THROWBACK THURSDAY | “Àlọ́ O, Àlọ́ O!” — When Stories Ruled the Night

Before Netflix and social media, before Bluetooth speakers and late-night radio, there was Àlọ́. Those moonlit evenings when the air smelled of firewood and aroma of the just finished dinner and the only screen we knew was the glow from the lantern or moonlight falling gently on the compound floor. That was storytelling time — when folktales, folklore and folk songs ruled the night and life itself felt like a sweet, endless story.

In those days, as dusk approached, children would gather round their elders — legs crossed, eyes wide, waiting for the magic words:
“Àlọ́ o!” And the chorus would rise in unison, “Àlọ́ o!” That was the signal — stories were about to begin.

From the raspy-voiced grandma who never forgot a detail, to the mischievous uncle who always added his own twist, the tales carried laughter, lessons and a sense of belonging. There was Ìjàpá the tortoise — cunning, sharp-tongued and always finding trouble; Ajápa tí ó jẹ gbogbo àkàrà, the one who ate everyone’s bean cakes and still found a way to escape punishment, the folk song Aja duro demi lona, fere kufe and stories of Moremi Ajasoro — the queen whose courage saved her people and Olurounmbi who sacrificed her only child, Olurounbi jeje omo re, omo re apon bi epo , Olurounmbi o janyi janyi , iroko janyi janyi.

Each story wasn’t just entertainment, it was wisdom disguised as fun. They taught us that greed doesn’t pay, that honesty brings peace, that wisdom can defeat strength and that kindness always wins in the end.

Storytime was more than words; it was rhythm, melody and community. Evenings like that were a form of night-life too — not clubs, but compounds alive with laughter and drumbeats. Sometimes, the storyteller would mix ewì (poetry) or àpàlá-style songs into the tale and the children would hum along, who wouldnt vibe to tunes of labe igi orombo.

Some stories came with riddles — Àló àpamọ́, with starts like akuko baba mi lai lai, akuko baba mi lai lai, “What grows taller when it eats but dies when it drinks?” and everyone would shout guesses until grandma revealed — Fire!. Those moments strengthened bonds more than any modern group chat ever could.

Folktales weren’t just Yoruba. Across Nigeria, there were Anansi the Spider from the east, Queen Amina from the north and the Bush Baby myths that sent chills down every child’s spine. They were our bedtime Netflix, our cultural podcast, our moral compass — all rolled into one.

Now, the folktale fire still flickers — in animations, literature, plays and storytelling nights. But nothing beats that old magic: sitting on a mat, breeze in your hair, moonlight on your face, and a voice saying… “Àlọ́ o!”

Here’s to the power of stories — timeless, wise and forever binding us together.
Àlọ́ o… Àlọ́ o!