Among the Ashantis, the voice of the Asantehene, Otumfuo Osei Tutu II, still carries immense moral weight. His golden stool remains the spiritual anchor of the group, yet Ghana’s 1992 Constitution explicitly bars chiefs from holding political office. In 2019, when election violence threatened to spiral out of control, it was the Asantehene who stepped in to mediate.
West Africa’s traditional rulers, who speak with the weight of generations, have never been mere symbols. They are the custodians of memory, the quiet negotiators in times of crisis, the living thread stitching history to the present. Their power is being chipped away by modern governance, changing laws, and a generation that no longer bows without challenge. This goes beyond politics. It is a cultural turning point. From the ornate palaces covered in elaborate motifs, traditional leaders are grappling with a pressing dilemma. They must remain indispensable in a world that increasingly sees them as relics.
Long before colonial borders carved up the region, West Africa’s traditional rulers governed through unwritten but well established codes, customs passed down through oral histories, rituals, and communal consensus. Their legitimacy came not from legal decrees but from the trust of their people.
Colonialism distorted this system, marshaling chiefs into the machinery of indirect rule and its converse, assimilation. Post-independence governments, eager to consolidate power, further marginalised them, replacing traditional structures with centralised bureaucracies, a situation Professor Peter Ekeh described in his famous 1975 article, “Colonialism and the two publics in Africa,” where he narrates how colonialism created a dual moral framework, a “civic public” tied to the state and a “primordial public” tied to traditional loyalties. Today, democracy, economic pressures, and decentralisation have ushered in yet another transformation.
But these leaders are not passive witnesses to their own decline. They are adapting, resisting, and in some cases, reclaiming their relevance. Even as the Asantehene’s intervention helped defuse tensions, his role, as one Ghanaian journalist notes, “remains unofficial, a whisper in the ear of power rather than a seat at the table.” In essence, he advises, he guides, but the government decides. This invisible weight of conflicting realities captures the modern dilemma of traditional leadership, revered but downgraded legally.
A revered king in Nigeria, the Oba of Benin, Ewuare II, grapples with a difficult issue tied to land, central to his power. For ages, Benin’s rulers oversaw who got what land, a duty that anchored their clout. But Nigeria’s 1978 Land Use Act stripped this power, transferring it to state governors.
Tensions have regularly erupted over illegal land sales, with the Oba publicly clashing with state officials. Here, the law has redrawn the boundaries of tradition, leaving even the most respected monarchs grappling with their diminished roles.
In theory, decentralisation was meant to empower local communities. In practice, it has often bypassed traditional leaders entirely. Burkina Faso’s Mogho Naba Baongo, the paramount chief of the Mossi people, is an example. In the Mossi tradition he was considered the “king of the world,” with influence over administration, justice, and land matters within his domain. He was also the final arbiter in land disputes, he now watches as elected councils assume that authority.
In contemporary Burkina Faso, elected councils and state institutions have largely assumed authority over land management, reducing the Mogho Naba to a symbolic and advisory role. Politicians, ministers, and officials seek his symbolic approval, but his direct authority in legal matters like land disputes has diminished. In spite of these challenges, even without formal authority, he continues to mediate conflicts behind the scenes, proving that tradition persists even when the law no longer recognises it.
Perhaps the most profound threat to traditional leadership comes from the younger generation. Raised in an era of smartphones and social media, many view chiefs and kings with scepticism, questioning their relevance in a world of unemployment and systemic corruption. Muhammadu Sanusi II, once the Emir of Kano, found this out through tough experience. A reformist voice, he criticised government failures and championed education for girls. But in 2020, his outspokenness cost him his throne when the Kano State government deposed him.
While some praised his courage, others, particularly young Nigerians, saw him as part of an outdated system. “We respect the emir,” one young man answered when questioned about the relevance of the battle for the Kano throne to his daily struggles, “but he does not understand our struggle for jobs.”
Sanusi’s downfall underscores a painful truth. Leaders rooted in tradition often walk a fine line between staying relevant and pushing boundaries. Some, despite obstacles, maintain unwavering authority. In the northern Nigerian state of Niger, Yahaya Abubakar, known as the Etsu Nupe, resolves cultural, communal, or customary conflicts that courts and government officials can not. In 2023, he brought peace between farmers and herders locked in a dispute that defied legal solutions. His work shows a clear truth. When the state falls short, tradition fills the gap.
The Etsu Nupe’s interventions in disputes, however, has also sparked conflict rather than resolve it, particularly when his authority overrode local preferences. In 2021, the Gaba community within his domain, protested his appointment of a new traditional ruler, alleging he overlooked the community’s elected candidate.
For ages, men have held sway in traditional roles, but women are steadily carving out their space. In Ghana, Queen Mothers like Pognaba Felicia Seidu challenge male-dominated customs, championing girls’ education and opposing child marriage. Yet, resistance persists. Colonialism systematically weakened the authority of women leaders, and even today, many male-dominated councils sideline them. Their battle is not just for recognition but for a redefinition of tradition itself.
The challenges are undeniable. Modern constitutions have stripped traditional rulers of formal power, reducing them to ceremonial advisors. State laws, drafted in faraway capitals, override centuries of customary practice. Decentralisation has empowered elected councils, many of which view chiefs as competitors rather than collaborators. Meanwhile, young people, disillusioned and desperate for change, are less willing to defer to age-old hierarchies.
There is resilience, undoubtedly. The Asantehene still mediates crises. The Etsu Nupe still forges peace. Queen Mothers still champion the marginalised. These leaders endure because their communities need them, often in ways the modern state cannot replicate.
The question, then, is not whether traditional leadership will vanish, but whether it will be allowed to evolve. Governments could learn from Ghana’s hybrid land management systems, which blend chiefly and state authority. Training programs could help traditional rulers navigate modern governance.
The crowns of West Africa’s kings and queens may no longer carry the weight of reverence they once did. But their stories are far from over. The real test lies in whether the modern world will make space for them, not as relics of the past, but as vital architects of the future.
