Post by Friday Ishioku (@FridayIshioku1512)

Wisdom: Knowing When the Meal Is Over

The Yòrùbás have a way of preserving entire philosophies inside a few carefully chosen words. "Jẹ́ àgbọ̀nrín ẹ̀ṣì l'ọ̀bẹ̀" is one of them. Literally, it paints the picture of someone trying to eat the remnants of an antelope that had long been cooked in a pot of soup. The feast is over. The pot has gone cold. The meat is gone. Yet someone insists on searching the broth for what time has already taken away. It is the elder's gentle but firm reminder that some matters belong to yesterday and should not be invited back to today's table.

Life quietly teaches us that not everything deserves a second hearing. Some conversations have fulfilled their purpose. Some disappointments have exhausted their lessons. Some conflicts have already collected their price and should be allowed to rest. Yet many people continue to carry old arguments as though they were family heirlooms, reopening wounds that had begun to heal and reliving moments that no longer possess the power they once did. The burden is not the memory itself; it is the refusal to let memory remain in its proper place.

What makes this proverb remarkable is that it is not merely about arguments; it is about our relationship with time. Time was never designed to stand still. It flows with quiet determination, inviting us to leave certain things behind so that we can make room for what lies ahead. Every time we insist on dragging a settled matter into a new season, we ask the present to surrender to the past. We imprison today's possibilities beneath yesterday's disappointments and wonder why tomorrow never seems to arrive.

Ironically, many people mistake remembrance for wisdom. They believe that because they can recall every offence, every betrayal and every disappointment, they are protecting themselves. In truth, they are often protecting their pain more carefully than they protect their peace. The mind was given memory so that we may learn, not so that we may continually rehearse injuries that no longer serve any purpose. There is a difference between learning from history and living inside it.

There is also another lesson hidden beneath the surface of this proverb. The person who constantly returns to expired issues usually loses sight of the issue that actually deserves attention. While arguing over yesterday's soup, today's meal is quietly burning on the fire. Opportunities disappear while energy is spent proving old points. Relationships weaken because new misunderstandings are judged through old offences. Progress slows because every new beginning is forced to carry the weight of unfinished yesterday.

Yet wisdom demands balance. Not every old matter should be dismissed simply because it is old. Some wounds remain open because they were never truly treated. Time alone does not heal what truth refuses to confront. Genuine healing requires honesty before it requires silence. The proverb is therefore not an invitation to suppress legitimate pain; it is a warning against allowing unresolved emotions to become permanent tenants of the heart. We must know the difference between a wound seeking healing and a grievance seeking another audience.

Perhaps this is why peace often belongs to those who understand seasons. Every meaningful thing in life has an appointed time. Dawn does not compete with dusk, and the rains do not apologise for replacing the dry season. Wisdom is knowing what each season demands of us. There is a time to confront, a time to forgive, a time to remember, and a time to let go. Much of human misery comes from asking yesterday to perform the work that belongs to today.

The elder who says, "Jẹ́ àgbọ̀nrín ẹ̀ṣì l'ọ̀bẹ̀," is saying far more than, "Stop bringing up old issues." He is reminding us that life is always setting a fresh table before us. We dishonour today's blessings when we keep searching yesterday's pot for meat that no longer exists. The wise do not spend their lives scraping empty pots. They know when the meal is over, because those who keep searching yesterday's soup rarely notice that life has already served today's feast.

Friday Ishioku
(C)2026

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