The Things We Inherit—And the Things We Leave Behind

Today at the shop, two young women came in. They stayed for quite a while, and I couldn't help overhearing their conversation. What struck me wasn't that they were talking loudly—it was what they were talking about.

For almost the entire time, their conversation revolved around family hierarchy: who was older than whom, who deserved to be called Aunty, who had disrespected whom, who refused to greet first, and why someone no longer deserved respect because of how they behaved.

As I listened, I realized that this was something I had grown up around too.

I remember all the debates about age differences—whether someone was older by a few months or a few years, whether they should be called Aunty or by their first name, whether someone had "earned" respect or "lost" it. Looking back, it feels exhausting.

As a child, I never really cared much about those things. In fact, I probably caused a little chaos because I would call people whatever felt natural to me. I wasn't interested in keeping score over family titles or seniority.

Listening to those two women made me realize just how much my own family has changed.

I'm talking about my nuclear family—my parents, my siblings, and me.

Some people might hear this and think I'm criticizing Yoruba culture. I'm not.

I love my culture. I love our language, our greetings, our sense of community, our respect for elders, and the richness of our traditions.

But every culture has practices worth preserving and practices worth questioning.

The problem isn't respect itself. Respect is valuable. The problem is when respect becomes more about policing age, titles, and hierarchy than about kindness, wisdom, and healthy relationships.

Culture should help families flourish, not keep them trapped in unnecessary conflict.

I've noticed that many families who value peace eventually create healthy boundaries with extended family—not because they hate their relatives, but because they want to protect their own home from constant drama.

When I think about my childhood, I realize my parents quietly did exactly that.

When we were younger, we'd visit relatives during Eid. We'd spend time with my mother's side of the family and with my father's side too. Even as children, you could sense the different dynamics in each home. That's a story for another day.

But somewhere along the way, we gradually stopped being so involved.

Instead of living inside every extended-family issue, my parents focused on building our own family.

Looking back now, I think they were protecting us.

They didn't isolate us completely—we still know our relatives, we still greet our grandparents, and family ties still matter—but they shielded us from constantly carrying everyone else's problems.

Today, we're not deeply involved in every disagreement between cousins, aunts, or uncles.

On my mother's side, the family is relatively smaller, so we've remained closer. Visiting my grandparents always felt natural, although as everyone has grown older, life has become busier and those visits happen less often.

On my father's side, things are different. My grandparents are no longer alive. We were close to them while growing up because we lived in the family house, which my grandfather wanted my father to look after.

Over time, our involvement with the wider family became much smaller.

And honestly, I think my parents intentionally kept us away from many conflicts that we were too young to understand.

Hearing those two women today made me appreciate that more than I ever have.

Their entire conversation was about people.

Who offended whom.

Who deserved respect.

Which cousin behaved badly.

Which aunt had done something wrong.

It wasn't exactly gossip. It was simply the world they had inherited—a world where family politics occupied so much mental space.

And it made me realize how different my own life has become.

Instead of spending my days worrying about who offended whom, I get to think about my education, building businesses, writing, studying abroad, and creating a life that's bigger than the boundaries of family politics.

That is a privilege.

It's something my parents gave me without me fully realizing it.

Growing up, there were many times I said I didn't want to become like my parents.

In many ways, I still want to build a different life.

But maturity has also made me appreciate what they did right.

They gave us opportunities they didn't always have.

They raised the standard for our generation.

They carried burdens that we never fully saw.

And because they carried those burdens, we had room to dream.

Today's conversation reminded me that one of the greatest gifts parents can give their children isn't money.

It's peace.

It's creating enough distance from unnecessary conflict that their children have the freedom to imagine a bigger future.

Not every close-knit family is unhealthy. I've seen extended families that are deeply connected and deeply peaceful.

So this isn't an argument against large families or culture.

It's simply a reminder that every generation has a choice.

We can inherit everything we were given.

Or we can preserve what brings life, let go of what brings unnecessary conflict, and build something healthier for the generations that come after us.