting a misunderstanding, or return to the nuance of a belief system that long predates the labels imposed upon it.
