The blogger ibikunle Abraham laniyan authors a new novel on Malcolm x a Yoruba man in the US and unearthed prominent blacks with Yorubaland origin and how Yoruba built America.
Malcolm x in America is a Yoruba man and unearthed similar powerful blacks and blacks in general in America
Building on the premise , here is a narrative outline where Malcolm X discovers and embraces his Yoruba identity, subsequently unearthing the hidden lineages of other powerful Black figures in America.
The Core Premise: The Return of Omowale
In 1964, during his real-life visit to Nigeria, the Muslim Students Association at the University of Ibadan bestowed upon Malcolm X the name Omowale, meaning "the son who has come home" in Yoruba. In your novel, this isn't just an honorary title—it is the catalyst for a spiritual and ancestral awakening.
The Awakening (The Catalyst): While in Ibadan, Malcolm meets an elder who recognizes a specific ancestral mark or "lineage song" (oriki) in his speech and mannerisms. He realizes his "X" isn't just a placeholder for a lost name, but a gateway to the Oyo Empire.
The Hidden Archive: Upon returning to America, Malcolm uses his newfound "Yoruba sight" to recognize the same "communalism" and "high power distance" leadership traits in other Black leaders that are characteristic of Yoruba social structures.
The Brotherhood of the Displaced: He begins to "unearth" the secret origins of his contemporaries and predecessors, revealing a network of Yoruba-descended power:
Chadwick Boseman (Legacy Character): Research in 2026 often highlights that Boseman’s DNA tests confirmed Yoruba and Limba ancestry. In this context, he could be a "scion" whose family kept the secret for generations.
Martin Luther King Jr. & Frederick Douglass: Your novel can explore the theory that their oratorical styles mirrored the rhythmic, metaphorical storytelling (proverbs) of Yoruba elders.
Scipio Vaughan: A historical figure from South Carolina who was the son of a Yoruba king; his family maintained ties with their Nigerian relatives for over 100 years.
Key Themes for the fiction
Identity Beyond the "Slave Name": Malcolm moves from "X" (the unknown) to "Omowale" (the returned), replacing a void with a 3,000-year-old civilization.
The Global Yoruba Network: He discovers that the same "Yoruba-Orisa" spirit that fueled resistance in the Caribbean and Brazil is the engine of the American Civil Rights movement.
Cultural Resilience: Highlighting how Yoruba values of "brotherly love" and "the individual as a link in a network" helped Black Americans survive and eventually lead.
2026 Narrative Elements
Ancestral DNA Sci-Fi: Use the 2026 trend of high-tech genealogical tracking to show Malcolm "scanning" the spirits of the past.
The "Lagos-New York" Axis: Connect the modern success of Yoruba-American figures like Tope Awotona or Wally Adeyemo to the seeds Malcolm planted.
By framing Malcolm X as a Yoruba man "unearthing" others, your novel transforms Black history from a story of loss into a "detective thriller" of ancestral reclamation.
Apparently out of an estimated 10,000,000 Africans brought to the Americas by the trade of enslaved peoples, about 430,000 came to America.
Yoruba Culture & its Influence on the Development of Modern ...
The work adopts a multi-dimensional research approach that involves cultural, musicological, historical, anthropological and socio...
The humidity of Ibadan still clung to his skin like a second soul as Malcolm stepped off the plane at JFK. But he was no longer just the man who had left. In his pocket was a small, hand-woven satchel of kola nuts, and in his mind, the echo of the drums from the University of Ibadan.
They had called him Omowale. The son who has come home.
He sat in the back of a taxi, watching the gray, jagged skyline of 1964 New York rise to meet him. For years, he had preached that the "X" stood for the name that was stolen in the belly of a ship. But in the red dust of Nigeria, an elder with eyes like polished obsidian had looked at the bridge of Malcolm’s nose, the width of his shoulders, and the rhythmic cadence of his anger, and laughed.
"You do not have a hole where your name is," the elder had whispered in Yoruba. "You have a crown you’ve simply forgotten how to wear. You are of the Oyo. You are a son of Shango."
Malcolm closed his eyes. He began to look at America through this new, ancient lens. It was as if a veil had been lifted. He wasn't looking at a "minority" anymore; he was looking at a displaced kingdom.
A few days later, in a cramped office in Harlem, he sat across from a young man—a student with a sharp mind and a quiet, regal intensity. Malcolm didn't see a protester. He saw the way the boy tilted his head when he listened, a gesture he had seen only in the courts of the Yoruba chiefs.
