The news out of Osun was bizarre even by Nigerian standards.
A man was reportedly dying on the street. Those around him apparently believed he had encountered magun, that ancient Yoruba nightmare whose name itself roughly translates as “do not climb.” Magun is believe to be an instant killer but this particular Osun instance had a solution.
The woman suspected to be the magun victim’s partner-in-sin should urinate in his mouth.
Ah.
There are deaths.
There are embarrassing deaths.
And then there are deaths where your alleged last hope is standing over you saying, tragically
“I don’t know this man.”
According to eyewitness accounts (in Yoruba) on social media, the woman refused. She reportedly denied being his lover. The desperate man begged. People around cursed and shouted.
The woman stood her ground.
“I don’t know him.”
My people, imagine allegedly climbing a fence with somebody and, when NEPA takes light while you were still on top of the fence, your fellow climber suddenly says she has never seen you before.
This is why every business needs an exit strategy, especially illegal businesses.
Now, before somebody sends for the village herbalist to start a lecture on the origins of Magun, let us establish something important. Magun belongs to Yoruba traditional belief and folklore. Researchers have documented belief in different varieties and supposed consequences, but that is not scientific proof that a charm caused any particular death. Sudden collapse during or after sex can have medical explanations, including cardiac arrest. That is why a woman cannot be accused of murder just because a man somersaults in her bed. Magun is not captured in our law books. Viewed from another angle, if your neighbour collapses, please call for medical help. Don’t form emergency committee and start looking for urine.
That said, Yoruba folklore surrounding magun is enough to make a wandering husband reconsider his extracurricular timetable.
Because, according to tradition, magun does not come in one flavour.
There is reportedly Má jẹ̀ ìlà — don’t eat okro. Accounts of Yoruba traditional belief indeed identify an okro-associated form among the varieties.
Which means from today, ladies, when a perfectly healthy Yoruba man announces:
“I don’t eat okro.”
Don’t accuse him of anything.
Just look at him with side eyes, from head to toe. Then ask: “since when?”
If he starts sweating before the soup arrives, I have said nothing.
Maybe he simply dislikes okro. Maybe.
There are also traditional accounts of varieties associated with water or particular prohibitions. The wider literature on magun stresses that its alleged forms, effects and antidotes vary considerably from practitioner to practitioner and community to community.
Our elders clearly believed that if a man insisted on inspecting another man’s compound, ordinary “NO TRESPASSING” signs were insufficient.
They allegedly installed spiritual CCTV.
Imagine living under a taboo that says don’t cross a river.
In Yorubaland?
Where will you go?
Your girlfriend says, “Darling, come to my village.”
You ask, “Any river?”
She says, “Just one small bridge.”
Relationship ends immediately.
“It’s not you, Bose. I need to work on myself.”
Work on yourself, really?
You are avoiding Osun River.
Then there is the one popularly described as the somersaulting magun.
This is the heavyweight champion of the belief.
Traditional accounts say the offending lover may somersault repeatedly—often described as three times—before dying.
Three!
Not one warning somersault so you can repent.
No VAR.
No appeal.
No Supreme Court.
According to the folklore, once the performance starts, curtain closes.
And this is where my sympathy begins to develop a puncture.
Because why are you climbing another man’s fence in the first place?
There are millions of unattached women walking around peacefully.
But no.
Some men see “MARRIED” and apparently read:
SPECIAL OFFER.
Then there is the alleged urine remedy—the particularly humiliating version at the centre of this Osun story.
Imagine the negotiations.
“Please, save me!”
“Who, do I know you?”
“Ah, Ajike”
“I don’t know him.”
“Moji, this is not a joke.”
Neighbours have gathered now.
Phones are recording.
Your ancestors are probably changing surnames.
And your supposed lover—the co-defendant in the matter—is insisting she has never met you since God created heaven and earth.
That is not merely heartbreak.
That is abandonment at the scene of the crime.
But beneath the laughter is something worth saying.
Adultery has always carried risks, with or without magun. Broken homes. Violence. Sexually transmitted infections. Public disgrace. Blackmail. Emotional wreckage. And, in some circumstances, medical emergencies.
You don’t need to believe in thunderbolt to understand consequences.
And you certainly should not watch a person convulsing, collapsing or struggling to breathe and conclude that what he needs is a bowl, a volunteer and fresh urine.
Get him medical help.
Let the doctors first deal with what science can establish.
If the family wants to discuss ancestors afterwards, that meeting can hold when everybody is alive.
Still, Yoruba people knew how to name things.
Magun.
Don’t climb.
Two words.
No long sermon.
No PowerPoint presentation.
No marriage seminar.
Just:
Don’t. Climb.
Perhaps modern men require the updated version:
Dear Sir,
That fence you are admiring has an owner.
You do not know what is behind it.
You don’t know whether there is an angry husband, CCTV, disease, scandal, violence—or merely the spectacular humiliation of discovering at your hour of greatest need that your beloved co-conspirator has developed acute amnesia.
And if you are one of those gentlemen who mysteriously doesn’t eat okro, doesn’t drink gaari, avoids rivers and becomes nervous whenever somebody mentions somersaulting…
My brother.
We are not accusing you.
We just want to know:
Exactly how many people’s fences have you been climbing?
