Historians, such as the prominent Yoruba history connoisseur Samuel Johnson, have attempted to document the rise and fall of the Oyo Empire, including the lives of noblemen like Baṣorun Gaa (also “Gaha”) and Aare Afonja whose tyrannical reigns in different eras had significant impacts on the military, economic and political development of the nation and its provinces. One of these influential figures, Gaa, is the subject of Adebayo Faleti’s Baṣorun Gaa (2004) and Bolanle Austen-Peters’ House of Ga’a (2024), both Nollywood films capturing the legendary and fearsome Oyo warlord and Prime Minister who reigned between 1750 and 1774. Cut from the same fabric of history, Baṣorun Gaa and House of Ga’a spotlight Gaa’s military influences, his misappropriation of powers, the significance of his questionable actions to the monarchical upheaval of those times and his eventual capitulation following a carefully orchestrated intestine war against his household.
Towards the end of the 16th century, Old Oyo began experiencing military and economic successes, which lasted until the 18th century. The Empire operated a political system in which the Alaafin, the nation’s supreme authority, was a constitutional monarch whose excesses could be checked by the Baṣorun-led Oyo Mesi and the generalissimo Aare Ona Kakanfo. But this period of prosperity was characterized by political unrest when Gaa, son of erstwhile Oyo Prime Minister Yau Yamba, rose to prominence. Abusing power, he motivated the dispatching of four Alaafin for different reasons, one of which was the rulers’ preferences for commercial and economic ventures over expansionist wars. It is also recorded that apart from his altercations with the Alaafin, Gaa and his offspring showcased their ruthlessness to enemies of Oyo and the provinces under their authority.
The productions of Adebayo Faleti and Bolanle Austen-Peters project key aspects of Gaa’s political influences and constitutional subversions. Still, they do not fully explore the diabolical and military strengths of Gaa with as much cinematic guts as required. For instance, there is only one scene in each play where Gaa transforms into an elephant. This happens in brief ritualistic moments. We do not see any further depictions of transmorphism in both works. Also, while Faleti’s film, adapted from his literary work of the same title, focuses solely on Gaa’s aggression and over-ambitiousness within the empire, failing to spotlight any of his influences outside the region, Austen-Peters’ work considers, even if cursorily examined, his far-reaching military influences, particularly extending to conquered territories vassal states such as Nupe and Dahomey. It is fair to say that the more recent version of Gaa’s story, whose screenplay is credited to Tunde Babalola, has the advantage of a luxurious opportunity to sell out whatever Faleti’s work missed, to rectify any form of historical blindness.
Yet House of Ga’a, for all its glory in modern cinematography and special effects, turns a blind eye to such simple things as the distinction between the ilari and ajele. In Old Oyo, the ajele, resident officials appointed by Alaafin, presided over provincial towns, exhibiting some autonomy and conducting the affairs of their jurisdictions while paying due homage and tributes to the central authority of the Alaafin in Oyo Ile. The ilari, on the other hand, were royal messengers who served as a point of contact between the Alaafin and the different parts of the empire, often bearing messages from the palace to the people. Gaa, during his reign, usurped certain powers of the Alaafin, installing his offspring and kinsmen as provincial chiefs and ascribing large percentages of the tributes to his household. In House of Ga’a, while the fictional Gaa appoints his sons and brother into these positions of provincial authority, he pronounces them ilari instead of ajele. The real-life Gaa was believed to have led the Oyo military against border skirmishes. One documented episode and successful outing, in 1764, was the annihilation of some thousands of Asante warriors who had strayed into an Oyo territory in want of slaves. This interesting piece of history, if represented by Austen-Peters in her work, would have added to the believability of her lead character and hero.
Quite noticeably, Faleti and Austen-Peters embrace different narrative voices and strategies. In the 2004 production, there is no visible narrator, as the perspective is rather covert. Austen-Peters’ film has a recognizable and subjective narrator, Oyemekun (Mike Afolarin), the only surviving son of Gaa at the end of the story. Research, however, indicates that this survivor is Ojo Agunbambaru, and that there were possibly other children of Gaa that survived the massacre. In Baṣorun Gaa, the eye-of-God narrative style is specific in its way, perusing over the final days of Alafin Majeogbe (Fatal Muraina), and only recalling, through casual oral reference, the other three rulers Gaa dispatched before him. More screen time is then devoted to the installation and reign of Alafin Abiodun Adegoolu (Tubosun Odunsi), as well as the development of the character himself. True to history, Faleti’s film presents Abiodun as humble, tactical, and also diplomatic in his dealings with Gaa. Not much about these character traits, including the utmost subservience to Gaa, is pictured in Austen-Peters’ depiction of this particular Alafin in her story. One could, however, argue that Austen-Peters compensates for this with the additional experiences of Labisi (Kunle Coker), Awonbioju (Muyiwa Ademola) and Agboluaje (Gbenga Titiloye), as the vivid characterization of these earlier monarchs helps to better contextualize the villainy of Gaa.
Generally, in epic films, language is a powerful tool through which cultural norms and subtleties are conveyed. As we see in films based on Yoruba culture (for example, Ageshinkole, Orisa, Jagun Jagun, Beasts of Two Worlds) it enables the expressions of incantations, proverbs and wisecracks. Faleti’s Baṣorun Gaa pays keen attention here to the casting of actors who predominantly use the Oyo dialect or a heavily accented version of the Yoruba language to express the strong traditional sentiments of the 18th-century era in the society. Through interactions between characters, the filmmaker easily grants us access to the nucleus of Oyo royalty. We recall the scene of Akinkunmi’s (Larinde Akinleye) visit to Princess Agbonyin (Adewumi Faleti) in her home, during which Agbonyin educates him on the expectations of royal life. We learn that royal princes and princesses are not raised in the Alaafin’s palace and that certain items and actions attract unique acrolectal Yoruba descriptions—for instance, saying owo instead of igbale (broom) and owe instead of okele (stodge). On the contrary, in Austen-Peters’ work, there are obvious linguistic compromises, with the filmmaker choosing to cast in prominent roles actors, such as Mike Afolarin, who speak a rather watered-down version of the age-old Yoruba dialects. This detracts from the plausibility of the period film. But then, it is interesting to have the likes of Femi Branch and Ibrahim Chatta, among others, infuse their longstanding professionalism and understanding of core Yoruba values in the interpretation of their roles as Gaa and Sasa Leniyan respectively.
A case can also be made for the knowledge and perceptions of traditional warfare in these films. In Faleti’s production, when Aare Oyabi, based in Ajase, a character played by Faleti himself, leads the civil war against Gaa’s household, the warriors are heavily adorned in charms as they clash. The film, however, fails to capture the Oyo Calvary, which would have been instrumental in the journey from Ajase to Gaa’s home in Oyo Ile. Austen-Peters’ film pays its due in this regard, showing the might of the Oyo Calvary in the opening scene and during the unsuspecting attack on Gaa towards the end. The efficiency of Old Oyo military drives, which was based on her calvary and a massive arsenal of iron weapons, is simulated in Austen-Peters’ production.
Oftentimes, in narrations, the line between fiction and fact is blurred. Much of the early documentation on Yoruba history is derived from oral sources. While researchers and historians like the Johnson brothers (Samuel and Obadiah) deserve credits for their painstaking efforts, their accounts cannot be entirely trusted as those accounts are likely to be a blend of truths and exaggerated or misconstrued testimonies of incidents of historical significance. Knowing this, filmmakers, poised as custodians of culture, may be justified and, possibly, exonerated when they exhibit creative latitude by deciding to overlook or remodel aspects of history that are not particularly incontestable while making period films.
