Obẹ̀ kì í gbé inú àgbà mí.

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According to Yoruba tradition, a young person quoting proverbs in the presence of adults must do so humbly and respectfully. Therefore, in line with tradition, I humbly crave the indulgence of my parents and Yoruba elders worldwide before going ahead with this episode. Thank you for your time. Let's get to it. So the first proverb I have says, Unjeomakekere Amawaiban Urukaomokekere Nikiwai Balo. A young person's food can enter the stomach of an elder, but a young person's ring cannot fit on an elder's finger. Unjeomokekere Amawaiban Urukaomokere Niki Wabalo. A young person's food can enter the stomach of an elder, but a young person's ring cannot fit on an elder's finger. So this one means an elder may take advantage of the youth in certain respects, but in some others, an elder must respect his status. So the meaning is subtle and important. It says that elders may benefit from the labor, the gifts, or the support of the young people in some situations, but in other matters, the elder's place, status, and dignity must still be respected. In other words, receiving help does not erase hierarchy, responsibility, or social order. This proverb comes from a world in which age carried visible authority. In a traditional Yoruba compound, young people farmed, traded, fetched water, ran errands, and supported the household. An elder might eat food grown by younger hands, but that did not suddenly make the elder a child or make the child equal in every social sense. Material contribution did not automatically overturn moral structure. Picture this historical scene. A young hunter has had a good season. He brings antelope meat home, and the family eats well. His grandfather, who can no longer go into the forest to hunt, eats from that food. But later on, during a family dispute over land boundaries, the grandfather speaks first. Not because he's physically stronger, but because it carries memory, lineage, and judgment. The young man's labor fed the house, but it did not replace the elder's station. Now let's bring that into modern life. A young software engineer in Lagos, London, or Atlanta may be the one paying rent for her aging parents. She may understand the digital world better than everyone else in the family. She may help with banking apps, hospital firms, and travel bookings. In many practical ways, the household now depends on her. But this proverb warns against confusing usefulness with total authority. Competence in one area does not cancel the wisdom, humanity, or social place of those who came before us. At the same time, the proverb is not a blank check for elders to be arrogant. It also quietly acknowledges dependence. After all, the elder is eating the young person's food. So there is humility in this proverb as well. It reminds elders, yes, you are owed respect, but don't forget that you also survive through the efforts of the younger generation. So the balance here is very beautiful. The young must not become contemptuous because they are useful. The old must not become entitled because they are older. Mutual dependence without confusion of roles. That is the wisdom. And this is why the proverb still matters. In workplaces, families, churches, mosques, and civic life, societies break down when either side forget the other. Youth without respect becomes arrogance. Age without gratitude becomes tyranny. Onjo mokekere Ama Wabanino Orukao Mokekere Niki Wabalo. A young person's food can enter the stomach of an elder, but a young person's ring cannot fit on an elder's finger. The second proverb I have says, Owe yeo sue ni san tonra nio su people have no difficulty paying the money for glorious events. It is the money for trouble that is quite unpleasant to pay. Owe ye kosue ni san nio suan. People have no difficulty paying the money for glorious events. It is the money for trouble that is quite unpleasant to pay. So this one means the trouble one goes into for honorable purposes are really a pleasure, not so the trouble to extricate oneself from problems. So this is a proverb about human psychology. We don't mind paying for celebration, prestige, beauty, or public honor. We hesitate when the payment is for damage control, repair, or consequences. In an older Yoruba setting, this could be seen in ceremonies. Families would gather resources for weddings, naming ceremonies, festivals, funerals with honor, or community obligations. Such spending had meaning. It brought dignity and public recognition. But money spent to settle a dispute, pay a fine, correct negligence, or undo a foolish act felt heavy and painful. One expense elevated the person. The other exposed weakness. So let's imagine a historical example. A family spent generously for a daughter's marriage ceremony. Clothes is bought, food is prepared, drummers are hired, and guests are welcomed. The same family, months later, is reluctant to contribute when a relative must pay compensation after violating a community rule. Why the difference? In the first case, the spending produces honor. In the second, it is payment for disorder. Now let's take a look at today. People will save all year for a glamorous wedding, a luxury phone, a milestone birthday, or a carefully staged graduation party. But those same people groan when it is time to pay overdue taxes, repair a leaking roof, settle in medical debt, replace one outbreaks, or hire a lawyer after avoidable negligence. One expense feels like self-expression, the other feels like punishment. We see this even in organizations and governments. A company may happily spend on branding, launch events, polished advertising, and executive retreats, but it drags its feet over maintenance, compliance, staff welfare, cybersecurity, or crisis preparedness. Then when something breaks, the emergency repair costs far more. Yet even then, leaders complain more about the repair bill than they ever did about the vanity budget. So this proverb teaches maturity. Not every necessary expense is glamorous. Sometimes the most honorable spending is the least visible. The school fee, the hospital bill, the therapy session, the legal correction, the generator repair, the debt repayment, the quiet act of restitution. These may bring no applause, but they preserve life and integrity. There's also a moral challenge here. A society that loves celebration but hates responsibility will