OJORO CANCEL: A CHILDHOOD LESSON IN INNER HONESTY

 

When we were children playing table tennis, the game was never just about the bat and the ball. It was about the score.

As each rally ended, the counting would begin. Convenient counting. Creative counting. Strategic counting.

If I won the point, the score sounded clear and confident. If I lost it, memory suddenly became flexible. My opponent did the same. We both knew what was happening. Each of us tilted reality slightly in our favour.

Then came the arguments.

“You missed.”

“No, it touched the edge.”

“That was my point.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Of course only one person could win a rally. But ego has a way of multiplying winners.

After enough back and forth, exhaustion would set in. And someone would finally say it.

“Ojoro cancel.”

Cheating cancelled. Pretence suspended. Let us count properly now.

It was a truce. A reset. A return to fairness.

Looking back, I realise that childhood table tennis was rehearsal for adult life.

Many of us continue to count our wins and losses just as we did back in our childhood games.

We adjust narratives to protect our pride. We reinterpret facts to suit our self-image. We present versions of ourselves that earn applause while hiding the parts that need work. We subtly inflate our victories and quietly bury our defeats.

But life keeps score accurately.

Reality does not bend because we argue with it.

There comes a point in every serious life when a person must stand still and say to himself, with complete honesty, “Ojoro cancel.”

No more self-deception.

No more curated morality.

No more outward performance that does not match inward conviction.

Let the inside and the outside agree.

When our inward ideals genuinely shape our outward conduct, something shifts. Integrity is not merely ethical decoration. It is alignment. And alignment connects us to something larger than social approval or material success.

We must develop ourselves into inwardly upright, genuine human beings. Not performatively decent. Not situationally honest. But fundamentally true.

The moment a human being becomes real within, he establishes an intimate connection with the whole of Creation. Life begins to respond differently. Clarity increases. Direction sharpens. Strength grows quietly from within.

This cannot be achieved or forced by ambition. No amount of striving or effort compensates for inner disorder.

Everything we truly need, peace, joy, stability, right opportunities, flows naturally when we are aligned with the higher laws that sustain life itself. Not before. Never before.

The time always comes when a person must open himself to the Word of God. That is not a religious slogan. It is an adjustment. It is the decision to align with the Laws of His Will that uphold Creation. It is choosing truth over image. Substance over display. Obedience over ego.

Without that inward correction, we keep arguing over the score. We keep living slightly tilted. We keep wondering why fulfilment feels delayed.

So today, pause.

Where are you still negotiating with truth?

Where are you counting in your own favour?

Where does your outward image exceed your inward reality?

Say it quietly if you must. But say it decisively.

Ojoro cancel.

Then turn inward. Seek help from above. Ask for the courage to see yourself as you are, and the strength to become what you ought to be.

Because when the inside becomes clean and true, life begins to count in your favour without argument.

And that victory is real.

WHEN SACRED TIME MEETS HUMAN VIOLENCE

There is something deeply jarring about the sound of bombs during a season of fasting.

When war drums rise at the very moment millions bow their heads in prayer, civilisation is forced to look at itself in an unflattering mirror. Lent and Ramadan are not minor observances. They are structured interruptions in ordinary life. They slow appetite. They restrain impulse. They summon the soul to examination. And yet, even in such a season, humanity still reaches for the sword.

This is not merely geopolitical irony. It is civilisational revelation.

Civilisation is not measured by skyscrapers, weapons systems, or GDP. It is measured by restraint. It is measured by whether power can submit itself to moral law. Sacred seasons such as Lent and Ramadan were built into religious traditions precisely to cultivate this restraint. They are annual reminders that the human being must govern the self before attempting to govern others.

When conflict erupts during these months, it exposes a gap between spiritual ritual and spiritual formation. Fasting without transformation is performance. Prayer without purification is noise. If sacred time does not temper public conduct, then we must ask what we have truly internalised.

From a civilisational lens, this moment is instructive. History shows that societies endure not because they are strong, but because they are morally coherent. Violence as policy may secure short-term advantage, but it erodes the moral architecture that sustains long-term stability. Every civilisation that normalized brutality eventually weakened itself from within.

From a spiritual lens, the matter is even clearer.

There is a law woven into existence that predates politics and outlives empires. Like produces like. Violence multiplies violence. Contempt reproduces contempt. Hatred generates its own offspring. This is not mysticism. It is moral causality, the law of reciprocal action. The inner state of a people eventually becomes the outer structure of their world.

Conversely, dignified conduct produces peace. Measured speech produces clarity. Mercy begets mercy. When individuals and nations act with composure and restraint, they create conditions in which reconciliation becomes possible. Peace is not accidental. It is cultivated.

