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The most traditional Nigerian palaces fill one with such awe and inspiration you wish you sat on the throne. And there are so very many of them spread out across even the remotest locale—in first-class, second-class and third class cadres—each with its own loyal caucus of chiefs.

Iga Idungaran, the living quarters of the Lagos Monarch, is one like that. It is nothing like all the buildings that surround it. It is spacious, but they are not; it welcomes the most elite of visitors every day, and they don’t. And its long, green fence carries various carvings not seen elsewhere in the city. At the base of a royal insignia on the solid double black gates is a phrase that translates as: “the Elephant inherits riches.”

This particular Saturday is the second time I have been there in four months. The soundless wind, the coconut trees and the diverse congratulatory banners is instantly familiar. I observe a small group of men seated on white plastic chairs under the trees, happily chatting away and doing little else. I refuse the thought to go ask them one or two questions, like: “what is to happen here later today? What has been happening in the past few days? Which remarkable caller has come to ‘pay homage’?”

They’d want to know who I was, why I was asking and what I’ve come to do. It is nothing really to tell them ‘I’m a journalist’; I have said that with relish on many occasions. Today, I just choose to be an ordinary guest, observing without being observed. Or greeted patronizingly.

Looking to my left and walking towards the palace entrance, I glimpsed the Aluminium-roofed and cemented visitor’s waiting square, where barely three months ago had been packed with much more merrymakers. It’s excellent shade for anyone. But for two guys, it was empty. I pulled one of the chairs to where my eyes can see every movement in and out of the main block exit. Far within will be the King doing God knows what!

‘What can he be doing, really?’ I tossed the question in my mind. Surely he can’t be sleeping at this time of the day. It’s gone past noon. But who was I anyway to say when or when not the Kabiyesi should lay or not do so. He is paramount in all mortal reckoning.

My reflection picks on another subject. Oba Adeyinka Oyekan 2, the previous ruler whose ascent—or is it descent now—to the ancestors in March was responsible for my coming here the first time. Rituals were carried out as necessary and as befits the Throne. They were done in obeisance of a tradition that dates back Centuries.

These were primarily a whitecap chiefs and Kingmakers’ duty. Outsiders could only guess what are done. I am one of these and wished I knew what exactly went down—day by day, night after night. I can’t help imagining possibilities, like I am doing now—and like I have done several times since getting wind of the burial rights commencement. I accepted it would yield nothing to ponder it further. I know I shall never know.

Ok. So much for that. A group of praise-drummers, who had been seated all the time since my coming, now roused and banged their dundun drums excitedly. One of them handled a larger-than-common sekere (Rattle), a local musical tool consisting a gourd clothed in a net of cowries.

They sing in chorus as they all trouped to meet a departing pair of women. The last time I was here, there were only the Gbedu drummers, whose traditional chore were to play the drums to announce that the King had passed on—and continue to do so for two weeks thereafter. The women stretched out hands of mint notes; the beating peaked in salute and shortly died down gradually as the men returned to their posts—obviously to await some more liberal spirits. Within the hour one or two more walked in.

“The Dundun is the mother of all drums,” one of them named Jimoh tells me. “We used to wake Oba Oyekan up every Friday; we get to the palace at about six in the morning, and leave between 7.00-7.30 a.m.”

Later on Oba Rilwan Akiolu 1, the current king, came out. By his side walked Aremo Kola Oyekan, manifestly strained but nonetheless steady. It’s the first time I would see both in person. Kabiyesi was attired in a traditional white silk (wrapped waist-round) and cap. Large Maroon-coloured necklaces dropped from his neck. His two hands rested on a designed stick. He danced delightedly. Lagosians around were jubilant.

“Kaaabiyeesiioo!” they hollered here and there. And the drumming increased with each chanting. Anyone could sense that these people adored their king—our king. And so did I.

Then he introduced the Aremo to a departing Northerner-VIP in this ‘This is my beloved, in whom I’m well pleased’ fashion that I admired. But then they were back inside within minutes to address a visiting group of mainly market women.

Outside continued to brim with visitors. The celebration carried on. I left.

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