A good friend of mine, while going through an experience that shook him deeply, once told me that his mother’s daily prayer for him as a young man was always the same: “Ẹ ò ní rí ìdààmú o!” Eventually, it became his own daily prayer.
For those unfamiliar with Yoruba, ìdààmú means trouble, distress or affliction. But these words hardly capture its depth. There are troubles, and there is ìdààmú. The kind that steals your sleep, empties your bank account, shakes your faith and sometimes makes you question life itself.
The older I grow, the more I appreciate that mother’s prayer.
Life does not distribute its blessings and burdens equally.
There are a fortunate few who appear to have enjoyed life almost without interruption. Born into loving, comfortable families, educated in good schools, surrounded by supportive friends and siblings, they pursued their chosen careers, earned good incomes, married wonderful spouses, raised responsible children and enjoyed excellent health. Their parents lived long, their children prospered, and they eventually died peacefully at old age, surrounded by generations of loved ones.
They experienced joy and romanced laughter throughout their lives. What a beautiful existence! But how many people are that fortunate
Then there are the in-betweens, whose lives have been mixtures of sunshine and storms.
And there are those who seem to have pitched their tents with ìdààmú from birth. Poverty, loss of parents, abuse, neglect, interrupted education and deprivation. For them, ìdààmú is not an occasional visitor. It is a permanent resident, sharing their meals and sleeping beside them.
As I grow older, I increasingly find myself attending what I jokingly call life’s press conferences, where ìdààmú announces its arrival without invitation.
The news of sudden deaths is frightening
The man who boarded an aircraft with his mother, sat beside her chatting and suddenly died midair. “He just turned 60! We were just talking!” his devastated mother reportedly cried.
Ẹ ò ní rí ìdààmú o!
The husband who kissed his wife goodnight and never woke up. The woman who went for routine surgery and never returned. The father killed by a reckless driver. The mother who collapsed while cooking. The apparently healthy person suddenly diagnosed with stage-four cancer. Those killed by stray bullets, armed robbers or unexpected accidents.
One moment, life is normal. The next, everything changes.
Their deaths leave behind emotional, financial, psychological and sometimes legal ìdààmú. Widows struggling with debts, children whose education is threatened, elderly parents burying their children, siblings fighting over inheritance and families discovering responsibilities they never anticipated.
One death. A thousand troubles.
But death is not the only messenger of ìdààmú.
There are those battling cancer, kidney disease, disabilities, chronic pain and mental health challenges. Some illnesses are visible; others hide behind beautiful smiles.
Beside them are loved ones keeping vigil, praying for miracles. Spouses becoming caregivers, children abandoning careers to care for parents, families exhausting their savings on medical treatment. Some have almost lost themselves while trying desperately not to lose someone they love.
Yet, remarkably, many remain hopeful and grateful.
Then there is the ìdààmú of relationships.
Ah! This one deserves its own conference!
Marriages that began with expensive ceremonies, beautiful photographs and promises of everlasting love sometimes become prisons of abuse, betrayal, loneliness and unhappiness.
Some raise children alone despite having living partners. Others endure bitter divorces that drain their finances, destroy their confidence and deprive them of meaningful relationships with their children.
Imagine a loving parent begging or litigating simply to speak with a child. Imagine investing thirty years in a relationship only to discover that the future you were building has disappeared.
They smile in photographs while privately negotiating with ìdààmú.
There is also the ìdààmú of unfulfilled dreams. The brilliant student denied education by poverty. The unemployed graduate. The professional destroyed by injustice. The entrepreneur whose business collapses. The elderly person without retirement savings.
Every morning brings questions about food, rent, children’s education and whether tomorrow will be better.
What about those wrongly accused, unfairly dismissed, deprived of property or dragged through endless litigation? Some eventually obtain justice but lose their health, savings and peace of mind along the way.
They win their cases, but the years stolen from them cannot be returned.
And millions are born into countries where corruption, insecurity, poor leadership and failing institutions make ordinary living an extraordinary struggle.
Even those who relocate abroad sometimes discover that ìdààmú has an international passport!
It speaks Yoruba, English, French and every other language. It understands mortgages, immigration difficulties, loneliness, workplace pressures and separation from loved ones.
No country has a monopoly on happiness or suffering.
The older I grow, the more I realize that ìdààmú does not discriminate.
It does not ask whether you are rich or poor, young or old, educated or uneducated.
Sometimes, it arrives through a telephone call, a medical diagnosis, a court document, a betrayal or a midnight knock on the door.
Sometimes, it arrives quietly, gradually stealing our happiness.
And this brings me to an important lesson.
Never judge people whose ìdààmú you do not understand.
That friend who no longer calls may be fighting an invisible battle. That withdrawn woman may be struggling to keep her family together. That successful-looking businessman may be close to bankruptcy. That cheerful person entertaining everyone may return home to loneliness.
Not everyone who is silent is arrogant. Not everyone who withdraws is unfriendly. Not everyone who struggles is lazy. And not everyone who smiles is happy.
Be kind. Be patient. Make that telephone call. Visit someone. Offer assistance when possible. Listen without judging.
Sometimes, the smallest gesture becomes someone’s greatest encouragement.
I have also learned not to postpone happiness until life becomes perfect. It may never become perfect!
Celebrate little victories. Take photographs. Visit your parents. Appreciate your spouse. Tell your children you love them. Reconnect with friends. Laugh when you can and rest when necessary.
And when life is kind to you, remember that others may not have enjoyed the same kindness.
Your peace is not necessarily evidence of superior wisdom, just as another person’s suffering is not necessarily evidence of poor judgment.
Sometimes, we make good decisions. Sometimes, we are simply fortunate.
I now understand my friend’s mother better.
She was praying that her son would be spared those devastating experiences that money cannot always resolve, influence cannot prevent, education cannot explain and time does not completely heal.
Of course, nobody is guaranteed a life without ìdààmú. Adversity sometimes teaches humility, compassion and resilience. But we must never romanticize suffering. Not every painful experience makes someone stronger.
So, perhaps our prayer should be:
May we be spared unbearable troubles. May we find strength to overcome those we cannot avoid. May help find us when we need it most.
And importantly:
May we never become the ìdààmú in another person’s life.
Because while we cannot prevent every tragedy, illness or disappointment, we can choose not to be the reason another person loses sleep, dignity, happiness or hope.
Life is difficult enough. Why make it unnecessarily more difficult for one another?
The next time someone says, “I am fine,” remember that those three words may conceal a thousand untold stories.
And when you can genuinely say you are fine, appreciate the blessing.
As for me, I have adopted that mother’s prayer.
Ẹ ò ní rí ìdààmú o!
May you never experience troubles that overwhelm your strength, destroy your peace or extinguish your hope.
And if ìdààmú comes knocking, may help find you, hope sustain you and peace return to your heart.
Above all, may you never face your darkest hour alone.
Ẹ Ò NÍ RÍ ÌDÀÀMÚ O!
Johnson Babalola is a Canada based lawyer jblawyer2021@gmail.com
@jbdlaw
@jbandthings
@jblifecompass
@jblawpro