When two good friends who are completely free with each other talk, you are almost guaranteed to learn one or two things from their conversation—whether you were invited into it or not.
There will be banter. Frank talk. Laughter. Family matters. Work matters. And, of course, a little gossip. Sometimes, quite a lot.
I had attended a programme in downtown Toronto and was returning home to the suburbs late that evening. I was exhausted and particularly grateful that I was not driving.
I made my way to the upper deck of the train and found a section with four seats, all empty. Perfect.
I sat down, secretly hoping nobody would join me. I wasn’t in the mood to be neighbourly. I simply wanted to be alone with my thoughts—that ever-present companion that can comfort you, challenge you, confuse you, convict you and, if you are not careful, keep you awake long after everyone else has gone to bed.
My silent prayer was answered.
People came upstairs, looked around and chose other seats. Perhaps they too wanted to be alone with their thoughts. Or perhaps there was something about my tired face that politely said, “Please, not today.”
Then, two stops later, a beautiful woman came upstairs and sat directly across from me.
So much for my solitude.
Just as she settled into her seat, her phone rang.
She answered.
In Yoruba.
Loudly.
And just like that, without buying a ticket for the experience, I became an involuntary participant in a conversation between two best friends.
Let’s call the woman sitting across from me THD and her friend on the phone FPB.
I knew FPB’s name because THD called it several times. I also discovered that FPB was approaching her 50th birthday and THD was helping to organize the celebration.
Before long, I knew quite a bit more.
They discussed husbands, friends, work, the upcoming birthday and other matters that best friends apparently have constitutional authority to discuss.
I couldn’t hear FPB, of course, but THD was extremely helpful. She occasionally repeated what her friend had apparently said.
“So you mean KL, your husband’s older brother, is stingy?”
Ah!
At that point, I wanted to disappear into my seat. I had not asked for this information. Yet here it was, freely supplied on public transit
But beneath the banter, laughter and occasional gossip, something beautiful was obvious. These were two women who genuinely cared about each other. There was affection, trust, support, and the wonderful freedom to speak without constantly measuring every word.
Then, as we approached my stop, the conversation took an interesting turn.
THD began telling FPB about an incident involving aso ebi
About a year earlier, she had bought an expensive aso ebi for a friend’s 50th birthday celebration. Nine months or so later, she wore the same outfit to another friend’s 55th birthday party
Why not?
She had bought it. She liked it. It still fitted. Case closed—or so she thought.
While she was sitting at her table enjoying the party, an acquaintance walked over to exchange pleasantries. As the woman was about to leave, she suddenly asked, loudly enough for others at the table to hear:
“Is this not the same aso ebi we wore at BKG’s birthday?”
THD said she froze for a moment.
Then she gathered herself and replied, in effect, “I hope you are not suggesting that once an aso ebi has been worn, it can never be worn again.”
That question apparently became a discussion around the table.
And then my stop arrived.
I got off the train, leaving THD still happily chatting with FPB, but I carried that last part of their conversation with me
Why do we put so much unnecessary pressure on one another?
For some people, buying aso ebi is already a financial sacrifice. For others, the issue may not even be affordability. They may simply not believe in spending large amounts of money on clothes they will wear probably once. Yet, others dislike the poor qualities of some aso ebi and in some cases, they are overpriced.
And now, after buying the clothes, are we also creating another unwritten rule that says they cannot wear them again?
Who made that rule?
There is nothing wrong with aso ebi. It can be beautiful. It creates a sense of belonging, adds colour to celebrations and is an important part of our social culture. If you can afford to buy as many as you wish and wear each only once, that is your choice.
But the person who chooses to wear the same outfit ten times should enjoy exactly the same freedom.
Perhaps this is about much more than aso ebi
It is about the pressure to keep up appearances.
The pressure to buy what others are buying.
The pressure to attend every event.
The pressure to travel because everyone else is travelling.
The pressure to drive a certain car, live in a certain neighbourhood, throw a certain kind of party or maintain a lifestyle simply because people are watching.
Sometimes we spend money we do not have to impress people who are not responsible for our bills.
And sometimes the pressure is not even financial. It is psychological. We become prisoners of other people’s expectations.
Life is difficult enough without turning someone else’s wardrobe, car, house, holiday or celebration into another standard by which we measure ourselves.
Wear your aso ebi again.
And again, if you wish.
Repeat your shoes.
Drive your old car.
Have a small party.
Decline an invitation you cannot afford.
Save your money
Invest it.
Spend it on something that matters more to you.
Or buy another aso ebi if that genuinely makes you happy and you can afford it.
The important thing is that the choice should be yours.
We must learn to run our own race—and allow others to run theirs.
As long as a person’s choices are lawful, decent and consistent with good conscience, we should resist making them feel inadequate simply because they have chosen differently from us.
And perhaps, before asking someone at a crowded table, “Is this not the same aso ebi we wore at BKG’s birthday?”, we should ask ourselves a different question:
Why does it matter?
After all, if the aso ebi is still beautiful, still fits and has already been paid for, maybe the real achievement is not remembering where it was worn before.
Maybe the achievement is having the confidence to wear it again.
Johnson Babalola is a lawyer in Canada
jblawyer2021@gmail.com
@jbdlaw
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