Lent calls the Christian to examine pride, anger, and appetite. Ramadan calls the Muslim to discipline desire and extend charity. Both seasons insist on self-mastery. And self-mastery is the first pillar of any enduring civilisation.

The tragedy of war during sacred months is therefore not only the loss of life. It is the evidence that humanity still struggles to subordinate impulse to conscience. It shows how easily strategic calculations override spiritual commitments.

Yet this same convergence of sacred time and conflict can awaken us. It confronts believers with a question that cannot be outsourced to politicians: what is the state of my own heart?

Civilisation does not collapse first at the borders. It frays in the mind. It decays in speech. It deteriorates in the home. If we accept the spiritual law that like produces like, then the work of peace begins long before ceasefires and treaties. It begins in thought.

What occupies the mind shapes the tone of the voice. The tone of the voice shapes the culture of the home. The culture of the home shapes the character of the nation. And the character of nations shapes the destiny of the world.

If we dwell constantly on outrage, we amplify it. If we rehearse grievance, we deepen division. But when our thoughts are disciplined toward what is good, pure, and constructive, we become quiet architects of peace. Interior order precedes external harmony.

This is not naïve idealism. It is strategic realism at the deepest level. No durable international order can be built on unrestrained hostility. No local community thrives where suspicion is the norm. No family flourishes where pride rules. No individual finds happiness while nurturing resentment.

So the call is clear.

Let international actors choose dignity over domination. Let local communities resist the contagion of hatred. Let families become schools of restraint and kindness. And let each of us begin where we have full jurisdiction, in the heart.

Peace at the global level requires courage. Peace at the local level requires discipline. Peace in the family requires humility. Peace in the heart requires attention.

If like produces like, then let us produce peace.

Let our thoughts dwell on what is good and pure. Let our speech be measured. Let our conduct be dignified. In doing so, we do not merely hope for peace. We generate it. And in generating it, we discover that happiness is not the reward of peace. It is its companion.

THE DANGER OF OVER-FAMILIARITY

 

Familiarity rarely announces itself as a risk. It comes quietly. It often begins the moment we drop titles and say, “Please, call me by my first name.” That small sentence sounds harmless, even warm. Yet in many professional and cultural settings, it is not casual at all. It requires permission. It signals that something has shifted. A boundary has been lowered. A certain distance has been deliberately reduced.

Some cultures formalise this transition. In Germany, the move from the formal “Sie” to the intimate “Du” is not casually made. “Du” carries more than convenience. It signals closeness, equality and a subtle bond. One does not simply assume it. It is offered. And when it is offered, both parties understand that the relationship has entered a different level.

Familiarity is not merely linguistic. It is relational. It creates a bond. Not just social. Not just emotional. A bond of influence. A bond of shared movement. A bond that carries responsibility, sometimes even beyond this earth life.

On earth, we live side by side despite vast differences in maturity, character, discipline and spiritual development. The physical world allows this mixture. But inwardly, we do not all stand on the same step of spiritual maturity.

When two unequal persons form a close bond, something predictable happens. The stronger can descend. The weaker does not automatically rise. Growth does not occur through proximity. It occurs through individual effort. Where there is imbalance, the higher may be slowed, entangled or burdened. Rarely does the less mature ascend simply because intimacy was granted.

This is the real reason we should warn ourselves.

Over-familiarity dissolves healthy distance. It removes protective boundaries that were quietly serving us. It creates obligations we did not consciously choose. Later, these unseen ties become sources of tension, disappointment or spiritual stagnation.

This is not an argument for coldness. It is an argument for order.

Mature cultures understand this instinctively. Among the Yoruba of Western Nigeria, when an adult child has children, even parents often shift their mode of address. The son or daughter is no longer called simply by first name but as “Ade’s father” or “Moji’s mother.” The individual is addressed through the dignity of their new role. The relationship does not drift into casual familiarity. It is deliberately restructured around responsibility and honour. A new boundary is drawn, not to create distance, but to preserve order. Respect is formally established, and with it, the limits that protect both parties.

There is a profound difference between kindness and intimacy. Between goodwill and binding one another. Between respect and fusion.

When familiarity is offered too quickly, it often springs from emotional need, vanity or impatience. True strength does not rush toward closeness. It moves with clarity. It discerns character. It respects differences in depth and direction.

There is also a harder truth. Never live closely with someone you cannot respect. Respect is the foundation of every healthy union. Without it, familiarity degrades both parties. What began as warmth becomes irritation. What began as ease becomes entanglement.