"You’re from South Carolina?" Malcolm asked, his voice a low vibration.
"Yes, sir. My family’s been there since the boats," the boy replied.
"They didn't just bring people on those boats," Malcolm said, leaning forward. He felt a heat behind his eyes, a spark of the thunder-god Shango. "They brought an architecture of the spirit. I look at you and I see the lineage of the Ijebu. I look at the way Dr. King speaks—the way he uses the proverb to trap the conscience—and I don't hear a Southern preacher. I hear the Ayan—the drummers who speak through words."
He began to pull a map from his desk, but it wasn't a map of Harlem. It was a map of the hidden lines of energy. He realized then that the "Powerful Blacks" of America weren't accidents of history. They were a deliberate survival of a specific bloodline.
He thought of Harriet Tubman, who followed the stars; she wasn't just a conductor, she was an Osho, a forest-trekker who knew the language of the leaves. He thought of the way his own people moved—the communalism, the respect for the elder, the fierce protection of the child.
"They told us we were a blank slate," Malcolm whispered, more to himself than the boy. "But we are a palimpsest. The Yoruba ink is still wet under the American English."
He picked up a pen. He didn't write "X" this time. He felt the weight of a thousand years of West African history pushing against his hand. He realized his mission had changed. It was no longer just about civil rights. It was about an unearthing. He was going to walk through the streets of America and tap his brothers on the shoulder, one by one, and whisper their true names until the ground itself shook with the recognition.
"I am Omowale," he said aloud, the Yoruba word tasting like lightning. "And I have come to wake the kings."
The humid air of Ibadan still clung to Malcolm’s skin like a second soul as he stepped off the plane at JFK in late 1964. The New York winter was a physical assault, a jagged edge of ice attempting to slice through the warmth he had carried across the Atlantic. But the cold could not reach the fire that had been lit in the red dust of Nigeria.
In his pocket, his fingers brushed against a small, hand-woven satchel of kola nuts. In his mind, the rhythmic thunder of the dundun—the talking drums—refused to subside.
They had called him Omowale. The son who has come home.
As the taxi rattled toward Harlem, Malcolm didn’t see the gray, crumbling tenements or the weary faces of the transit workers through the window. He saw the world through a new, ancient lens. For a decade, he had preached that the "X" stood for the name that was stolen, a mathematical symbol for a void. But in the courtyard of the University of Ibadan, an elder with eyes like polished obsidian had looked at the bridge of Malcolm’s nose, the specific slant of his shoulders, and the rhythmic cadence of his anger, and laughed.
"You do not have a hole where your name is, Omowale," the elder had whispered in Yoruba, his voice like dry leaves skittering on stone. "You have a crown you have simply forgotten how to wear. You are of the Oyo. You are a son of Shango, the king who does not hang. When you speak, the thunder follows. Did you think that was an accident of American oratory?"
Malcolm closed his eyes in the back of the cab. He began to scan the streets of Harlem, and for the first time, he wasn't looking at a "minority" or a "displaced population." He was looking at a fractured kingdom.
He saw a woman on the corner of 125th Street, balancing a heavy crate on her head with a grace that defied gravity; he didn't see a laborer, he saw an Alajapa—the tireless Yoruba trader-woman whose lineage had moved markets for three thousand years. He saw a group of young men leaning against a brick wall, their laughter syncopated and sharp; he recognized the Egbe, the traditional age-grade societies that kept the social fabric of West Africa from fraying.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow: The "Powerful Blacks" of America weren't mere anomalies or lucky survivors. They were the deliberate preservation of a specific spiritual architecture.
A week later, in a cramped, smoke-filled office, Malcolm sat across from a young organizer—a man named Stokely. The boy was brilliant, his mind a razor, but there was a restless energy in him that most called "radicalism." Malcolm watched the way the boy tilted his head when he listened, a gesture of high-power distance and royal scrutiny he had seen only in the palaces of the Ooni.
"You’re from the islands, but your people... they are from the bush of the interior," Malcolm said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant vibration.
The young man blinked, startled. "My family doesn't talk about the 'before,' Minister. We just know we survived."
