The narrative of undisputed friends who wanted to become enemies but could not, because each depended on the others to remain relatively important.

A creative narrative inspired by the absurdities of friendship, rivalry, political alliances, mutual dependence, and the peculiar economics of human relevance.

Ilú, Tùbà, Tùṣẹ̀ — Àtùbà Àtùṣẹ̀: May there be tranquillity and fulfilment in the town.

In a certain ancient town, somewhere between the land of truth and the kingdom of pretence, there lived three inseparable companions known as Ilú, Tùbà and Tùṣẹ̀. Nobody could remember precisely when their friendship began, nor could anyone identify the particular circumstance that brought them together, but the elders of the town agreed on one thing: wherever one of them was found, the other two could never be far away. They ate together, travelled together, celebrated one another’s achievements, shared opportunities, exchanged secrets and defended one another whenever the circumstances demanded a united front. Yet beneath their public displays of solidarity lay an unspoken competition, for each secretly believed himself to be the most important member of the trio. They could share a meal, but not the entire glory of the occasion; they could occupy the same courtyard, but each wanted his shadow to appear larger than those of his companions. In public, they behaved like brothers whose loyalty could withstand any storm; in private, they calculated how to become indispensable while making the others appear dependent. Their friendship was genuine enough to sustain their association, but their ambition was sufficiently strong to make that association a permanent contest for recognition, influence and superiority.

Ìlú was a master of noise, movement and public attention. He possessed an extraordinary ability to gather crowds, provoke discussions and persuade people that his presence was responsible for almost everything significant that happened in the town. If a celebration took place, Ilú wanted to stand at its centre; if a disagreement arose, he wanted to speak before everyone else; and if the town fell silent, he interpreted the silence as a personal insult. He believed that visibility was the highest form of power and that whoever controlled the conversation controlled the minds of the people. He could transform a minor incident into a public spectacle and turn an ordinary disagreement into a matter of collective concern. Yet Ilú’s greatest weakness was that he sometimes confused the sound of his own voice with the strength of his position. He could attract attention, but attention did not always translate into authority; he could command a crowd, but a crowd could disperse as quickly as it had gathered. He therefore needed circumstances, personalities and controversies capable of keeping his name alive in the public imagination, even when he had little new to offer.

Tùbà, by contrast, was a creature of influence, calculation and strategic proximity. He understood the quiet architecture of power and knew that the person who spoke least could sometimes determine what everyone else discussed. He knew when to whisper, when to remain silent, when to withdraw in apparent disappointment and when to return with a smile that concealed a thousand calculations. Tùbà did not consider noise a necessity because he preferred to allow others to generate it on his behalf. He cultivated relationships, measured the ambitions of those around him and understood the value of appearing indispensable to people who believed themselves to be independent. He could sit quietly in a room and still make everyone wonder what he was thinking. To him, influence was more valuable than applause, and access was more useful than popularity. Nevertheless, his power had its own limitations. Influence without visibility could become invisible, strategy without public relevance could remain confined to private circles, and even the most carefully constructed network could lose its significance when nobody outside it considered its activities worthy of attention. Tùbà therefore needed the very noise he publicly regarded as inferior, because Ilú’s ability to attract attention frequently created the circumstances in which Tùbà could exercise his influence.

Then there was Tùṣę, the performer of importance, the architect of appearances and the specialist in transforming ordinary developments into extraordinary events. Tùṣẹ̀ possessed the gift of making a small achievement appear historic and a minor disagreement resemble the beginning of a new political era. He knew how to arrive dramatically, depart mysteriously and return at precisely the moment when curiosity had reached its highest point. He could make himself appear indispensable in a gathering where nobody had invited him and convince an audience that something significant was happening simply because he had announced his involvement. While Ilú generated noise and Tùbà cultivated influence, Tùṣẹ̀ supplied the spectacle that made their association appear larger than life. He was the interpreter of their quarrels, the announcer of their disagreements and the self-appointed historian of their achievements. Yet spectacle requires an audience, and performance requires something or someone around which attention can gather. Without Ilú’s public excitement and Tùbà’s calculated interventions, Tùṣẹ̀ would have been left performing before an increasingly indifferent audience. His apparent independence therefore rested upon the continued activities of the two men he often claimed to have outgrown.