That is why intimate forms of address and deep familiarity should be reserved for serious, committed relationships. Marriage is one such bond. There, closeness is intentional. It is binding. And what is binding must never be entered into lightly, because it carries weight, consequence and permanence.

We should not be eager to dissolve boundaries. We should not even be eager to ask for that dissolution. Let titles stand. Let space remain. Let respect breathe. If a deeper union is meant to form, it will do so deliberately, not impulsively.

In simple terms, guard your inner space. Do not bind yourself unnecessarily. Build relationships with intention, not haste.

Where there is order, there is harmony. Where there are boundaries, there is freedom. And where there is mutual respect and harmony, there is ascent.

LIVING EACH DAY AS IF IT WERE THE LAST: A BALANCED REFLECTION

 

Human life is framed by a certainty we often push to the edges of our thinking: it will end. Death is not an interruption to life’s story. It is the boundary that gives the story its shape, earnestness, and meaning. We live on a rock spinning through space at astonishing speed, in a universe so vast that our planet is barely a speck among trillions of galaxies. Yet, in the middle of all this, we spend our days worrying about opinions, small failures, social comparisons, and imagined embarrassments.

It is a sobering thought. If we knew with certainty that tonight would be our last night on earth, how would we spend this day? Would we still be anxious about the meeting we stumbled through, the comment someone made, or the risk of trying something new? Or would our attention shift instantly to the people we love, the words we have not said, and the dreams we have postponed?

This is where the popular advice comes in: live each day as if it were your last. At first glance, it sounds liberating. It invites courage. It cuts through fear. It pushes us to act, to forgive, to start, to speak, and to love without hesitation. Many people have found strength in this idea. It reminds us that time is not guaranteed, and that procrastination is often just fear wearing a polite face.

But taken literally, this philosophy can also be misleading.

If every day were truly our last, long-term thinking would lose its meaning. We would not bother saving money, building institutions, raising children, or planting trees whose shade we might never sit under. Civilizations are built on the assumption that tomorrow matters. Laws, schools, research, infrastructure, and families all depend on a future-oriented mindset.

There is also a risk of confusing urgency with recklessness. Some people interpret the “last day” idea as permission to abandon discipline, indulge every impulse, or ignore responsibilities. That is not wisdom. It is short-termism disguised as courage.

So perhaps the idea is not meant to be taken literally, but morally.

The deeper lesson is about focus. If death is certain, then the real question becomes: what deserves our attention while we are here? Many of the things that dominate our thoughts will not matter at the end of our lives. The fear of embarrassment, the anxiety of comparison, the small grudges, the hesitation to try. These are often the chains that keep people from living meaningfully.

Thinking about mortality does not have to lead to panic. It can lead to clarity. It can help us distinguish between what is urgent and what is important, between what is noisy and what is meaningful.

A balanced approach might be this: live in such a way that if today were your last, you would not feel ashamed of how you spent it. But also live in such a way that if you wake up tomorrow, you are grateful for the seeds you planted today.

This means holding two truths at the same time. Life is fragile, and the future is uncertain. Yet life is also long enough to require planning, discipline, and patience. Wisdom lies in honoring both realities.

So instead of asking, “What would I do if this were my last day?” a better question might be, “What kind of life would make any day, even the last one, feel complete?”

That question shifts the focus from drama to character, from impulse to purpose. It encourages us to love people well, do our work with integrity, pursue our callings, and release the trivial anxieties that consume so much of our mental space.

Yes, we are on a small rock spinning through a vast universe. Yes, our time here is limited. But that is not a reason to live carelessly. It is a reason to live deliberately.

When we accept our mortality, fear loses some of its power. Opinions matter less. Failure becomes less frightening. What remains is the discipline of living a life that counts, measured not in noise or acclaim, but in integrity and consequence.

WHEN THE RIVERS MEET: LENT AND RAMADAN IN PARALLEL

As the crescent moon marks the start of Ramadan and ash is placed on foreheads to begin Lent, something rare unfolds when these two sacred seasons coincide. For Christians and Muslims alike, the call to fasting, prayer, and self-examination rises together, inviting us to look beyond our own traditions and consider the heart of sincere seeking.

The Light from the East

In the spiritual legacy of Mohammed, peace be upon him, we encounter the Almighty’s servant sent to the people of Arabia. Before his mission, he withdrew to a secluded spot near Medina, fasting and praying for seven days. This time of preparation was not mere ritual; it stripped away distraction and opened the heart to deeper purpose.

Under Mohammed’s spiritual leadership, five daily prayers were instituted to help believers continually live in alignment with God's Will. During these prayers, the faithful face the East, for as Mohammed explained, the light comes from the East, seen in the rising sun, a symbol of illumination and guidance. Ablutions were more than physical cleansing; they served as reminders that purity of soul is essential to fulfilling the Divine Will. The outward act pointed to an inward reality. 

