(When the most attractive choice conceals the greatest danger)
I grew up humming virtually every song by the late legend, Dr Orlando Owoh. I rarely sang them aloud, however, because my singing voice is an apology, and I have no desire to disgrace my ancestors.
On December 30, sometime in the mid-1970s, Orlando Owoh came to our town at the invitation of IPU Yelwa Yauri. The organisers, a group of young men known as the Seven Northern Stars, included my elder brother, who served as their secretary.
That afternoon, before Orlando Owoh mounted the stage, I had the privilege of seeing him in person as he relaxed and made merry with the organisers. I was not particularly impressed by his physical appearance, but his music remained a delight.
Contrary to my expectations, I was not given a complimentary ticket to the concert because the organisers considered me underage. Undeterred, I joined a group of mischievous teenagers, and together we sneaked into the venue, especially eager to watch Ade Konga work his magic on the drums.
Of the many songs the legend performed, one remained with me: Ìjà Orogún Méjì – the tale of two rival wives.
In the song, Orlando Owoh tells the story of two rival wives. Retelling it here with a little personal emphasis, the story unfolds this way: both women have sons, and both boys are doing well. Then, consumed by jealousy, the first wife decides to send the second wife’s son to the great beyond.
Perhaps she understood, as the biblical story of Esau and Jacob illustrates, how hunger can overwhelm judgment. She prepared two bowls of yam porridge. One was richly made with palm oil, bright, red and irresistible. The other contained no oil and looked pale and uninviting.
She poisoned the attractive bowl. Her calculation was simple: the younger wife’s son would return from school first, see the two bowls and naturally choose the richer-looking meal.
But fate overturned her plan. Her own son arrived first. Predictably, he chose the bright, oil-rich porridge. It became his last supper. The other boy returned later, took the plain porridge and went out to play football, unaware of the death from which its unattractive appearance had spared him.
The song ends with a simple but enduring lesson: we should do good rather than evil, because the evil we plan for others has a way of returning to us. Sometimes, while people believe they are successfully digging a pit for someone else, they are preparing their own place of ruin.
The story also warns us about appearances. What looks most attractive is not always what is best for us. The bright porridge concealed death; the plain one preserved life. Discernment, therefore, matters more than appearance.
This lesson reaches beyond food. Beauty, charm, eloquence and wealth may attract us, but none of them guarantees good character, compatibility or responsibility. Even someone we trust deeply may not always have our best interests at heart.
The same principle applies to politics. The most charismatic candidate, the most polished speaker or the person with the grandest promises may not be the one most capable of delivering responsible leadership and the benefits of good governance.
Life may involve competition, but unhealthy rivalry can produce terrible consequences, even for those who believe they have calculated every outcome.
So, when life places two bowls before you – àṣáró elépo rẹ́dẹ́rẹ́dẹ́ and àṣáró funfun báláú – do not allow colour alone to make the choice.
The real question is not which bowl looks better, but whether you have the discernment to recognise what lies beneath its surface.
©TheVillageBoy.
(The figure man who loves alphabets)