Together, the three became a formidable presence in the town. Ilú supplied the noise, Tùbà supplied the influence, and Tùṣẹ̀ supplied the spectacle. Their combined activities produced an impression of greatness that none of them could sustain independently. They became familiar names, recurring subjects of conversation and permanent figures in the town’s political and social imagination. Wherever an important matter arose, people expected one or all three to become involved. Even their disagreements attracted attention, because the public had grown accustomed to interpreting their relationship as a significant force in the affairs of the town. They had gradually built a shared world in which each man’s activities increased the visibility of the others, even when their immediate intentions appeared contradictory. The more they argued, the more people discussed them; the more people discussed them, the more important they appeared; and the more important they appeared, the more opportunities they found to continue their rivalry. Their relationship had become an unusual economy of mutual relevance, in which each man could profit from the very person he privately regarded as a competitor.

But every arrangement built on shared advantage eventually encounters the ambitions of those who believe they deserve a larger share. One morning, Ilú awoke with an uncomfortable thought: why should he continue sharing his glory with Tùbà and Tùṣẹ̀ when he believed himself to be the principal source of their collective recognition? Had he not attracted the crowds? Had he not initiated the conversations? Had he not provided the controversies through which the other two had acquired much of their visibility? The more he considered these questions, the more convinced he became that his companions were beneficiaries of his greatness rather than contributors to it. By midday, he had decided that the time had come to separate himself from them. By evening, he was telling his closest supporters that Tùbà had exaggerated his influence and that Tùṣẹ̀ had built an entire reputation upon borrowed importance. The following morning, he gathered an audience and declared that he had finally discovered the value of standing alone. “From this day forward,” he announced, “I shall no longer divide my glory with those who mistake their association with me for personal greatness. My strength belongs to me, my future belongs to me, and my importance does not depend on anyone else.” The crowd applauded, and Ilú interpreted their applause as proof that his decision was not only justified but historically necessary.

Tùbà received the news with quiet amusement. He had long suspected that Ilú would eventually mistake public attention for personal supremacy. “Let him try,” he remarked to a confidant. “He believes that the person who produces the greatest noise must also possess the greatest power. He will soon discover that a crowd can cheer a man today and forget him tomorrow.” Yet Tùbà’s amusement quickly gave way to his own ambition. If Ilú could declare independence, why should Tùbà continue sharing his influence with someone who had become convinced that he was the centre of their association? Tùbà therefore announced that he, too, had severed his ties with Ilú and would no longer tolerate the theatrical excesses of Tùṣẹ̀. He described himself as a man of substance who required neither public commotion nor exaggerated displays of importance to establish his position. He spoke of dignity, independence and the superiority of quiet influence over noisy self-promotion. His followers admired his composure, and he congratulated himself on having demonstrated that his relevance was entirely his own. Yet beneath his confidence lay a question he preferred not to examine: if Ilú no longer generated public attention around their disputes, how would the town recognise the significance of Tùbà’s interventions?

Tùṣẹ̀ waited until the following day before announcing his own departure from the friendship. He understood that timing was essential, and he wanted the public to experience his declaration as the final act in an unfolding drama. With the air of a man who had outgrown an unfortunate association, he proclaimed that both Ilú and Tùbà had become obstacles to his development. “I have reached a level at which I can no longer carry the burden of their rivalry,” he declared. “One is intoxicated by noise, the other by influence, but I possess a vision that extends beyond both of them.” He spoke as though he had independently arrived at a higher understanding of life, although much of the audience had heard similar declarations from him on previous occasions. His announcement nevertheless generated a fresh wave of discussion, and Tùṣẹ̀ was pleased that his supposed separation had become an event in its own right. Thus, in a remarkable display of mutual hostility, the three companions announced their independence, criticised one another’s character and promised to pursue separate destinies. The town celebrated what appeared to be the collapse of an alliance that had endured for years. Their former friendship became a subject of speculation, their old conversations were reinterpreted, and every public statement was examined for evidence of betrayal. Yet beneath the appearance of a historic separation, a more complicated reality was beginning to emerge.

