WHAT KIND OF FOOL DECLARES WAR ON THE WATER HE DRINKS?

The chant begins with something fascinating:

*“Ẹ f'ẹnu tún mi ṣe, Ẹnu l'abẹrẹ fi n t'aṣọ ṣe.”*

*Speak well of me. Mend me with your words. It is through the needle's tip that cloth is stitched.*

What an extraordinary metaphor.

The mouth becomes a needle.

Words become threads.

And human relationships become the fabric.

But here is what I find disturbing.

You can destroy someone's reputation without ever touching them.

You can plant doubt about a person's character in a room they have never entered.

You can manipulate how people perceive someone simply by controlling the stories told about them.

And the most disgusting part?

You may never even consider yourself responsible for the damage.

After all, you were only talking.

Only expressing your opinion.

Only sharing what you heard.

How convenient.

We have become very good at treating words as harmless when they leave our mouths and extremely dangerous when they are directed at us.

But words have consequences.

A careless accusation can destroy years of trust. A deliberate lie can close doors someone has spent years trying to open. A sincere word can restore courage in someone who has almost given up.

Of course, words alone cannot repair every injustice. Sometimes the damage requires action, accountability and restitution.

But that doesn't make speech insignificant.

And perhaps wisdom begins when we realise that just because something can be said doesn't mean it deserves to be spoken.

Then comes another line:

*“Look me and address me proper. You wey you call me brother.”*

This one is almost painfully personal.

Because what is the point of calling someone your brother when your conduct towards them suggests something entirely different?

We use beautiful names for relationships we have no intention of honouring.

Brother.

Sister.

Friend.

Family.

My person.

My guy.

But how many of those words actually survive a conflict of interest?

Some people will call you brother when they need your assistance, then treat you like a stranger when you need theirs.

Some will celebrate your success publicly while quietly hoping you don't become more successful than they are.

Others will happily receive your support but become strangely uncomfortable when you begin to prosper independently.

And don't misunderstand me.

Nobody is obligated to agree with me simply because they call me brother.

Loyalty doesn't mean unquestioning obedience.

Real friendship should leave room for criticism, disagreement and uncomfortable honesty.

But **there is a difference between correcting someone and secretly working towards their destruction.**

One is accountability.

The other is betrayal.

And betrayal becomes especially disturbing when it comes wrapped in the language of affection.

Maybe that's why the chant demands something so simple:

What a reasonable demand.

And what a difficult one for human beings to consistently honour.

There is a story within the chant about Yéwándé and her two children, Ọ̀wẹ̀rẹ̀ and Ọ̀gbàrà.

In the supplied telling, the two are associated with turbulent or forceful water. They rest their heads upon Elébuté, a waterside or marsh-like place, yet conspire against the very place supporting them.

Their actions end in affliction.

I find the imagery fascinating.

Imagine depending on a foundation while secretly trying to weaken it.

Does that sound familiar?

Consider the employee who constantly sabotages the organisation that pays their salary, without considering how its collapse might affect innocent colleagues.

Or the business owner who exploits customers, forgetting that customer trust is the very foundation of the business.

Or the individual who benefits from a community while contributing to everything that makes that community dysfunctional.

Now, to be clear, depending on something doesn't make that thing morally untouchable.

An employee has every right to challenge an exploitative employer. A citizen has every right to resist an unjust government. A child is not obligated to tolerate abuse because a parent provided food.

But there's a difference between resisting injustice and destroying something merely because your ego cannot tolerate its importance.

And I think that distinction matters enormously.

Sometimes we don't want to improve the things we depend on.

We simply resent the fact that we depend on them.

Human beings have an extraordinary ability to normalise blessings.

The first time someone helps you, you're grateful.

The fifth time, you're comfortable.

The twentieth time, you begin to expect it.

And one day, when that person cannot help, you become offended.

Suddenly, yesterday's generosity has become today's obligation.

How did we get here?

How does consistent kindness become a reason to demand more kindness?

How does a favour become a debt that the giver never agreed to owe?

That's a painful reality.

And I don't think we discuss it enough.

Some relationships collapse not because one person was cruel, but because the other person became so accustomed to receiving that they forgot there was a human being on the giving end.

A human being with limitations.

With personal struggles.

With needs.

With the right to say no.

That is why the image of water is so powerful.

We barely think about water when it is available.

But let the taps run dry for a few days.

