In Yorùbá culture, Aláṣejù — the act of taking things too far — is more than a personal flaw; it is a dangerous moral slope. The wise elders say:
“Aláṣejù ò m’òré” — He who overdoes it does not know the limits of friendship.
On August 5, 2025, Fuji icon King Wasiu Ayinde Marshal (KWAM 1) proved that this age-old caution still matters.
At Abuja’s Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, the king of Fuji allegedly blocked a ValueJet plane from taking off, triggering delays, heated confrontations, and a national debate about power, privilege, and public respect.
Passengers sat in disbelief. Airport staff whispered in frustration. And on social media, the verdict was swift: this was celebrity entitlement in full display — the kind of stunt only a man convinced of his untouchability could attempt.
The Aláṣejù Factor
KWAM 1’s actions fit neatly into the Yorùbá definition of overreach:
Excessive sense of importance — turning a public transportation hub into a private stage.
Excessive disregard for others — delaying strangers whose time and plans matter too.
Excessive use of influence — leaning on name recognition to bend the rules.
In Yorùbá moral philosophy, balance (ìwà pẹ̀lẹ́) sustains harmony. When a man forgets this, Aláṣejù creeps in — and public respect begins to slip through his fingers like water.
Burial Shadows and a Pattern of Excess
The Abuja incident did not emerge from nowhere. Nigerians still recall the controversy surrounding his mother’s final rites earlier in the year — a moment that should have been solemn but instead morphed into a national talking point.
In January 2025, during the eighth-day Fidau prayers for his late mother, Alhaja Halimat Mogaji (also called Alimotu Anifowoshe), KWAM 1 sparked another storm. Amid the gathering of Islamic clerics, he used the Yoruba slang “gàńù sí” — literally “mouth wide open” — in a way many interpreted as mocking the clerics, implying they were more interested in the freebies and largesse at his house than the prayers themselves.
The reaction was immediate:
Clerics and faithful Muslims saw it as disrespectful to religious leaders and the sanctity of prayers.
Supporters argued the phrase was being taken out of context and was not meant as an insult.
Social media turned it into a trending topic, debating whether this was harmless banter or a public relations self-sabotage.
This was not just about a phrase — it was about perception. The Fidau became less remembered for prayers and more for the controversy, overshadowing the dignity of the moment.
A Recurring Script
From the lavish burial celebrations that shut down streets to the “gàńù sí” slip at a solemn religious event, and now to the Abuja airport blockade, a pattern emerges:
Personal milestones are turned into public spectacles.
Public spaces are disrupted for private reasons.
Cultural respect is tested by celebrity self-assurance.
Each time, the headlines are less about Fuji music and more about KWAM 1’s perceived excesses.
The Real Cost
Yorùbá elders warn that Aláṣejù often plants the seeds of a person’s public undoing. For KWAM 1, each high-profile overstep chips away at the respect that once came effortlessly with his music and cultural stature.
What happened at the Abuja airport was not just about a delay.
What happened at the Fidau was not just about a slang phrase.
They are symptoms of the same root: power without restraint becoming arrogance, and arrogance without reflection edging towards downfall.
In the court of Yorùbá wisdom, this is not royal behavior — it is a breach of ìwà omolúàbí. And in the court of public opinion, the verdict is leaning heavily toward “guilty of excess.”
