By ABDULLAH QOSIM

Some Yorùbá proverbs do far more than communicate an idea; they hold up a mirror to human nature. They are often short in words, but astonishingly deep in meaning, simple in expression, yet capable of exposing profound truths about life, character and the human condition. One such proverb that recently caught my attention is: “Ẹni tí à ńwò láwò-sunkún ńwo ara rẹ̀ láwò-rẹ́ẹ̀rín.” Literally translated, it means: “The person whose appearance moves others to tears is moved to laughter by his own appearance.”

At first glance, the proverb may sound humorous, but beneath its wit lies a profound observation about one of the most dangerous conditions a person can find himself in: being unable or unwilling to see what everyone else can clearly see about him. The proverb speaks of a person whose condition, conduct or way of life is troubling to those around him. While others look at him with concern, disappointment or even sorrow, he looks at himself with satisfaction. What makes others weep becomes the very thing that makes him smile.

This, to me, reveals two kinds of people. The first is the person who does wrong out of ignorance. He genuinely believes that what he is doing is right. He may have convinced himself that he is on the correct path and, as a result, takes pride in his actions. He continues because he simply does not know that he is going astray. Sometimes, such ignorance is sustained by the absence of sincere people around him, people who are willing to tell him the truth, correct him and call him back when necessary. Without such people, a person may continue travelling in the wrong direction while confidently believing that he is making progress.

Yet, there is hope for such a person. Ignorance can be corrected when truth is sincerely communicated and, most importantly, accepted. If he is humble enough to listen, reflect and acknowledge his error, he can turn back. His problem is not necessarily a hardened heart, but a lack of awareness. Once the truth becomes clear to him, he may have the willingness to change.

The second person, however, is more difficult to help. This is the person who knows or has been repeatedly told that what he is doing is wrong, yet chooses to continue. His problem is no longer ignorance but pride. He may receive sincere correction, but instead of asking himself, “Could they be right?”, he asks, “Who are they to correct me?” His ego becomes stronger than his desire for improvement. He interprets correction as an insult, advice as an attack and genuine concern as an attempt to undermine him.

And so, he remains where he is. People around him see what he refuses to see. They are concerned about his behaviour, his choices or the direction in which his life is heading, while he remains perfectly comfortable with himself. Others are, figuratively, looking at him “láwò-sunkún” (with tears) while he looks at himself “láwò-rẹ́ẹ̀rín” (with laughter). That is the tragedy captured by the proverb: everyone can see the problem except the person at the centre of it.

This also reminds me of another striking Yorùbá proverb: “Gbogbo èèyàn ló ń sunkún-un Bánjọ, sùgbọ́n Bánjọ ò sunkún ara rẹ̀.” Literally, it means: “Everybody laments Banjọ’s fate, but Banjọ does not lament his own fate.” The meaning is equally profound: some people remain completely unaware of their own misfortune, even when that misfortune is obvious to everyone around them.

Together, these two proverbs reveal something important about self-awareness. There are times when we are the last people to recognise what has become obvious to everyone else. We can become so accustomed to our own behaviour, so attached to our opinions or so blinded by pride that we fail to recognise the very things others are concerned about. What is particularly dangerous is when we surround ourselves only with people who tell us what we want to hear, because constant praise can sometimes prevent us from confronting the uncomfortable truth about ourselves.

And perhaps that is why sincere correction is a blessing. Not everyone who corrects us hates us, and not everyone who points out our flaws is trying to embarrass us. Sometimes, the person who tells us an uncomfortable truth is doing us a greater favour than the person who constantly praises us. A wise person therefore does not only ask, “Why are they criticising me?” but also asks, “Is there something they are seeing that I have refused to see?”

That question requires humility. We all need people who can hold a mirror before us, not a mirror that merely shows us what we want to see, but one that reveals us as we truly are. We need sincere friends, teachers, elders and well-wishers who can tell us when we are getting it wrong. And, more importantly, we need the humility to listen when they do. After all, a person cannot correct a fault he refuses to acknowledge, and he cannot escape a danger he refuses to see.

Perhaps, then, the real wisdom in “Ẹni tí à ńwò láwò-sunkún ńwo ara rẹ̀ láwò-rẹ́ẹ̀rín” is not merely about laughing while others weep. It is a warning against becoming so blind to ourselves that we mistake our shortcomings for strengths, our stubbornness for conviction and our downfall for success. Sometimes, what we interpret as confidence may actually be pride, and what we call standing our ground may simply be an unwillingness to admit that we are wrong.

So, the next time someone sincerely points out a fault in us, perhaps we should resist the immediate urge to defend ourselves. We should pause, reflect and look inward. Could there be something they see that we have become too comfortable, too proud or too blind to notice? The answer may be uncomfortable, but discovering it could save us from a much greater regret.

May we never become the people everyone is worried about while we remain the only ones unaware of why. May we have the humility to listen, the courage to examine ourselves, the wisdom to recognise our faults and the willingness to change when change is necessary. For sometimes, the mirror is not cruel; the face it reveals simply requires honesty.