always look rich on the outside and unstable on the inside. Yoruba wisdom says, learn to value the money that prevents disgrace, not just the money that purchases display. Owe yeo sue ni song ton ran. People have no difficulty paying the money for glorious events. It is the money for trouble that is quite unpleasant to pay. So the next proverb I have says, Obe ki be no agbami. A stew does not slush around once inside an elder stomach. Obe ki beinuagami. A stew does not slush around once inside an elder stomach. So this one means an elder should know how to keep confidences. This is one of those wonderfully vivid Yoruba images. Food enters the stomach and stays there. It doesn't come back out for public entertainment. In the same way, what's entrusted to a mature person should remain safe. Historically, this matters because elders were custodians of family memory, mediation, ritual knowledge, and private counsel. In many Yoruba settings, people brought conflicts, secrets, and anxieties to senior figures, fathers, mothers, chiefs, priests, lineage heads, market leaders, and so on. Their authority depended not just on age, but on discretion. A person who could not keep a matter in confidence was unfit for trust. So picture the scene from long ago. Two brothers quarrel over inheritance after their father's death. The matter is taken to an elder in the compound. Each brother speaks privately to him. If that elder begins repeating each man's words all over the neighborhood, the conflict grows, the family fractures, and his reputation dies. But if he absorbs what he hears, weighs it carefully, and speaks only what is necessary for peace, then his stomach has behaved like the proverb says it should. Now consider the modern world where confidentiality is now harder than ever. Today, the stomach is often a smartphone. A friend shares painful news, and before long, it has become a screenshot, a group chat topic, a podcast joke, or a social media subtweet. We now live in an age where many people confuse access with entitlement. They hear something private and they assume they have the right to circulate it. In the workplace, a manager who cannot keep confidences destroys morale. In religious communities, a leader who turns private confession into gossip harms souls. In friendships, the person who leaks everything becomes socially entertaining for a while, but spiritually dangerous forever. This proverb also gives us a deeper definition of maturity. It says, adulthood is not merely biological. Gray hair alone does not make an elder. Titles don't make an elder. Real maturity includes the ability to hold difficult information without being ruled by the urge to spread it. A modern anecdote makes this plain. Imagine a young woman confides in an aunt about a failing marriage. She's not yet ready to tell the whole family. She needs counsel, not broadcast. If by the weekend cousins in three cities are now discussing it, the aunt may be older, but she has failed the test of this proverb. By contrast, the truly mature listener receives the burden, protects the person, and speaks only to heal. So this proverb asks all of us, when something enters your stomach, what happens next? Does it become wisdom or does it become gossip? In Yoruba thoughts, trustworthiness is one of the highest forms of social wealth. Obe ki be no agbami. A still does not slush around once inside an elder stomach. So the next proverb I have says, Obunriku tinramonato jotoko muntiku omufomikora. The filthy person takes advantage of her husband's death for blame. She said since the day her husband died, she hasn't had a bath in honor of her husband's memory. Obunriku tinramon Onilato Joto call wontiku omofomicora. The filthy person takes advantage of her husband's death for blame. She said since the day her husband died, she hasn't had a bath in honor of her husband's memory. So this one means shiftless people will latch on to any excuses to avoid their duties, or shameless people will seize any excuse to avoid responsibility or to continue their bad habits. This proverb is biting, to the point of even comical. It mocks a person who presents neglect as virtue. The individual is not genuinely honoring a loss or hardship, she is exploiting it to justify what she already wanted to do. In a traditional setting, mourning had rules, but those rules could also be manipulated. A person could hide laziness, dirtiness, or irresponsibility behind ritual language, public sympathy, or cultural excuse. Yoruba society, which values both empathy and discipline, recognizes that grief is real, but it also recognizes performance. Not every claim of suffering is sincere. Imagine a village woman known for untidiness even before tragedy struck her household. When others question her neglect, she wraps herself in the language of mourning. Now no one can challenge her without appearing cruel. The proverb punctures that performance. It says, Let's not pretend this began yesterday. And the modern versions of this proverb are everywhere. A student misses deadlines all semester and then suddenly blames one setback for habits that existed long before. An employee is always careless, always late, always unprepared. But when confronted, he points to one recent inconvenience as if it explains years of poor discipline. A public official presides over failure, then blames circumstances that somehow never prevent private comfort. A parent neglects a child and calls it busyness. A friend keeps breaking promises and calls it stress. Sometimes the explanation is quite real, but sometimes it is simply an alibi. Let's think of a modern anecdote. A man never enters messages, never shows up on time, never follows through. Then one day he says, You know, things have been difficult lately. That may be true, and compassion is necessary, but everyone around him knows the proverb. Difficult lately is not the real story. The pattern is very much older than the excuse. This proverb is useful because it protects us from manipulation. It helps us distinguish between genuine hardship and opportunistic storytelling. Yoruba wisdom does not deny suffering, it denies the misuse of suffering as a shield against accountability. There's also another lesson here, and it is inward. We are often better at spotting other people's excuses than our own. Many of us have a private version of this proverb living in our homes. We postpone discipline, we avoid