The first few days of hostility were exhilarating. Each man delivered speeches about self-sufficiency, each criticised the others, and each promised that the future would demonstrate the wisdom of his decision. Ilú declared that his voice would become even more powerful without Tùbà’s interference. Tùbà insisted that his influence would grow now that he was free from Ilú’s unnecessary commotion. Tùṣẹ̀ announced that his personal greatness would finally receive the recognition it deserved without the distractions created by his former companions. Their supporters celebrated, exchanged accusations and defended their preferred personalities with extraordinary enthusiasm. But after the initial excitement subsided, the town began to turn its attention elsewhere. New disputes emerged, new personalities attracted interest, and the old quarrel gradually lost its ability to command the public imagination. It was then that the three men encountered a difficulty none had anticipated: the separation they had presented as liberation was beginning to diminish the very relevance they had spent years constructing together.

Ilú noticed the change first. His speeches continued, but the crowds became smaller, and the questions following his declarations grew increasingly uncomfortable. Instead of asking what Ilú intended to do next, people began asking what Tùbà thought about his latest announcement. Some wanted to know whether Tùbà would respond; others wondered whether Tùṣẹ̀ would intervene. Ilú found himself becoming a reference point in a conversation whose direction he could no longer control. He had believed that his public presence was sufficient to sustain his importance, only to discover that much of the fascination surrounding him had depended on the presence of opponents whose reactions gave his words additional meaning. A declaration against nobody in particular was merely a declaration, but a declaration against Tùbà could become a public event. An accusation against an unknown rival might disappear before sunset, while an accusation against a familiar companion could dominate conversations for days. Ilú began to understand, reluctantly, that some of his influence had been borrowed from the very relationship he had attempted to escape.

Tùbà’s predicament was quieter but no less serious. His private meetings continued, his calculations remained precise, and his ability to cultivate relationships had not disappeared. Nevertheless, the public significance of his interventions began to decline. His carefully delivered statements no longer travelled as far, and his private manoeuvres seemed less consequential when there was no public controversy to give them a wider audience. He had imagined that separation from Ilú would demonstrate the independent strength of his influence, but he discovered that influence often requires a visible arena in which its consequences can be recognised. A strategist may shape an outcome, but if nobody knows that an outcome matters, the strategist’s apparent importance can diminish. Tùbà therefore began to miss the noise he had once condemned, not because he had suddenly developed an affection for disorder, but because he recognised that Ilú’s public energy had helped create the conditions under which his own influence could become meaningful. He had mistaken his ability to operate quietly for proof that he could remain equally relevant without the public circumstances his companion helped generate.

Tùṣẹ̀ suffered a more theatrical embarrassment. His grand entrances became less impressive, his dramatic departures attracted fewer questions, and his declarations of independence no longer produced the excitement he expected. He attempted to create new controversies, but without Ilú’s public energy or Tùbà’s strategic involvement, his performances lacked the familiar tension that had once made them compelling. People who previously wanted to know what Tùṣẹ̀ would do next now seemed more interested in whether Ilú and Tùbà would reconcile. Even his attempts to criticise his former companions indirectly revived interest in them rather than establishing his own separate importance. He began to realise that his apparent superiority had depended upon a stage populated by two men whose rivalry supplied the drama he needed. Without them, he was no longer the indispensable interpreter of an unfolding conflict; he was simply a man making announcements in a town that had found other things to discuss.

For the first time, each man experienced the uncomfortable consequences of his own declaration of independence. They had mistaken the usefulness of their individual roles for proof that those roles were sufficient in themselves. Ilú could produce noise, but noise required an audience and a subject. Tùbà could cultivate influence, but influence required circumstances in which it could be exercised and recognised. Tùṣẹ̀ could manufacture spectacle, but spectacle required people whose activities were worth watching. Their apparent rivalry had been sustained by a network of dependencies that none wished to acknowledge. The problem was not that they possessed no individual abilities; each had genuine strengths. The problem was that each had built a substantial portion of his public identity around the activities of the other two while insisting that his importance was entirely independent of them. They wanted the benefits of association without the obligations of mutual recognition, and they desired the prestige of separation without accepting the possibility of diminished relevance.

