By Omolola Olakunri

Wàa jẹun ọmọ, loosely translated, speaks of a parent who will one day dine at the banquet prepared by their children.

It reflects the deep conviction of parents who defy all odds to ensure their children are educated and established. They walk through fire, swim shark-infested waters, and endure seasons of lack, all so their children can turn out well.

It is a philosophy of sacrifice: choosing present hardship for a greater future. It is about protecting a seed that must be nurtured, allowed to grow, and reach its full potential. Only then can it be harvested.

Jeun ọmọ is, in essence, an investment in children. One made with the hope of meaningful returns at the right time. Parents pour in everything they have: education, exposure, discipline, and opportunity. They understand that when they leave this world, it is not wealth or status that endures, but the legacy carried forward by their children.

In return, the child honors the parent by caring for them in their twilight years, completing the circle of life. One hand washes the other, and both are clean.

I remember a quiet evening when an elderly widowed man sat outside his home, watching his daughter arrive with groceries, medications, and a mechanic to fix a long-broken generator.
There was no ceremony, no announcement. Just quiet, consistent care. The neighbors barely noticed, but the old man did. One could see it in the way he sat a little straighter, spoke a little softer. This was his harvest season. Not of wealth, but of dignity. Of knowing that his labor had not been in vain. That his daughter saw him.

There is a threefold pattern of relationship that many African parents intuitively follow.

In the first stage, the spring of life, parents talk to their children. They nurture, instruct, and provide. They meet needs, shape character, and lay foundations.

In the second stage, the child comes of age. Educated, working, and forming independent views. Here, parents learn to talk with the child, not at them. Orders give way to conversations. Authority softens into guidance. There is a recognition that the child has grown, adapted, and must now think for themselves.

The third stage is often the most delicate. Parents enter the final phase of life. Older, sometimes frail, increasingly dependent.

Here, the roles begin to shift.

The child gradually assumes responsibility: organizing medical care, covering recurring expenses, making decisions, and ensuring overall well-being. In this phase, the child provides, calls, arranges, and leads.

This is the Wàa jẹun ọmọ stage. When the child acknowledges the sacrifices of the parent and gives back. When, in many ways, the child becomes the parent. This concept is also deeply prayerful. It recognizes a difficult truth: not all children are kind. Some are indifferent. Some are shaped by selfishness, circumstance, or influence. Not all sacrifices are remembered, and not all parents are honored.

So it becomes a quiet prayer:
“Lord, grant me a child who will remember, who will be kind, who will give back.”

This prayer is especially significant within the African context, where traditional systems do not typically rely on retirement homes or institutional care. Parents are not expected to grow old among strangers.