Johnson Babalola
From homes in my hometown of Ijare, to Offa where I was born and once lived, to Erin-Ile, Ibadan, and Lagos where I schooled and spent formative years of my life, I heard a Yoruba saying repeated often: Ènìyàn laṣọ mí — people are my clothing.
In my younger years, I did not fully grasp the depth of that statement. It sounded poetic, even clever, but distant from real life. With time, experience, observation, and sometimes pain, its meaning has become clearer. I have learned—through my own journey and through watching others—that people truly are the clothing we wear: they cover our nakedness, protect our dignity, hide our inadequacies, amplify our strengths, and sometimes expose our shame.
In life, the quality of our successes and failures is rarely accidental. More often than we admit, it is a direct or indirect reflection of the people around us—those who speak into our lives, walk with us, advise us, challenge us, or remain silent when we need direction.
The Yoruba wisely used clothing as the metaphor, because clothing is deeply personal and socially revealing. For some people, how they shop for clothes determines how long those clothes last. Some walk into a store alone, pick whatever appeals to them in the moment, and live with the outcome—good or bad. Others ask questions, seek advice, go with people who know fabrics, sizes, durability, and value. They still make their own final decision, but they are guided by experience.
So it is with people.
Some of us journey through life making relationship choices in isolation—choosing friends, partners, associates, and even mentors without reflection or counsel. Others are more intentional: they observe patterns, learn from others’ mistakes, and understand that while relationships are personal, their consequences are communal.
Many people go through life under-clothed. Some wear torn clothes—not by choice, but by circumstance. Poverty limits options. Lack of education narrows exposure. Environment shapes access. When someone grows up surrounded only by survival thinking, poor examples, or generational limitations, their “wardrobe” of people may be thin, worn, or inadequate—not because they are careless, but because better options were never available.
Others wear borrowed clothes—relationships they cannot sustain, borrowed networks, borrowed influence. Some wear second-hand clothes that once fit someone else’s life but no longer fit theirs. And then there are those whose clothes are new, strong, well-tailored—relationships built on knowledge, integrity, discipline, exposure, and shared values.
Translating this to people, it becomes clear: the quality of the people around us matters, often more than the quantity. One well-made garment can outlast ten poorly sewn ones. One solid relationship can do more than a crowd of unreliable connections.
Growth introduces another reality. Some people outgrow their clothes. A child’s garment cannot fit an adult forever. Yet many fail to update their wardrobe as they grow. They evolve in education, exposure, and vision, but keep the same relationships that once fit an earlier version of themselves. Others are intentional enough to recognize when a change is necessary—not out of arrogance, but out of alignment.
Clothes also require care. Some people read the manufacturer’s label. They know what to wash, what to dry-clean, what to store carefully. Others treat all clothes the same—overwashing, mishandling, throwing them anywhere—then wonder why they fade, tear, or shrink.
So it is with relationships. Not every relationship is handled the same way. Some require patience. Some require boundaries. Some require investment. Others require distance. When we fail to nurture relationships properly—or overuse people without care—we shorten their lifespan in our lives.
And just as important, there is a time to give out clothes. We bless others with what no longer fits us, not in arrogance but in gratitude. In the same way, some relationships are seasonal. They served a purpose, taught a lesson, and must be released with grace so others can benefit and we can make room for what is next.
People are our clothing.
Many lives have been lifted—or ruined—by the quality of people around them. Some are blessed with mentors, friends, and family who invest wisdom, discipline, and opportunity. Others lack such coverings and must work twice as hard to stay dignified in a harsh world.
In employment, business, investments, academics, marriage, and leadership, outcomes are rarely isolated. They are shaped by family, friends, colleagues, advisers, and communities. Just like clothing, the people we wear determine how we are perceived, protected, and presented in life.
This is why the saying eniyán l’aso mi matters. It is not just cultural poetry; it is practical wisdom. It reminds us to be intentional about who we choose, compassionate about why some lack options, mindful of growth, and responsible for how we nurture relationships.
Because at the end of the day, whether we are clothed in dignity or exposed to shame often depends on the people we wear.
Johnson Babalola is a Canadian lawyer
@jbdlaw