The morning air was thick with the promise of memory. I stood at the Babatunde Raji Fashola Agege Train Station, my fingers tapping restlessly against the strap of my bag as the rhythmic chug of the approaching train grew louder. It was my first time boarding a train—Agege to Abeokuta, 8:00 AM sharp. The metallic beast groaned to a halt, its doors sliding open with a hiss. Inside, the seats were defining stained white, faded green covers, and the windows were expansive and inviting. I settled in on another seat number, pressing my forehead against the cool glass as the train gassed and Lagos blurred into a mosaic of rusted rooftops, specks of dirt, and sprawling markets.
An hour later, Abeokuta greeted me with its familiar distant embrace—ABEOKUTA—PROFESSOR WOLE SOYINKA STADIUM. The scent was different, but the same: of rock, steeped with an air of tranquility and chilly trees, the distant horns of okadas, unhurried footsteps, and the towering silhouette of Olumo Rock in the distance, unchanged yet softer with time.
The Ghosts of Childhood
Years ago, faint in details but vivid in pictures, I had stood under that same rock, a little girl swathed in adire oleku, my face dusted with white powder, with ori-like gloss on my lips for extra shine. There were five of us then—tiny dancers with coiled hair and feet who knew and rehearsed the language of the drums. The talking drummers, old men with teeth like aged ivory, had beaten their instruments into a frenzy, their voices rising in a call that our small bodies answered without thought.
“Mayo Mayo Mayo oooo… lori oluomo…
Mayo Mayo Mayo Mayo oooo..lori oluomo..”
Hips swaying, mouth singing from the top of our lungs, eyes happy, I remember the elevator ride up the rock, how we giggled as it shuddered mid-ascent, how I pressed my face against the glass to stare at the world shrinking below. The performance was a blur of twirling limbs and singing, the applause a roar that followed us home like a second skin.
Now, standing at the base of Olumo Rock again, I traced the ancient stone’s grooves, half-expecting to hear the echo of our childhood laughter trapped in its crevices. It stood as it always had—majestic, unyielding.
The Ascent
Alas, this time, I climbed. No elevators, no hurried steps—just the slow, deliberate press of my sneakers against weathered stone and rocks. The higher I went with fellow tourists from the Naija Xplorers, the more Abeokuta unfolded beneath me—a patchwork of rust-brown roofs, the winding Ogun River, and the distant hum of a city that had grown but not forgotten.
After climbing over 120 steps, the stories were told from the Lisabi Garden, named after the past warriors who fought for Egbaland and liberated the Oyo Empire to what it is now. Today, Egba people are called Egba Omo Lisabi. The three trees, the medicinal tree, Dongoyaro, cure typhoid, and malaria, and the stems, when chewed, cure bad breath and toothache. The Ipansheke, which has a Sheke sound, with the red flower, the pride of Barbados. Finally, the tree of Doggedness and Resilience made a natural canopy for moonlight stories, among others.
The ancient shrine included offering sacrifices to the deity of the rock every 5th of August, once a year. Only two titled heads were allowed to enter the cave where they prayed for
“Abelowo
Abelomo
Abeloro”
Money, children, and wealth, among others, and also pray for the safety of all tourists who climb the rocks.
The Cave: Egba War-Time Hideout, where the people of the town hid when there was a war, which formed the name, Abeokuta-Under the Rock. Also, The Peak – From here, the Ogun River snaked through the land like a silver thread. In the distance, the MKO Abiola House, born and bred—a relic of colonial architecture—stood as a quiet sentinel.
At the summit, a lone drummer sat, his hands moving over the gangan with the ease of a man who had spent a lifetime in conversation with rhythm. I watched, transfixed, as his fingers danced, the drum speaking in a language I still understood. For a moment, I was that little girl again.
The Olusegun Obasanjo Presidential Library: A Walk Through Legacy
That didn’t stop there. A short drive away, the Olusegun Obasanjo Presidential Library (OOPL) whispered a sprawling archive of history. Though pictures were restricted, the exhibit detailed the story of Obj and his legacy. Oh, my highlight, was the wardrobe archive of the First Lady, Stella Obasanjo, a slayer in my books, style and grace immortalized.
The Wildlife Park came next, where animals strutted restlessly with indifference. A mini zoo, yes, but added a curious wonder to the day.
The Return
The journey back was quieter, the weight of nostalgia settling over me like a well-worn wrapper. The train ride home was slower, the golden light of dusk painting the cabins in warm hues.
They say travel leaves something with you—a scent, a sound, a feeling that lingers long after the journey ends. It doesn’t take you to new places, it brings you back to old ones, allowing you to see them with new eyes. For me, it was the drums and the rocks. The ones from my childhood, the ones from today. The ones that will, no doubt, call me back again.
And when they do, I’ll answer.
Some journeys end where they began—only richer, fuller, and infinitely more alive.
And this one?
This one was just the beginning.
For the curious Nomad, if you’ve ever longed for a trip that feels like a homecoming and an adventure in Nigeria, let Abeokuta be that destination. Climb Olumo, trace history under the rock, walk through legacies and the paths of warriors. Let the drums remind you that Africa’s stories are still alive, and journey you through with open eyes and eager heart.