The Spirit Beyond the Form

Long before, Jesus of Nazareth spoke to the same truth. One day, a Pharisee reported that His disciples had failed to observe fasting, Sabbaths, or ablutions. Jesus lifted the gaze from rules to the spirit behind them. He showed that the Sabbath could be kept every day through inward reflection and self-discipline. Fasting was not only about abstaining from food, and ablutions were not merely physical; they were ways to purify the soul. True observance arises when one approaches God with humility, restrains selfish desires, and nurtures body and spirit, taking only what is necessary. Rituals, then, find meaning when they cultivate clarity, balance, and alignment with what is good.

Simplicity at the Heart

The overlap of Lent and Ramadan invites reflection on what truly matters. Both traditions, at their purest, point to simplicity beyond dogma. Jesus urged his followers to become like children, free from the burdens of ritualistic perfection. 

Mohammed’s teaching on fasting and prayers show that alignment with God begins in the heart and mind, not in the performance of outward acts.

Anyone who carries a firm intention for good and cultivates purity of thought has already found the path to the Divine. No memorization of texts, no extreme spiritual practices, no seclusion, and no strict abstinence is required. Choosing what is good and keeping one’s thoughts pure strengthens both body and soul and frees one from obsessive thinking. Exaggeration is harmful, even in religion.

Fasting Together, Differently

The external practices of Lent and Ramadan are real. The Muslim who rises before dawn for suhoor, who goes without food and water, and prays deep into the night is engaged in something meaningful. The Christian who gives up something beloved, walks the Stations of the Cross, or sits with discomfort is also doing something real. The reality lies not in hunger or ritual but in what the discipline opens within.

Fasting cultivates awareness. It reminds the believer of dependence on God, creates space for reflection, humility, and renewal. The emptiness of abstinence becomes a vessel for clarity and alignment of thought, word, and deed with goodness.

Beyond Dogma, Toward Goodness

These simultaneous seasons invite a gentle questioning of the forms. Let Muslims fast and pray, let Christians abstain and reflect. Each tradition observes its own rhythms and disciplines. Yet beyond the forms lies a shared call: to act with intention, purify our thoughts, and cultivate goodness at the heart of life.

The essence of both traditions is this inward orientation toward what is truly good. Not as performance or obligation, but as deliberate, inner alignment. When thoughts, words, and deeds flow from this place, the believer becomes sound in body and soul, freed from distraction and undue pressure.

The Invitation

As Ramadan begins and Lent unfolds, honour the forms while seeing what they contain. Let the Muslim remember that ablutions point to a purified soul. Let the Christian remember that fasting goes beyond avoidance of food. Both seasons call for reflection, self-discipline, and alignment with a higher purpose.

These overlapping seasons offer a shared invitation: enter traditions fully, respect their practices, but allow the heart to grasp the simplicity that transcends rules. Pursue what is good. Purify your thoughts. Let your inner life guide your actions.

May this season, whether marked by dawn prayers, quiet reflection, or moments of silence, bring genuine purification. May it free us from burden and distraction, lead us to the simplicity of children and the insight of the wise, and remind us that the path to the Divine lies in sincere intention and the purity of heart that shapes every thought, word, and deed.

Peace and blessings to all.

EMBRACING THE SACRED JOURNEY FROM PRE-LENT TO PENTECOST

The Christian calendar unfolds like a journey walked with intention.

Each season slows our pace, draws our attention, and gently shapes who we are becoming. From the quiet threshold of Pre Lent to the radiant light of Pentecost, the path leads through discipline, joy, surrender, and renewal, as living experiences that form everyday life.

Pre-Lent and the Call to Begin

Pre-Lent marks the quiet shift from ordinary time to intentional living.

Fat Tuesday, also known as Shrove Tuesday or Mardi Gras, is the final pause before restraint. Traditionally, it was a day to use up rich foods before fasting began. Pancakes, laughter, and community carried a deeper meaning. Gratitude before discipline. Joy before sacrifice.

Ash Wednesday follows with soberness. Ashes on the forehead speak plainly: we are mortal. We need mercy. Lent begins not with perfection, but with honesty.

Prayer deepens. Fasting refines desire. Self-examination clears the ground for renewal.

Holy Week

Holy Week draws us into the final movements of Christ’s earthly life.

Palm Sunday opens the way. Crowds rejoice. Palms wave.

Holy Monday confronts fruitlessness. The fig tree reminds us that faith must bear fruit, not only appearance.