hard conversations, we leave wounds untreated, and tell ourselves a polished story about why now is not the time. So the proverb is not only for mocking others, it is for self-examination. What habit am I baptizing with an excuse? What laziness am I dressing in the clothing of tragedy, stress, busyness or bad luck? That question makes the proverb timeless. Oburi kuo ko tiromo jotoko wunti ku fomikora. The filthy person takes advantage of her husband's death for blame. She said since the day her husband died, she hasn't had a bath in honor of her husband's memory. So the final proverb I have says Oganga. My child's name is Oganga. Don't call my child ogongo anymore. Which of the two names is a good name? Emakoyomo mini ogongomo. My child's name is Oganga. Don't call my child Ogongo anymore. Which of the two names is a good name? So this one means a choice between two bad things is no choice at all. And the proverb is wonderfully sarcastic. Someone is pretending to improve a situation by changing from one poor option to another equally poor option. The speaker asks, which one is actually better? If both names are bad, then what has truly been solved? In older Yoruba life, naming mattered deeply. Names carried aspiration, history, prayer, reputation, and identity. So this proverb uses the language of names to expose cosmetic change. It attacks the illusion of progress when the substance remains the same. So let's picture a historical example. Suppose a community replaces one unjust local agent with another equally corrupt person and then celebrates reform. An elder might use this proverb. You change the label, not the reality. One bad name for another bad name is not improvement. And this lesson is painfully current. In politics, citizens are often offered two weak candidates, two empty slogans, or two policies that differ in style more than substance. In business, a company rebrands toxic culture with trendy language. In technology, a platform changes its terms but not its exploitative behavior. In personal life, someone leaves one destructive relationship only to enter another with the same pattern under a different face. Let's consider a modern anecdote. A worker leaves a job with a bullying manager and joins a new company solely because the salary title sounds better. Within months, he realizes the new workplace is equally abusive, just better dressed. Different name, same problem. Which good name is there between them? Or think of consumer life. A person says, I've stopped wasting time on one app. But now all the lost hours have simply moved to another screen, another app. The addiction has changed clothing, not character. Again, the proverb asks, Where is the good name? This proverb teaches the discipline of standards. It tells us not to be fooled by superficial alternatives. Not every option deserves to be called a choice. Sometimes wisdom requires rejecting the frame itself and asking for a genuinely better path. And that is a profound insight for our age. Many people feel trapped because they assume the available options are the only options. Yoruba wisdom interrupts that panic and says, No. You are not obligated to celebrate a false choice. You are allowed to say neither. My child's name is Oganga. Don't call my child ogongu anymore. Which of the two names is a good name? So when we place these five proverbs side by side, a bigger picture emerges. The first teaches us about mutual dependence and respect across generations. The second teaches us about responsibility and the psychology of spending. The third honors confidentiality as a mark of true maturity. The fourth warns against excuses dressed up as virtue. The fifth one exposes false choices and empty substitutions. Together, they describe a morally alert society, one that watches human behavior carefully and names it honestly. That is one reason Yoruba proverbs endure. They are compact, but they are not shallow. In a sentence or two, they can diagnose a family, a government, a workplace, or a human heart. And perhaps that's the final gift of the proverbs. They help us speak truth without always speaking harshly. A proverb can correct without direct insult. It can teach without a sermon. It can provoke laughter and self-recognition at the same time. So as you go through your week, listen for these moments. When usefulness begins to turn into disrespect, remember the youth food and the elder's finger. When you gladly pay for celebration, but resist pain to repair what matters, remember the unpleasant cost of trouble. When someone trusts you with pain, remember the elder stomach. When excuses start sounding noble, remember the person who stopped bathing and called it devotion. And when a bad option is replaced by another bad option, ask yourself calmly which good name is there between the two? Thank you for listening to Yoruba Proverbs with B Demiologunde. Until next time, may wisdom not only visit us, but actually stay with us. So that's all I have for this episode of the Yoruba Proverbs podcast. Um if you've benefited from this episode, if you feel like this podcast as a whole is adding some value, please and please um kindly share the episode, the podcast, um, depending on whichever platform you are using to listen right now. You can send the podcast to whoever you think might also learn a thing or two. Um, you can share on WhatsApp, you can share on text messages, you can share however you want to share, email, and so on. So, again, um thank you once again for being part of this, which is a learning process for me as well. And like I said in the beginning, a young person quoting proverbs in the presence of elders must do so humbly and respectfully. So I crave the indulgence of my parents, um, Yoruba elders worldwide, as I narrate and break down and analyze these proverbs from my own perspective. And of course, none of these proverbs are definitively translated in one way or the other. The whole concept behind this is to glean the wisdom and the knowledge that our elders keep passing down to us. And this proverb, this podcast is basically doing just that, so that we just pass on that knowledge as much as we can to as many people as possible, especially in this day and age where the younger ones don't even want to learn the language anymore, and they would rather be on social media and so on. So, anyway, thank you so much. Talk to you next time. Bye for now, but it's a good one.