One evening, unable to endure the growing uncertainty, Tùṣẹ̀ sent a discreet message to Tùbà suggesting that they discuss the situation. Tùbà initially replied that there was nothing to discuss, insisting that the consequences of Ilú’s choices were no concern of his. Yet later that same night, he sent a separate message to Ilú, proposing that they consider the future of their relationship. Ilú rejected the suggestion with the confidence of a man determined not to appear vulnerable, declaring that his future required neither Tùbà nor anyone else. Nevertheless, the following morning, Ilú contacted Tùṣẹ̀ and suggested that they meet privately. Each man wanted a conversation, but none wished to appear as though he needed one. Each sought reconciliation, but each wanted the other to take responsibility for initiating it. Their pride had become another obstacle in a relationship already burdened by competition, and the possibility of admitting dependence seemed more humiliating than the prospect of continued irrelevance.

Eventually, a meeting was arranged in an abandoned courtyard beyond the busy centre of the town, far from the ears of curious observers and the expectations of loyal supporters. Each man arrived separately, carefully avoiding any appearance of haste. Ilú arrived first and pretended that he had merely been passing through the area. Tùbà arrived shortly afterwards and behaved as though the meeting was an unnecessary interruption to his important affairs. Tùṣẹ̀ came last, adjusting his clothing and looking around as though he expected an audience to emerge from the shadows. For several minutes, nobody spoke. Their silence was filled with accusations they had rehearsed, explanations they were unwilling to offer and admissions they feared would weaken their positions. At last, Ilú broke the silence by remarking that the town had become rather dull since their separation. Tùbà immediately objected, insisting that the town had not become dull but had simply learned that not every quarrel deserved its attention. Tùṣẹ̀ smiled and pointed out that, if the quarrel deserved no attention, their presence in the courtyard required an explanation. For a brief moment, the three almost laughed, recognising the absurdity of their situation. Then pride returned, and each remembered that he was supposed to be angry.

Ilú was the first to defend his independence. He insisted that he could survive without either man and that his achievements had always been the product of his own abilities. Tùbà replied that he could exercise influence without Ilú’s assistance and that his position had never depended on public applause. Tùṣẹ̀ added that he could remain important without both of them because his vision and personality were sufficient to sustain his reputation. They spoke confidently, but their eyes betrayed their uncertainty. Each waited for the others to accept his declaration, while secretly hoping that someone would acknowledge the contradictions embedded in all three claims. Finally, Tùṣẹ̀ asked the question they had been avoiding since their separation: if each man was genuinely independent, why had they all come to the same abandoned courtyard to discuss a relationship they claimed to have outgrown? The question settled over them like a heavy silence. Ilú looked at the ground, Tùbà examined the wall, and Tùṣẹ̀ adjusted his clothing once again. They had arrived at the truth, and the truth was considerably less flattering than their public declarations.

Ilú needed Tùbà because noise alone could not guarantee lasting influence. His ability to attract attention became more powerful when there was a familiar figure capable of responding, resisting or challenging him. Tùbà needed Ilú because influence without public attention could gradually become invisible, confined to private arrangements that the wider community neither understood nor cared to discuss. Tùṣẹ̀ needed them both because spectacle without substance, conflict or an attentive audience was merely an empty performance. Each man had become part of the environment that allowed the others to appear important, and none could remove himself from that environment without changing the conditions of his own relevance. Their hostility had not liberated them from one another; it had merely exposed the architecture of their dependence. They had wanted to become enemies without understanding that the complete destruction of their association might destroy a significant portion of the importance they had accumulated together.

After a long discussion, the three agreed to a temporary truce. They would continue to disagree publicly, but they would avoid destroying the conditions that made their disagreements useful. Ilú would retain his reputation as the outspoken challenger, Tùbà would preserve his position as the calculating strategist, and Tùṣẹ̀ would continue to present himself as the extraordinary personality capable of interpreting the actions of both. Their reconciliation would remain discreet, and their public differences would continue to supply the town with the appearance of an enduring struggle. The arrangement was not founded on forgiveness, profound affection or a sudden discovery of brotherhood. It emerged from the practical recognition that their individual ambitions had become entangled in a shared system of mutual advantage. They did not need to agree on everything; indeed, complete agreement might have deprived their relationship of much of its public appeal. What they needed was to maintain enough disagreement to remain interesting without allowing their competition to reach the point of irreversible destruction.