Holy Tuesday calls for vigilance. Jesus teaches with urgency. Truth is spoken without dilution.

Spy Wednesday turns our attention to betrayal. Quiet. Calculated. Costly. It warns how easily loyalty erodes.

Maundy Thursday centers on love in action. Feet are washed. Bread is broken. Power kneels. Service becomes the measure of greatness.

Good Friday is silence and sorrow. The Cross stands. Love gives everything. Nothing is held back.

Holy Saturday waits. Trust in the Almighty holds sway even when all seems still.

The Easter Triduum: The Heart of the Faith

The Triduum gathers Holy Thursday evening, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday into one sacred movement.

These are the holiest days of the Christian year. They carry us from table to cross to tomb, and finally to light. Death does not have the last word. Waiting is not wasted. Resurrection is coming.

Easter and the Unfolding Joy

Easter Sunday proclaims victory. Life defeats death. Hope rises.

The joy does not end in one day. The Octave of Easter stretches the celebration across eight days. In Orthodox tradition, Bright Week removes fasting entirely. Joy is allowed to be full.

Resurrection reshapes everything.

Ascension and Pentecost: The Mission Continues

Forty days later, Ascension Day reminds us that Christ’s work is complete, but ours is not. Heaven opens. Responsibility remains.

Pentecost commemorates the Spirit’s presence. Courage descends. The Church is born. Fear gives way to boldness. Witnessing begins.

This is where the journey leads. Not to ritual alone, but to transformation.

From indulgence to discipline. From discipline to surrender. From surrender to power. From power to service.

May we walk these seasons attentively. May our lives bear real fruit. And may our resolve to follow the Word proclaimed by Jesus continue to form us into people of love, courage, and quiet faithfulness.

Amen.

WHAT YOUR LAUGHTER SAYS ABOUT YOU

Laughter is one of the most unguarded human responses. We can control our words. We can curate our opinions. We can edit our public positions. But what we laugh at often slips past the filters. It reveals reflex before performance. And reflex tells the truth.

What makes a person laugh says something about how they see the world.

If someone laughs easily at cruelty, humiliation, or the pain of others, it suggests a certain moral distance. They are entertained by what diminishes another human being. That does not automatically make them wicked, but it does suggest desensitization. The suffering of others has become spectacle.

If someone laughs at cleverness, irony, or subtle wordplay, that points to a mind that enjoys pattern, surprise, and intelligence. Their laughter is cognitive. It comes from recognition.

If someone laughs at themselves, that reveals security. Self-deprecating humour requires inner stability. You cannot laugh at your own flaws if you are terrified of being exposed. There is strength in that kind of laughter.

If someone rarely laughs at all, that too tells a story. It may reflect discipline. It may reflect burden. It may reflect a temperament that processes the world through analysis rather than amusement. But it can also signal a spirit that has grown heavy.

Humour is moral philosophy in disguise.

Satire, for example, is not just about jokes. It is about power. Who is being mocked? The weak or the strong? Good satire punches up. It confronts arrogance, corruption, and hypocrisy. Cheap humour punches down. It mocks the vulnerable. The direction of the laughter matters.

In a society, what trends as funny is deeply diagnostic. When deception becomes comedy, integrity is in decline. When vulgarity becomes mainstream humour, standards are shifting. When kindness becomes the subject of ridicule, cynicism has taken root.

Even in relationships, laughter is revealing. Couples who laugh together often share a common worldview. They find absurdity in the same places. They interpret events through a similar emotional lens. That alignment builds intimacy. Conversely, when one person finds something hilarious and the other finds it offensive, you are not just seeing a difference in taste. You are seeing a difference in values.

Children provide a purer example. They laugh at surprise, exaggeration, and playful incongruity. Their laughter is rarely malicious. As we grow older, our laughter becomes layered with ego, insecurity, ideology, and social conditioning.

The evolution of what you laugh at may be one of the most honest indicators of your maturity.

There is also a deeper question. Do you laugh more at people, or with people? The preposition matters. Laughing with someone builds connection. Laughing at someone creates hierarchy. One unites. The other divides.

None of this means we must over-moralize every joke. Joy matters. Play matters. Absurdity is part of being human. But if we are honest, our sense of humour is a mirror. It reflects our compassion, our intelligence, our biases, and sometimes our wounds.

Perhaps that is why certain jokes unsettle us long after the laughter fades. Something inside us knows that humour is not neutral. It carries a worldview.

So it is worth asking, quietly and without defensiveness: What makes me laugh?

Because in that answer, there is a portrait of who you are becoming.

And perhaps, who you already are.

What kind of humour do you gravitate toward?