Ajulo David

Biography: Ajulo, David Olufemi is a multifaceted professional whose career and passions span technology, literature, business, and agriculture. Trained as a Telecom Engineer, he has built a solid reputation in the world of communication technologies, ensuring innovative solutions that connect people and empower industries. Beyond engineering, Olufemi is an internationally recognized Sales Professional, celebrated for his outstanding ability to build relationships, inspire trust, and deliver results across diverse markets. His creative spirit finds expression in revolutionary poetry, where his words resonate deeply with audiences, weaving themes of humanity, egaliatrian society, resilience, and the beauty of existence. As a passionate poultry farmer, Olufemi demonstrates his belief in self-sufficiency and sustainable living, nurturing not only livestock but also a philosophy of responsibility and care for the earth. At his core, Olufemi is a lover of nature and all that is good to behold. Whether through professional excellence, poetic insight, or his agricultural endeavors, he embodies a rare balance of intellect, creativity, and a profound appreciation for life’s simple yet profound wonders. The number to reach him is 07061394472.

Ajulo David's Profile

Ajulo David

Tuesday 15 September 2026

THE STOOL IS NOT YOURS

The stool is not yours,

O keeper of the crown;
You only sit upon it
Till the sun goes down.

The talking drum will sound,
The royal gong will call;
But every chief must rise one day,
For no man owns it all.

Today they sing your praises,
Tomorrow, they may forget;
The horse that bears your honour
Will leave no hoof-print yet.

The palace may be painted,
The courtyard swept and wide;
But dust will kiss the doorway
When the ruler steps aside.

So, ọba, remember:
The crown is but a trust.
Gold may shine upon your head,
But every crown meets dust.

You did not birth the river,
Nor command the rising sun;
You merely hold the calabash
Till your appointed time is done.

What did you pour from it
Before you handed it away?
Did the thirsty find a drink?
Did the hopeless find a way?

Whose child found a pathway
Because your lantern burned?
Whose wounded heart found healing?
Whose scattered dream returned?

Whose voice, once buried,
Found courage through your word?
Whose gate, once firmly bolted,
Opened when your hand was heard?

For in our ancient villages,
A chief was never great
Because he sat above the people—
But because he carried their weight.

Àṣẹ is not for boasting.
Àṣẹ is for service.
The hand that holds the calabash
Must know whom it should serve.

The elder who gathers wisdom
Must scatter it like seed;
The wealthy hand must remember
The hungry hand in need.

If the market gives you plenty,
Remember those who sow.
If the river makes you mighty,
Remember those downstream below.

If you climb the iroko,
Do not mock those on the ground;
For every mighty tree you see
Has roots beneath the ground.

So lift the young behind you.
Let your knowledge multiply.
Build ladders from your fortune;
Let another person climb.

Do not merely build a mansion
That your children cannot defend;
Build character in people—
That is wealth without an end.

Do not count your followers;
Count the lives you've made strong.
Do not measure your greatness
By how many chant your song.

When the drums fall silent,
When the palace gates are shut,
When the praise-singers depart
And your royal robes are folded,

When your name becomes a whisper
On the lips of those unborn,
Let the harvest of your kindness
Still feed them at dawn.

For this is how Africa remembers
Those whose footprints mattered:

Not by the size of their compound,
Nor the gold upon their chair,
But by the number of broken lives
They mended while they were there.

Let your name become a proverb.
Let your deeds become a drum.
Let the children you empowered
Tell the world from where they come.

And when the ancestors inquire,
“When you held the people's trust,
What did you do with your portion
Before you returned to dust?”

May the answer rise like incense
From the earth beneath your feet:

“I did not hoard the fire.
I passed the flame along.
I found the weak and raised them.
I made the broken strong.

I opened doors behind me
So others could walk through.
I planted shade for strangers
Who would never know it grew.

I knew the stool was borrowed.
I knew the crown was clay.
I knew that every earthly reign
Must bow and yield its way.

So I used the strength entrusted,
Not to magnify my name,
But to make another's sunrise
Brighter than the day I came.”**

Then let the elders nod slowly.
Let the talking drum reply.

Let the wind carry the testimony
Across the sleeping sky:

He held the power briefly,
But he multiplied its light.
He left more people standing
Than were standing when he arrived.

For that is the true coronation.
That is the wealth no thief can steal.

Not the stool you occupied—
But the lives you helped to heal.

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THE STOOL IS NOT YOURS

The stool is not yours,

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