The arrangement worked remarkably well. Whenever Ilú’s importance began to fade, he found a reason to challenge Tùbà. Whenever Tùbà’s influence appeared uncertain, he responded to Ilú with a carefully measured statement that restored public curiosity. Whenever the town grew tired of their quarrels, Tùṣẹ̀ introduced a new controversy involving both men, presenting himself as the reluctant observer of a situation he had helped keep alive. Their supporters resumed their arguments, their names returned to conversations, and the familiar drama regained its place in the public imagination. Each man could now condemn the others without entirely abandoning them, and each could claim independence while quietly preserving the relationships that made his independence appear significant. They became experts at maintaining a rivalry that looked dangerous from a distance but rarely advanced towards a conclusion. Whenever one appeared close to defeating the others completely, an unexpected disagreement, a fresh accusation or a convenient misunderstanding created an opportunity for renewed conflict. Yet whenever that conflict threatened to destroy the entire arrangement, the three discovered a reason to withdraw, negotiate or redirect their hostility towards another matter.

The people of the town gradually began to recognise the peculiar logic of the relationship. They had initially believed they were witnessing a genuine battle between three powerful rivals, each determined to establish supremacy over the others. With time, however, they noticed that the quarrels followed a familiar pattern. The accusations were dramatic, the speeches were forceful and the promises of final separation were repeated with impressive confidence, but the anticipated conclusion never arrived. Each man seemed to benefit from the continued existence of the very opponent he claimed to despise. Their hostility generated attention, their attention created opportunities, and those opportunities reinforced the importance of all three. The public began to understand that the apparent struggle was not simply a contest for victory but also a mechanism through which each participant maintained his relevance. The more they fought, the more indispensable they appeared to one another; the more indispensable they appeared, the more difficult it became for any of them to bring the conflict to an end.

If Ilú were to destroy Tùbà completely, he might lose the opponent whose influence gave his public challenges significance. If Tùbà were to silence Ilú permanently, he might lose the attention that made his strategic interventions visible. And if Tùṣẹ̀ were to expose the limitations of both men so thoroughly that the public lost interest in them, he might discover that his own reputation depended on keeping their activities alive. Their collective importance had become greater than the independence each man claimed to possess, and their relationship had developed into a paradox from which none could easily escape. They were not necessarily friends in the conventional sense, because genuine friendship requires more than shared interests and strategic cooperation. Nor were they genuine enemies in the fullest sense, because each had too much to lose from the complete defeat of the others. They were partners in a contradiction, united by the benefits of an arrangement they publicly condemned and privately preserved.

Years passed, and the three continued their performance. They exchanged insults, questioned one another’s motives, competed for recognition and occasionally threatened to reveal the secrets of their former friendship. Yet none delivered the final blow. Their declarations of separation became familiar rituals, their reconciliations became discreet necessities, and their public rivalry evolved into an institution that the town could almost predict. The elders eventually gave their relationship a name: the Brotherhood of Necessary Enemies. When a young man asked an elder why the three never settled their differences once and for all, the elder smiled and explained that the young man had mistaken their quarrel for a war. A genuine war, he said, usually carries the possibility of victory, defeat and a decisive change in the relationship between the parties. What the young man was witnessing was closer to a business arrangement disguised as a battle, in which the appearance of hostility had become useful to everyone involved. The three men might disagree about who deserved the greatest recognition, but they shared an interest in ensuring that their disagreement remained important enough to attract an audience.

The young man asked whether this meant that some enemies were not truly enemies at all. The elder replied that people could occupy the position of opponents without possessing the will to bring their rivalry to a decisive conclusion. Some enemies genuinely seek one another’s destruction, but others need their opponents to remain present because the existence of a rival provides a convenient measure of their own importance. A person who has spent years defining himself against another may discover that victory leaves him with an unexpected problem: he must now establish his worth without the comparison that once sustained his reputation. The elder explained that Ilú, Tùbà and Tùṣẹ̀ had become so accustomed to deriving meaning from their mutual competition that peace appeared more threatening than hostility. Their rivalry provided them with an audience, an identity and a continuing reason to occupy the public imagination. Without that rivalry, each would have been forced to confront a question that his speeches and performances had carefully avoided: what remains of a person’s importance when the people against whom he measures himself are no longer there?

