When I first heard about Ejigbo, I thought someone was pulling my leg. A town in Nigeria where French flows as naturally as Yoruba? It sounded made up. But it’s real, and it’s tucked away in Osun State, right in the heart of Yorubaland.
The Place That Made Me Question Everything I Knew
Osun State isn’t exactly short on cultural landmarks. You’ve got the Osun-Osogbo Festival, sacred groves that feel ancient in a way that gives you goosebumps, and those talking drums that somehow manage to sound both playful and profound. But Ejigbo? That’s different. That’s the kind of place that makes you rethink what you thought you knew about Nigeria.
I remember standing in the market, listening to an elderly woman haggle over tomatoes—first in Yoruba, then switching mid-sentence to fluent French when her friend walked up, before finishing in English to address the seller. My brain couldn’t keep up. This wasn’t some expat community or a fancy international school. This was just… Tuesday in Ejigbo.
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So What’s the Story?
Ejigbo isn’t new. Far from it. The town traces its roots back to Ile-Ife, the spiritual home of Yoruba people, which means it’s been around for centuries. But somewhere along the line, something unusual happened that changed the town forever.
Over a century ago, young people from Ejigbo started leaving. Not just a few—many. They were chasing opportunities, looking for something better, and the road led west. Through Benin, through Togo, and finally into Côte d’Ivoire.
Back then, Ivory Coast was booming. If West Africa had a California Gold Rush moment, that was it. Jobs were everywhere, the economy was exploding, and they were welcoming migrants with open arms. For people from Ejigbo—traders, craftsmen, dreamers—it was the place to be.
The Exodus That Changed Everything
Here’s where it gets interesting. These weren’t just temporary workers who went abroad for a few years and came home. Many stayed for decades. They married, had children, built businesses, and became part of Ivorian society. French became their everyday language—not as a foreign tongue they struggled with, but as natural as breathing.
Then, over time, people started coming back. Some for good, others just for visits that stretched into months. And when they came back, they brought France with them. Not the country, obviously—but the language, the mannerisms, the food, the whole cultural package.
Now, generations later, you have entire families in Ejigbo where grandparents, parents, and kids all speak French at home. It’s not something they learned in school (though that helps). It’s just part of who they are.
Living in Two Worlds at Once
The thing about Ejigbo that really got me is how seamlessly people move between identities. There’s no cultural whiplash, no sense of being torn between two places. It’s more like they’ve woven both together into something entirely their own.
You’ll meet someone who was born in Abidjan, spent their teenage years in Ejigbo, and now splits time between both. They cook jollof rice and attiéké with equal pride. Their kids have Yoruba names but perfect French accents. They’re Nigerian through and through, but they’re also something more—something bigger.
And honestly? It made me realize how limiting our ideas about identity can be. Who says you have to pick one nationality, one culture, one language? Ejigbo exists as living proof that you don’t.
The Network That Never Sleeps
Walk around Ejigbo long enough and you’ll notice the infrastructure of connection everywhere. Travel agencies advertising trips to Abidjan. Money transfer spots sending cash between countries. Market stalls selling goods that could only have come from Côte d’Ivoire.
There are families where half the relatives live in Nigeria and the other half in Bouaké or Treichville. They visit constantly—for weddings, funerals, business, or just because they miss each other. The border between Nigeria and Ivory Coast might as well not exist for them. ECOWAS promised free movement across West Africa, and Ejigbo took that promise and ran with it.
What It’s Actually Like to Visit
If you’re thinking about going (and you should), here’s what you need to know:
Ejigbo is about 40 kilometers from Osogbo, so it’s not hard to reach. You can get there from Lagos, Ibadan, or anywhere in the southwest really. The roads aren’t always perfect, but nothing in Nigeria ever is, right?
Everyone speaks English, so don’t worry about getting lost. But if you speak even a little French, you’re golden. People light up when they hear it. It’s like an instant conversation starter, a way of showing you get what makes this place special.
Try to visit during festival season if you can. That’s when the town really comes alive—when all the traditions and the modern influences blend into something you won’t see anywhere else.
Why This Matters More Than You Think
Ejigbo isn’t just a quirky footnote in Nigerian history. It’s proof of something important: that West Africa has always been connected in ways that go beyond colonial borders and official languages.
While politicians argue about regional integration and trade agreements, places like Ejigbo have been doing it naturally for over a century. They’re showing us what ECOWAS could actually look like if we stopped overthinking it—people moving, trading, and living across borders because that’s just what makes sense.
Plus, having a town that bridges Nigeria and Francophone West Africa? That’s strategic. That’s valuable. It creates opportunities for trade, for cultural exchange, for understanding each other better.
The Bigger Picture
I left Ejigbo with my head full of questions and my perspective completely shifted. Here was a town that didn’t fit into any neat category I tried to put it in. It was Nigerian but not only Nigerian. Yoruba but also Ivorian. Traditional but completely comfortable with being modern.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe places like Ejigbo exist to remind us that culture isn’t static. It moves with us. It changes when we change. It grows when we grow. The people here didn’t abandon their roots when they went to Côte d’Ivoire—they expanded them.
If you ever get the chance, go see it for yourself. Walk through those markets where French and Yoruba mix in the air. Talk to the older folks who remember when everyone first started leaving. Eat the food that doesn’t quite belong to one country or the other.
Because Ejigbo isn’t just a town. It’s what happens when people refuse to be limited by borders, when they carry home with them wherever they go, when they build bridges instead of walls.
And in a world that often feels more divided than ever, that’s something worth celebrating.