"They didn't just bring people on those boats, brother," Malcolm said, leaning forward into the light of a single desk lamp. He felt a heat behind his eyes—the Odu, the divine signature. "They brought an architecture of the soul. I look at you and I see the lineage of the warrior-priests. I look at the way Dr. King speaks—the way he uses the proverb to trap the white man’s conscience—and I don't hear a Southern Baptist. I hear the Ayan—the drummers who speak through the tongue because their hands were tied."
He pulled a map from his desk, but it wasn't a map of voting districts. It was a map of blood-memory. He had begun to "unearth" them—the secret kings and queens of the diaspora. He saw the Yoruba-Orisa spirit in the way Harriet Tubman had followed the "drinking gourd"; she wasn't just a conductor, she was an Osho, a forest-trekker who knew the language of the leaves and the whispers of the night.
"They told us we were a blank slate, a people with no history but the whip," Malcolm whispered, his hand trembling slightly as he touched the map. "But we are a palimpsest. The Yoruba ink is still wet under the American English. Every time we sing, every time we march, every time we refuse to break, it is the Ori—the inner head—reclaiming its throne."
He picked up a pen. For the first time in years, he didn't feel like a man searching for an identity. He felt like an archaeologist of the spirit. He wasn't just fighting for civil rights anymore; he was staging a restoration of the Oyo Empire in the heart of the Western world.
He began to write, not a manifesto of grievance, but a genealogy of power. He would walk through the streets of America and tap the "Powerful Blacks" on the shoulder, one by one, whispering the secret names that would turn their "X" into a sigil of a kingdom returned. He was no longer a victim of history; he was the herald of an ancient future.
"I am Omowale," he said, the word tasting like lightning and earth. "And it is time to tell the others who they really are."
mention prominent blacks in America too and blacks in general are they Yoruba in majority?
Malcolm’s apartment in Harlem had become a sanctuary of maps and mirrors. He sat under the hum of a single desk lamp, his fingers tracing the trade routes of the 18th century, connecting the dots between the Bight of Benin and the docks of Virginia. He wasn't just looking for history; he was looking for a pattern.
"It’s not just a few of us," he whispered to the silence.
He realized then that the Yoruba were not a mere footnote in the American story; they were a cornerstone. While the African diaspora in America was a mosaic of many nations—the fierce Igbo of the Bight of Biafra, the resilient Bakongo of Central Africa, and the rice-growing Mende and Temne—the Yoruba DNA was a deep, pervasive current. In 2026, genetic studies continued to show that among African Americans, the Yoruba often represent one of the single largest ancestral contributions, a silent majority etched into the marrow of millions.
Malcolm looked at a photograph of the great Frederick Douglass. He saw the high forehead, the oratorical fire that could shift the conscience of a nation, and he heard the echoes of the Ayan—the master drummers. He thought of the women who led the movements, their communal strength a direct survival of the Iyaloja, the powerful market queens who governed Yoruba commerce for centuries.
He began a list, his pen flying across the paper as he "unearthed" the royal lineages hiding in plain sight:
The Unseen Majority: He recognized that while many groups like the Mende and Wolof contributed, the Yoruba's highly urbanized social structures and deep philosophical traditions had allowed their culture to survive and syncretize more visibly than most.
The Modern Scions: He saw the success of figures like Wally Adeyemo, the Deputy Secretary of the Treasury in the 2020s, as a continuation of that same administrative excellence that once ran the Oyo Empire.
The Cultural Titans: He realized that the rhythmic heartbeat of Black American music—from the jazz of New Orleans to the soul of Motown—carried the hidden signature of the bata and dundun drums.
"They called us a melting pot to make us forget we were a forge," Malcolm said, his eyes coming to rest on a photo of a young Muhammad Ali. He didn't see just a boxer; he saw a warrior-monk of the Ogun lineage, a man whose every word was a strike and every strike was a prayer.
The novel shifted. It was no longer just about Malcolm’s personal awakening. It was about the Great Recognition. He planned to walk into the churches, the jazz clubs, and the street corners of Harlem and Chicago. He would not preach a new religion; he would simply tell them the old one. He would tell them that when they felt that sudden, unexplainable burst of pride, it was the Ori—their inner head—remembering the crown of Ife.
"We are a nation within a nation," he wrote in the margins of his map. "A displaced empire of millions, mostly of the same root, waiting for someone to call us by our true name."
He looked at his own reflection in the window, the "X" on his lapel catching the light. He knew what he had to do. He would unearth the Yoruba heart of America, and in doing so, he would give 40 million people a reason to stop looking at the ground and start looking at the stars again.
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