The young man considered the explanation and asked whether the three might eventually become genuine friends again. The elder shook his head thoughtfully. “Do not be deceived by the language they use,” he said. “Their relationship is neither pure friendship nor complete hostility. They desire separation but fear irrelevance. They dream of independence but continue to feed on interdependence. They condemn the bridge while standing upon it, and they threaten to burn it while knowing that they have no other road across the river.” The elder explained that the problem was not simply that the three men depended on one another; human beings often depend on relationships, communities and shared institutions to achieve things they could not accomplish alone. Their real contradiction lay in their refusal to acknowledge that dependence while continuing to exploit it. Each wanted the privileges of association without the humility of recognising another person’s contribution. Each wanted to be celebrated as an independent force while benefiting from the attention, influence or opportunities generated by the others. They were willing to cooperate when cooperation served their ambitions, but unwilling to admit that their success was partly relational rather than entirely personal.

And so Ilú, Tùbà and Tùṣẹ̀ continued their endless quarrel, each insisting that he needed nobody while carefully ensuring that the other two remained close enough to be useful. The town eventually stopped asking which of them was winning, because it had learned that the apparent competition was sustained by a deeper arrangement in which no participant could secure an uncomplicated victory without undermining the system that kept him relevant. Their story became a reminder that not every public disagreement represents a genuine struggle for final victory, just as not every display of friendship indicates affection, loyalty or trust. Sometimes, beneath the language of solidarity lies competition; beneath the language of hostility lies cooperation; and beneath declarations of independence lies an unacknowledged fear of becoming insignificant. A person may denounce an opponent in public while privately depending on that opponent to preserve an audience, strengthen a reputation or justify continued participation in a contest. The relationship may look like a battlefield, but its participants may have quietly agreed that the battle must never end.

The philosophical lesson of Ilú, Tùbà and Tùṣẹ̀ is that some rivalries are sustained less by hatred than by mutual necessity. There are people who cannot become genuine enemies because their public identities, influence or opportunities have become entangled with the continued existence of one another. They compete, condemn, provoke and threaten, yet stop short of taking the final step that would remove the very relationship from which they derive significance. In such circumstances, hostility becomes a performance, competition becomes an instrument of survival, and friendship becomes a convenient disguise for an arrangement in which each participant seeks to benefit without surrendering the illusion of independence. Sometimes, the greatest secret behind an apparently bitter rivalry is that neither side can afford genuine peace, and neither can afford a final victory. Peace would force each to establish a new identity outside the conflict, while total victory would remove the opponent whose existence had helped make that identity meaningful.

From a Yorùbá-inspired philosophical perspective, the tale invites reflection on the relationship between the individual, the community and the forces that sustain social existence. A person does not become important merely by announcing his importance, just as a voice does not become powerful simply because it is loud. Human significance emerges through relationships, actions, consequences and the recognition of others. Yet dependence becomes dangerous when it is concealed beneath arrogance, and cooperation becomes contradictory when those who benefit from it insist on presenting themselves as entirely self-sufficient. The story also invites us to consider the difference between Àtùbà Àtùṣẹ̀ as an imaginative expression of tranquillity and fulfilment and the restless conduct of people who continually manufacture conflict to preserve their standing. A town cannot enjoy lasting tranquillity when its influential personalities require permanent disagreement to sustain their relevance. Nor can fulfilment flourish where public life becomes a theatre in which rivalry matters more than truth and appearances matter more than responsibility.

Ilú needs Tùbà, Tùbà needs Ilú, and Tùṣẹ̀ needs them both. Their connection is not defined by affection alone, nor is it explained by genuine hostility. They remain bound by a shared necessity that none wishes to acknowledge, trapped in a relationship where the desire to dominate is constantly undermined by the need to remain connected. They are undisputed companions who want to be enemies but cannot become complete enemies without threatening the foundations of their own importance. Their story ultimately reveals the peculiar irony of mutual dependence: sometimes, the person we publicly oppose is the very person whose presence helps sustain our position, and the rival we threaten to eliminate is the one whose continued existence makes our own claims to greatness intelligible. Thus, Ilú, Tùbà and Tùṣẹ̀ remain mates by necessity and adversaries by pretence, bound together by the fragile economics of relevance, forever seeking independence from one another while quietly preserving the relationship that makes each of them appear important.

Ilé Ayé Wa Àtùbà, Àtùṣę — May Peace and Fulfilment Reign in Our Lives