Suddenly, something ordinary becomes priceless.

And by then, the damage may already be done.

I don't want to pretend the entire chant is a gentle collection of motivational sayings.

It isn't.

There is anger in it.

There is a fierce invocation against those who wish evil upon the speaker's destiny. The language includes death and blood.

And I think intellectual honesty requires acknowledging that.

Traditional spiritual poetry is not always designed to make modern readers comfortable.

Some of its language is confrontational. Some is protective. Some calls upon severe consequences for perceived wrongdoing.

But this is where I find myself asking another question.

I understand the impulse.

When someone deliberately attacks your character, obstructs your opportunities or betrays your trust, retaliation can feel justified.

But I've been thinking about the difference between justice and revenge.

Justice demands accountability.

Revenge can become obsessed with suffering.

And if I spend the rest of my life wishing misery upon everybody who has wronged me, haven't I allowed those people to occupy an extraordinary amount of space in my mind?

I can reject what you did.

I can defend myself.

I can establish boundaries.

I can seek justice.

That, to me, is another kind of strength.

Not the absence of anger.

But the refusal to let anger become the architect of my character.

This is where the chant becomes even more uncomfortable.

We've been talking about betraying people and destroying relationships.

But what if the water you are making an enemy of is something within your own life?

Your health.

Your time.

Your peace.

Your opportunities.

Your ability to think clearly.

Your future.

Imagine understanding that your health sustains everything you're trying to accomplish, yet repeatedly treating your body as though it were indestructible.

Imagine knowing that time is finite, yet casually sacrificing years to habits that produce nothing meaningful.

Imagine possessing enough knowledge to recognise a destructive pattern but continuing to repeat it because immediate gratification feels more attractive than long-term wellbeing.

Apparently, many of us.

And sometimes, myself included.

There are moments when I look at certain decisions and wonder why understanding their consequences wasn't enough to prevent them.

I've come to realise that human beings are perfectly capable of recognising what is valuable while simultaneously behaving in ways that threaten it.

We know.

Yet we continue.

We understand.

Yet we repeat.

We see the consequences.

Yet somehow convince ourselves that this time will be different.

Maybe that's what makes the human condition so frustrating.

*“Omi l'a bù wẹ̀. Omi l'a bù mu.”*

Water is what we fetch to bathe.

Water is what we fetch to drink.

Simple words.

Yet they carry an uncomfortable reality about dependence, respect and the consequences of human behaviour.

Nobody is entirely self-sufficient.

Not the wealthy.

Not the intelligent.

Not the powerful.

Not the person who proudly announces that they don't need anybody.

Somebody taught you something.

Somebody opened a door.

Somebody provided an opportunity.

Somebody created the infrastructure that makes your independence possible.

Even the person who built everything through tremendous personal effort still lives within networks of human contribution.

And that's fine.

Interdependence is not weakness.

But what becomes disturbing is when we forget the sources of our survival and begin treating them with contempt.

I'm not suggesting we should worship those who help us.

I'm not suggesting we should tolerate injustice in the name of gratitude.

I'm saying that we should possess enough sense to recognise the difference between something that deserves to be challenged and something that deserves to be protected.

Because not every relationship is worth preserving.

Not every structure deserves loyalty.

But not everything sustaining your life deserves to be destroyed simply because you have the power to destroy it.

And perhaps that is the greatest wisdom I take from this chant.

Before you ridicule someone, consider what you truly know about them.

Before you betray a relationship, examine what that relationship has meant.

Before you sacrifice your health, time or peace for temporary satisfaction, calculate what you are exchanging.

And before you open your mouth to damage someone, remember the image of the needle.

The same mouth that can tear can also mend.

Maybe the real tragedy isn't that humans sometimes fail to recognise what sustains them.

Maybe it's that we recognise it perfectly well and still decide to destroy it.

So here's the question I'm leaving in my Crazy Journal:

Is it a person?

A relationship?

An opportunity?

Your health?

Your future?

Or perhaps your own peace of mind?

Because the ancient chant asks a question that modern intelligence has still not managed to answer satisfactorily:

*Ẹnikẹ́ni kì í b'ómi ṣ'ọ̀tá.*

No one makes an enemy of water.

Or at least, no wise person should.

And maybe that's the problem.

---

*The Crazy Journal — where even ancient words are allowed to interrogate modern stupidity.*